by Julie Bozza
“Your job means even more to you than mine does to me, doesn’t it?” Fletch said, considering this man.
“I imagine we’re equally committed.”
“But then, we’re committed to each other as well, aren’t we? So what do you want us to do?”
“To use your own metaphor, for now we juggle.”
Fletcher smiled a little, falling for the man yet again. “You’re wonderful.”
“And tired.”
“All right, all right, I’ll go.” He kissed the man. “Sleep well, love.”
Fletcher felt downright cheerful the next day. When his breakfast was delivered, he took the tray next door to join Albert. “Morning!” Fletch said brightly when Albert opened the door. He walked over to the table and began making room for his loaded tray of coffee and juice, bacon and eggs, toast and jam. As usual, Albert’s breakfast was fruit and bottled water and the Washington Post.
Albert sighed and moved quickly to shift his precious reports and newspaper out of harm’s way. “Good morning,” he replied.
“I’ve got a joke for you.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“You’re going to like this one. All right - these three bits of string walk into a bar.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Fletch groaned. “It’s a joke, Albert, give me a break. Okay. These three bits of string -”
“You’re talking to me about animate pieces of string?” Albert asked. His tone implied that Fletcher must have lost his mind.
“Yes. Stay with me here, I promise you’re going to like this. They sit in a corner booth, and one of them goes to the bartender and says, ‘Three beers, please, for me and my friends’. The bartender takes one look at him and says, ‘We don’t serve your kind here.’” Albert was looking highly dubious, but Fletch took a breath and plunged ahead regardless. “So the bit of string goes back to his friends and explains why he doesn’t have the beers, and the second piece of string says, ‘We’ll see about that,’ and heads for the bar. He says, very assertively, ‘Three beers, please, for me and my friends.’ But the bartender says, ‘I told your pal, we don’t serve bits of string here.’”
“Is there a point to this?” Albert asked.
“The third piece of string is pretty angry about this. But he has a think about it and comes up with a solution. He ties a knot in himself, about a foot of the way down, and unravels the top bit, so it looks like hair, arranges it nicely, then heads for the bar. ‘Three beers, please, for me and my friends.’ The bartender is very suspicious. He looks him up and down and says, ‘Aren’t you a piece of string?’ And the bit of string replies, ‘No, I’m afraid not.’”
Dead silence for a few beats. An uninterested Albert prompted, “Yes, and then what happened?”
“That’s it,” Fletch said, exasperated enough to throw his hands in the air. “Don’t you get it? ‘No, I’m a frayed knot.’”
“Your taste obviously encompasses jokes that rely on puns.”
“Even Shakespeare wrote puns.”
“That’s hardly a recommendation for your juvenile sense of humor.”
Fletcher stared at the man, and shook his head. “Okay, be impossible.” Frowning, he added, “For lovers, we sure as hell bicker a lot. But I can live with it.”
“What a pity,” Albert commented. The only topic they touched on during the rest of their breakfast was the current murder case.
Fletcher and Ross were allocated the task of looking into everyone who showed an interest in Sam Doherty’s funeral. They still had to chase up the last of the names identified following Tony Shields’ funeral; one of whom was Tony’s old boss, who had apparently moved interstate. Fletch began with the secretary of the head of the company that owned the new building, an efficient, gum-chewing girl named Trish.
“Maybe I have it wrong,” she said, clearly believing she couldn’t have, “but I thought Mr Garrett said he was moving to Wyoming. On the other hand, Mr Connolly swears he said it was Maine.”
“That’s quite a discrepancy.”
“Uh huh. Other side of the country entirely.” She sighed and snapped her gum. “I have some mail for him but I can’t forward it, can I? Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“I’d like to talk to him, that’s all. Did you know Tony Shields? He was a construction worker on the building site.”
“One of the boys who were killed. Yeah, I didn’t know him personally but I read about it in the papers. The Portland Strangler, huh?”
Fletch grimaced. “Yes.”
“We sent a wreath from the company, you know.”
“I do know, actually.”
She looked at him, perhaps surprised that the FBI would bother with that level of detail. “You want to give me the third degree? I organized it, on Mr Connolly’s orders. A big flash one to make us look good. Poor kid.”
“John Garrett sent a wreath, too. But if he’s in Maine or even Wyoming, how did he know about Tony dying? The case hasn’t received much in the way of national coverage.”
“Well, if he’d contacted me, I’d be able to forward his mail,” Trish said flatly. “I guess it’s just junk mail, from the look of it, but I don’t like having it hanging around.”
“Who would he have kept in touch with?”
