by Julie Bozza
“But if the process of taking the power corrupts you, then you disqualify yourself from holding it. You can’t ever be clean again.”
“But if you don’t take the power, then the next bastard will - and I’ll lay bets he’ll be a right wing, reactionary, homophobic racist.”
“Sexist, too,” Fletch added faintly.
“Within this system, Fletcher, I’m the best you’ll get. And I’m more than good enough for you to accept - no, for you to be happy about.”
“You’re dangerous, Xavier.”
“How so?”
“You’re too damned seductive for my peace of mind. Quit talking for a moment.” He held his hand up, palm out, mind racing. “The central issue is ends and means. You really care about certain ends, you passionately care - and you’ll do anything it takes to reach those ends. But I disagree with that approach, I entirely disagree with it. I think you blight any good you achieve, you undermine any success, you sow the seeds of failure, if your means are suspect.” Fletcher paused, then said, “The peripheral issue is that part of me wants to believe in you, to be seduced by your rhetoric, because our ends, our goals happen to coincide. But if I wouldn’t approve of your means and tactics in the hands of a right wing reactionary, then I can’t in all conscience approve of you.”
“Ah, lover man, so serious,” Xavier murmured with some regret. “Why did I seduce the one FBI agent with morals?”
Ignoring that last sortie, Fletcher said, “Yes, I am serious. I fear you, and I fear for you. And that makes me so damned sad because you’re a wonderful person, so smart, and working to such an admirable agenda. But you’re flawed.”
“You’re talking of complicated problems, and expecting simple answers.”
“Simplicity is unrealistic, is it?”
“Yes, sweet man.” Xavier leaned a little closer. “Are you still going to vote for me?”
The unexpectedness of that winded Fletcher. “All political debate comes down to that, does it?”
A broad smile. “Are you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that I want to vote for anyone right now.”
“You don’t have enough nerve, Fletcher; you just need that extra nerve to go that extra distance. You’re building barricades for yourself that needn’t be there.”
“Maybe I have too many doubts about too many things. If I’m sure of something, I’ll do what I have to do, within the rules - I respect the fact that society is nothing without limits - but there are so few things I’m sure of.”
“That’s not true. You know what’s right and you judge people accordingly.”
Fletcher grinned without humor. “I envy your certainty, your commitment to your beliefs. At the same time, it scares me - do you ever stop to question yourself?”
“Do you ever stop questioning yourself, and take action?” Xavier shook his head. “You think too much, Fletcher. It un-mans you.”
“I think,” Fletch murmured, “therefore I’m terminally confused.”
“Let’s start with the basics, lover man: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness -’”
“Yes, all right. Putative creators aside, I suppose there are a handful of bedrock truths and equality is the first of them - but what if I’m wrong about even that? You see, if I insist that my bedrock truths are applicable to everyone, that makes me as much a dictator as the Klansman who insists that blacks are little more than animals.”
“The difference being that your truths don’t impose on anyone else’s rights and freedoms - in fact, your truths support human rights, and how can you doubt the worthiness of that?”
“I don’t, not really. I doubt myself instead.”
Xavier was finally exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, Fletcher, how do you get out of bed in the morning? And how on earth do you work for the FBI?”
Fletch said quietly, “I’m currently asking myself that very question.”
“Which leads us back to my request for a favor. Will you give me some information on this guy? His file must be twelve inches thick.”
“Xavier, you’re … disenchanting me.”
The man murmured, “I enchanted you, lover man? You’re sweet.”
“This day dream of mine is impossible, isn’t it?” Fletch suddenly demanded. “That’s what this whole conversation has been about: you explaining why it wouldn’t work for you and me to be lovers. You knew all along that it wouldn’t work, but you’ve been humoring me.”
Shrugging in easy agreement, Xavier said, “But these couple of weeks have been nice, sugar man.”
Rather than being affronted by this final manipulation, Fletcher felt appreciative. “You’re letting me down gently,” he said with a tiny smile. “You’re taking care of my interests, seeing as I’m more enchanted than smart right now.”
“Call it gentle if you like, lover man, but you shouldn’t always think the best of people.”
Fletcher grimaced. “My boss said something similar to me recently.”
“Then she’s a smart lady and you should learn from her. You’re so keen on honesty, Agent Ash: do you want the truth about you and me?”
A long pause, while Fletcher wondered whether he could cope with this. But, inevitably, he said, “Go on.”
“You were a low risk fuck, a safe way to get my rocks off, and it’s been far too long since I was last able to afford to do that.”
“Really,” Fletcher said flatly.
“I saw you; you wanted me; you’re damned cute for a white boy; and you were safe because you have far more to lose than I do.”
“Everything comes down to cold-hearted calculation with you, doesn’t it?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I suppose it shouldn’t.” Fletcher sat there, deliberately not touching Xavier; feeling so distant from this man who, not an hour ago, had been so intimately in possession of Fletcher; beginning to wish he wasn’t in the same bed, the same house with him. “I’m naïve about politics. Or I was. I think you’re unscrupulous enough to go far.”
“I’m willing to do what I have to do to solve the problems you agree need a solution.”
“Fine. But I couldn’t work like that.”
“Sure, go solve your own problems, Special Agent. And try to remember that the end never justifies the means.” A pause. “You know, you should read up about your hero and his big brother. There are plenty of lessons in the Kennedy story about public image and private truth, ideals and compromise, dreams and reality. You and I probably admire them for very different reasons.”
“Probably. Which is your hero? Jack, I suppose.”
“Sure, he got to the White House, didn’t he? And he was the youngest man, and the first Catholic, to be President. Whereas you like Bobby, who seems to you like more of a white knight.”
Silence. Fletcher slowly became aware of how late it was, of how every fiber of his body ached with exhaustion. “All right, I’ve been fooling myself about you, and about us. So let’s just call it quits. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I’ve become a liability, with all this talk of day dreams.”
“Is that the truth? It sounds ugly sometimes.”
“Maybe it does, but it’s necessary to speak and hear it.”
“We found a lot of joy together, lover man; that’s a truth, too. I don’t want you to leave like this, so unhappy.”
“No, you want me in love and ready to vote. Well, let me go now without anymore garbage, and we’ll see.”
Xavier reached out a hand, but Fletcher steadfastly refused to respond. Instead he climbed out of bed, and began gathering his clothes together.
“Goodbye, Mr Lachance.”
“Goodbye, sweet man. Later, when you’re not so pissed off with me, remember the joy we had, won’t you?”
“I’m not angry with you,” Fletcher said, tired and quiet.
>
“You are. I’ve let you down, I’ve rained on your parade, I’ve confronted you with realities you didn’t want to know about.”
Fletcher sighed. “Never mind.”
“You care too much, sugar man. One day, you’re going to have to let go of all these things that are troubling you.”
“But not today.”
“One day when you’re old,” Xavier predicted, “and there’s nothing left of you.”
“Maybe then.” Fletcher smiled a little. “Yeah, maybe then.” He was dressed now, and it was more than time to go. He didn’t say anything more, just looked once at this beautiful, corrupt, seductive man and walked out.
Sweating hard, pushing himself to the limit and beyond, felt so damned - not good, but necessary. The ball bounced where he’d anticipated, Fletcher lifted his racket and slammed the ball back against the wall. Caroline chased after the rebound, expression as fierce as Fletcher’s. She hit it at a good angle and Fletcher scrambled to return it.
“Congratulations,” she said afterwards. “That was the longest, most furious game of squash I’ve ever played.” She arched an eyebrow. “That’s the only way you can beat me, right?”
“Yeah.” Fletcher buried his face in his towel, scrubbed at his damp hair and wet face. The discontent was still simmering away within him but the ferocious exertion had at least quieted it for a while. He wondered whether that was why Caroline always played to win.
“Are you feeling better now?”
Fletch looked across at her, considering the teasing but concerned tone, and he slowly smiled at her for the first time in days. “Yeah, I believe I am.”
She returned the smile in full measure. “Good. Go have a shower, Fletch, and I’ll meet you at the cafe. I might even buy you lunch. Then we’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
COLORADO
APRIL 1985
They barely spoke during the drive from the airport to Fletcher’s apartment, even with a stop for grocery shopping.
Fletch reflected that, while Albert would never be a happy or open sort of person, the older man had made some advances over the years since he and Fletch had been friends - at least, he wasn’t quite as stony and uncommunicative when it was just the two of them. Until recently, of course, though Fletcher hoped to begin making up lost ground this weekend. There were surely ways of being lovers without making each other thoroughly miserable. The problem was convincing Albert that the ways Fletcher had in mind were logical and beneficial. The other problem was convincing Albert to trust him again.
At the apartment building, they climbed the stairs, disdaining the elevator as usual, and Fletcher let them in. The briefest surprise crossed Albert’s face. Fletch laughed and said, “Looks pretty organized, doesn’t it?” Down the further end of the long room, the dining table and two chairs were cleared and waiting; boxes of files and papers were lined along the wall nearby; the few other pieces of furniture and junk were tidied away into a corner; the kitchen was clean. Fletch wandered over to the files, indicated a single box: “This is Wyoming, 1978.” Then a row of five overflowing boxes: “This is our case. Colorado, 1980.” Then two groups of two boxes each: “Georgia, 1982 and Oregon, 1984.”