The girl frowned. “I don’t know. He was a nice enough guy, though I don’t reckon he liked women much, if you know what I mean, but I can’t think of anyone around here being such good friends with him that they’d stay in touch.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean about him not liking women.”
Shrugging and snapping her gum, she said, “You just get a feel with some guys, you know, that they’d never even consider being interested in you. Not like they’re straight but married, or they don’t sleep around, or whatever, just that they wouldn’t even think of it.”
Fletcher put on his best smile to hide his amusement. Trish seemed a nice enough girl but she wasn’t necessarily everyone’s type. “I see. Well, if I could also talk to Mr Connolly, I’d appreciate it.”
“He’s a busy man,” Trish warned, but then she relented and returned Fletch’s smile. “You are, however, in luck. I’ll go check with him now.”
But no matter who Fletcher spoke to, only one thing was clear: even though John Garrett had socialized with the mayor and the other local elite, and worked directly with a hundred or more people at one time or another, he had completely slipped out of these people’s lives.
Trish wasn’t the only one who’d received the distinct impression that Garrett was gay, so Fletch had to revise his initial private estimate of her, having assumed she’d simply been disgruntled at a rejection. Men remembered Garrett as a friendly and approachable guy, but no one knew him well; women remembered him as distant and unremarkable, though handsome. And everyone had vague and wildly different recollections of where Garrett had said he’d moved to.
“He had a whole heap of job offers,” one of his colleagues from the site explained. “First he’d be talking about tendering for a job in Wyoming, then it would be a refit of an office building in New Jersey, or a contract to build a new movie lot in California. Each time it was like he’d made up his mind, then he’d see something else in the newspapers. No wonder people are confused. I don’t have any idea which one he ended up taking.”
Another colleague was able to clear up the mystery of the wreath. “John Garrett called me out of the blue, said he’d seen a two-line thing in the New York Times about some murders in Portland and he hoped it wasn’t anyone he knew. I told him one of the boys was Tony Shields from the site and he said he was sorry about that, he remembered Tony well. Then he asked me to arrange the wreath for him, said he’d send the money on.”
“And did he?” Fletch asked.
“Yeah, he sent me a fifty-dollar note in the mail, which was too much, but there was no return address to send him the change. I guess I’ll hang onto it, he might call me again or something.”
“If he does, would you let me or Owen Ross know?”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t notice the postmark, did you?”
“Yeah, because there was also this note saying thanks for helping out, and he was on an airplane, and he’d be in touch, and the postmark was New York City. I remember thinking he must have a good life.”
Of course the man had thrown the note and the envelope out a few days ago. Following another line, Fletch asked, “Do you think there was any specific reason that John Garrett remembered Tony Shields well?”
The man cast him a look. “I know what you’re getting at, no need to beat around the bush. People figured Garrett was queer, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, they might have figured right.” The man laughed. “I’ve never worked a site with so many good-looking guys on it, mostly young ones, too, and he had the say on hiring. He was always friendly, kept everyone happy, was willing to get his hands dirty, liked hanging around with the guys. Don’t know that he had a thing for any of them in particular, though. And he’d have been too smart to try it on. Construction sites are dangerous places, you know. Accidents happen.”
Fletch raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your time.” And he left the man a business card, just in case, though he thought John Garrett must be long gone.
When Fletcher filled Ross in on all of this, Ross asked the big question. “So, is Garrett a suspect or not?”
“Yes, he’s a suspect. All these stories make sense, and sound perfectly innocent, except for the fact that he disappeared so thoroughly. Not many people can do that. There’s not enough here to push it further for now, but there’s nothing to eliminate him, either.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any connection between John Garrett and the other victims,” Ross commented.
“Very true.” Fletcher sighed. “But leave him on the list.” As with the other cases, the list of suspects was long, and many of the connections between the suspects and the victims were tenuous. “You know, there’s something that keeps bothering me,” Fletch said after a long silence. “One of the victims in Georgia, a boy named Philip Rohan - he was a construction worker, too.”
“Could easily be a coincidence,” Ross said. “But you’re still convinced this was the same man, aren’t you? Where were the other cases - Georgia and Colorado?”
“Yes, and I think Wyoming before that. There are differences but there are also too many significant similarities.”
“I can’t see it, if you want the truth. I can’t see this guy waiting for two years, or whatever you said it was, before killing again.”
“Maybe he won’t be waiting so long next time, maybe he’s losing control.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The differences between Sam Doherty and the other three bodies. The fact that all four were from within Portland itself, whereas in the other cases the victims were from all over the state. He’s not being as careful as he was.” Fletcher mused over this for a while. “I have to catch this guy,” he said at last, “and this time I don’t think I have two years to do it in.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
COLORADO
NOVEMBER 1984
Albert lay awake, systematically taking note of all of this though he already knew it by heart; from Fletcher’s sparsely furnished though untidy bedroom, to the feel and sight and sound of him lying in Albert’s arms, to the lingering smell and taste of him. The younger man was deeply asleep, exhausted by the ten days they’d spent in Oregon and by the manic way he’d survived through the couple of months before that - and also thoroughly sated by the recent hours of sex.
Fletcher had seemed surprised when Albert accepted his invitation to stay the night in Colorado on the way home to Washington, and was apparently still wondering why. Albert, however, hadn’t explained. Instead, ignoring Fletcher’s suggestion that they postpone sex until the morning, Albert had worked hard over the man, alternating from exquisite gentleness to spectacular energy. That was another thing that Fletcher must be surprised about - Albert was acutely aware this was the first time he’d initiated sex without Ash having asked for it in one way or another. Fletcher had soon been caught up in Albert’s urgency, protests forgotten; had been so touchingly open to Albert, so trusting and eager. Albert often wondered whether Fletcher was this responsive to his other lovers but thought he - Albert - might have the edge, being both willing and able to learn this man as well as he knew himself. He noted again that his speculations had been proven correct: Fletcher, whether his focus was turned inward on sheer sensation or outward on Albert’s attentions, did indeed intensify into beauty, free of the trouble brought by his obsession with the serial killer.
But this would end tomorrow morning, once Albert left for the airport. Albert had found that he wasn’t above taking a few vivid memories with him and endeavoring to also leave a few unforgettable ones behind. He’d been dismayed to discover that he wanted Fletcher to regret letting him go. It seemed so petty, yet so persuasive, an idea.
As if aware of Albert’s disturbed thoughts, Fletcher stirred, his sleep becoming shallower. Albert remained still, hoping the man would drift away into unconsciousness again, but his efforts were in vain. Fletcher stretched, then settled himself more comfortably back into Albert’s embrace. He whispered, “Are you awake?”
There was no point in denying it. “Yes.”
Silence lengthening as Fletcher’s sleep-slowed thoughts apparently caught up. “Why did you do this?” Fletcher murmured at last. “Come here to Colorado with me to start with. I wasn’t expecting that. And then the sex. The sex was incredible. And I thought it had been incredible before.” He laughed a little, under his breath. “I feel wrung out.”
Albert said, “You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re a bright boy, Ash. Figure it out.”
Fletcher sighed. “Just tell me, love, it’s way too late for word games. I want to know what this was for.”
Sometimes Albert found himself hating Fletcher’s patience. He considered the easiest way to prompt the younger man. “You have something to tell me.”
“Do I? What do you want me to tell you?”
“You know very well. You’re the one playing word games.”
“I’m not,” Fletcher insisted. He twisted around, propped himself up on his elbows to look down at Albert, then dropped his head to rub at his temples. “I don’t know what you want right now. Something’s wrong, isn’t it? And I’m too damned tired to work it out. So just tell me.” There was a pause, while Fletcher’s face remained hidden, which Albert was presumably supposed to fill. Eventually Fletcher looked across and gave him a wan smile. “Just tell me your terms, I said once. That’s all you ever have to do.”
Perhaps Ash hadn’t planned on saying anything. Perhaps he would simply stop visiting Washington on the weekends, stop inviting Albert up to Colorado every time there was the slightest need for forensic work, stop asking for sex. Albert said, “You’re going to end this.”
“End this. End what?”
“This.”
Fletcher stared at him. “You’re mad. You mean our relationship?” He seemed bemused, though it was difficult to read him precisely in the dim light. “Why would I do that?”
“Because it was an antidote to the deaths you knew were happening. And they’re over now.”
“No, that was a reason to begin this, but it’s not a reason to end it.” He leaned closer. “We have more than that, far more than that between us now, I don’t understand how you can think I’d end it. I love you.” He added flatly, “I tell you that all the damned time.”
Albert shrugged. “I accept that you care for me as a friend.”
Fletcher was angry at last. “And I just use you for sex? Is that what you think?”
“Perhaps.”
“All right, all right, leaving aside how this started. I know you want to continue this -” Fletcher demanded, “Don
’t you?”
Albert didn’t reply. Fletcher seemed to interpret that as an affirmative.
“Well, I want to continue, too. So it’s settled.”
On the contrary, Albert felt like telling him. Nothing is, can be, or will be settled.
“Sometimes you amaze me,” Fletcher was saying. “You honestly thought this was goodbye? Yet you barely touched me back in Oregon. I sort of assumed that’s why you made it so incredible tonight. Where do you find the strength for that sort of restraint?”