Albert nodded, placed his briefcase by the table and then took his compact suitcase into the bedroom.
Having hoped for a compliment, or even a comment, Fletcher shrugged. It didn’t matter. Albert had said once before, years ago, that he was glad Fletcher’s general carelessness wasn’t evident in his work - and Albert was not in the habit of repeating himself.
Fletcher went to put the coffee on, soon joined by Albert who quickly unpacked the groceries he’d bought, putting most away for later. They probably wouldn’t have to leave the apartment all weekend, except that Albert would no doubt go buy a newspaper each day.
“While I prepare dinner, you can fill me in on how you’ve been checking your list of suspects.”
“All right.” Fletcher poured himself a mug of coffee then leaned back against the kitchen bench. Albert was a flurry of organized activity beside him. Nice, this domesticated comfort with each other.
“I assume you’re working from the Colorado list,” Albert prompted him.
“Yes. It’s been taking some time, so I haven’t gotten very far.”
“As long as you haven’t been checking them in alphabetic order.”
“No, in order of suspicion. Though, in this case, that doesn’t mean very much. We eliminated the known sex offenders at the time and the few likeliest suspects. There’s no one else on the list who has more than two points against his name.” Fletcher continued, “I’ve been trying to do this by the book. My instincts tell me no one I’ve interviewed so far is a killer, though I did solve two separate spates of burglaries and one heavy duty tax evasion in the process. But I’ve been feeling pretty weary lately. I can’t afford to trust myself to pick up the nuances.”
“I see.”
“All right,” Fletch said, having thought Albert would approve his approach. “If they’re still living in Colorado, I talk with them as long as I can, going back a few times if I have to. Most have been fairly cooperative. I ask them what they were doing in the fall of 1978, 80, 82 and 84. I corroborate that with two other people outside of immediate family, if possible, and their employer. I ask if there were any absences around those times or trips to other states. Once we have what they assume is the business out of the way, I talk to them about football - I’ve developed quite a patter on that, you should hear me. There’s all this jargon about tight ends and scoring and penetration, which sounds like sublimated homoeroticism to me.” Fletcher grinned. “And I have you to blame for that perspective.”
No response.
“I talk to them about cars, ask what they drive, what they were driving back in fall 1980 - remember Drew Harmer was picked up by a man in a black car, who appeared rich. I try to find out whether they’d have been able to take Drew and the others home for the evening, somewhere they could work undisturbed, without arousing the suspicion of family or friends or neighbors. I try to form an opinion whether Drew would have seen him as Prince Charming. Most of this is difficult because it was four and a half years ago.”
“And if they’ve moved away from Colorado?” Albert asked.
“Much the same. Trying to establish where they were at the relevant times. One guy had moved to Oregon in 1981, but I can’t place him in Georgia at all. Three of them have had jobs that entailed traveling but again, they weren’t in the right states at the right times.”
“All right.”
“Meanwhile, of course, Mac is keeping an eye on the newspapers and incoming police reports. I also have Celia keeping an ear to the medical examiners’ network across a few states down south. She says most of the work they get down there is gunshot wounds or domestic violence, so anything out of the ordinary like this, she’ll make sure she hears about.” And Fletcher asked, “How about you?”
“I’ve run the fingerprint from Doherty’s shoe against the computer records every month, with no results.”
Fletcher shook his head. “I’d have anticipated a criminal record showing up for this guy. Some young man he’s gone too far with, assault or a sodomy charge or even statutory rape, though I think he’s particular about them being of age. It’s odd that he doesn’t pick the most liberal states to live in.”
“So, what sort of person can commit sodomy with impunity? Or have an assault charge against him dropped? Or buy his way out of trouble?”
“Exactly, Albert, I’m one step ahead of you there. It seems that most serial killers have a working class or lower middle class background. But, to get away with this over the years, I think our man has money or prestige within whichever community he lives in. He can also afford to move to a new state every two years.”
Albert nodded.
“Anything further on this DNA business?” Fletcher asked.
“No. I told you they applied for a patent for t
he identification process. That could take years to approve and then make available. Meanwhile, they’re not describing enough detail of the process for me to be able to recreate it. I’ve kept samples of semen from different victims, just in case.”
Fletcher was grinning. “You tried to recreate the process, for me?”
“For the case. And I failed.”
“I really appreciate you putting in that much effort. You must have spent weeks on it.”
“It wouldn’t have been admissible evidence,” Albert said flatly. “I shouldn’t have told you, because of the patent pending on the process. In any case, I failed.”
