The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “But I can place the suspect in all four states at the times of the murders,” Fletcher said, knowing that his tone betrayed his frustration and desperation. “And he’s on two separate lists of suspects.”

  “How many other men are on those lists?”

  Fletcher said, “Almost three thousand in total, Your Honor.”

  “That’s a lot of innocent men.”

  “But the suspect is the only name common to all four - that has to indicate something.”

  “Something or nothing. Perhaps that’s the only substance in your case against Mr Garrett, and it is not enough. I cannot issue this warrant, Special Agent, because you cannot demonstrate probable cause.”

  Atwell took a breath, and tried again. “What harm does a search warrant do, Your Honor? If Agent Ash and his colleagues find nothing, then Mr Garrett is cleared of suspicion, and the matter is over. If Agent Ash does find evidence of these crimes, then justice is served.”

  The judge turned sharp eyes on Fletcher. “Would you be satisfied if you found nothing at Mr Garrett’s house?”

  Fletcher returned Beaufort’s stare, and admitted the truth. “No, Your Honor.”

  “As I thought.” The judge set both hands palm down on his desk in a gesture of finality. “Neither of you can persuade me at this time. And I’ll tell you what harm it does, Ms Atwell, as you asked. I’m doing you both a favor, in fact. If I grant this search warrant and you discover nothing, then you’ll find it next to impossible to be granted a second search warrant. As Mr Ash intends to pursue this case as vigorously as he can, I believe it to be in no one’s interest to issue a warrant prematurely.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Atwell murmured.

  The judge continued, “You have obviously devoted a great deal to this case, Agent Ash. I admire you for having the courage and resources to do so. However, I will not risk one man’s liberty for the sake of another’s crusade.”

  A silence. Fletcher wondered if he’d expected any other outcome.

  Then Beaufort said, “You interview Mr Garrett tomorrow, Special Agent, as planned. If you obtain any results, anything at all, then find Ms Atwell and come down to my court. There’s nothing going on that can’t be interrupted. Bring me something solid and I’ll give you your warrants, both search and arrest.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Atwell and Fletcher said, verbally stumbling over each other.

  “You’ll be available to assist in this matter, Ms Atwell?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, of course.” She threw Fletcher a glance as if to say, I’ll fit this crazy crusade in somewhere.

  “Then get out of here, the pair of you, and go about your business.”

  Fletcher stood in the doorway of the interview room and watched John Garrett walk across the room, weaving between the desks. There was plenty of time to observe him because his progress was impeded by various police officers who stood to greet him and pass the time of day. The young uniformed officer who’d gone to collect him, and the lieutenant in charge of homicide, were at Garrett’s shoulders, behaving more like groupies than an escort. This was Fletcher’s first sight of the serial killer who’d haunted his days and nights for too many years - but it was more like watching someone campaign for mayor, with all this glad-handing, all these sincere smiles, all this chit-chat with everyone who approached.

  Albert was standing a few feet away, arms crossed and expression stony, dividing his attention between Fletch’s reactions and Garrett himself.

  But Fletcher believed he didn’t betray his reactions, not even to this man who knew him better than anyone. There was disgust and fear, a rise of the dogged determination. There was also some objective part of him noting that Garrett was handsome, in a suave kind of way. And so at ease, so friendly with these men, his smile broad. Yes, this man could be Drew Harmer’s Prince Charming; this man could seduce and trap unsuspecting young men. This man had the strength and the bulk to subdue them. This monster.

  Ash had never actually pictured Garrett, hadn’t filled in the shadowy details of his nightmares and imaginings. Nevertheless, this must be the serial killer. This must be the monster that Fletcher had to battle. This big hungry angry bear that he knew too well.

  But after all these years, events were abruptly moving too fast. The whole case had never seemed so hopeless as now, when Fletcher had the man literally in his sight. This interview was premature, Fletcher’s hand had been forced. After all, these friends of Garrett’s had probably tipped him off already. Then there was Judge Beaufort: Fletch was desperate to take something solid to him while the man was still prepared to listen.

  At last, John Garrett was there, approaching Fletcher. Being introduced by Lieutenant Halligan. Rather than shake hands, Fletcher invited Garrett into the interview room with a smooth gesture. Ash shared a glance with the uncommunicative Albert, then Albert turned and entered the observation room, and Fletcher joined Garrett and the lieutenant, closing the door behind him.

  Garrett had paused a moment, then smiled broadly. “You want me to sit here, right, Halligan?”

  “Sure, John,” the man replied with a shrug. Halligan stood by the door, leaning his shoulders against the wall, as if relaxed and certain this wouldn’t take long.

  “Pity about all the movies, isn’t it?” Garrett continued. He turned his smile to the one-way mirror that allowed Albert and the others in the next room to witness this, then sat facing it. “You can’t fool anyone with that anymore.”

  Fletcher sat at the table opposite him, his back to the mirror, and pressed the record button on the tape player. “Tape one, side one. This is Special Agent Fletcher Ash, Federal Bureau of Investigation, interviewing Mr John Garrett, in the presence of Lieutenant Harold Halligan, New Orleans Police Department. It is two-fifteen on the afternoon of August twenty-second, 1985.” He waited a moment, lifted his gaze to Garrett’s. Ice blue eyes, calm and confident. “Have you been told why you’re here?”

  “Bill, the kid who picked me up, he said it was in connection with murder. What’s that phrase? You believe I can assist you in your inquiries.”

  “You don’t seem terribly upset at being questioned regarding murder.”

  Garrett’s smile returned, easy and open. “It’s so ridiculous, this has nothing to do with me. I’m sure we can quickly clear it up, whatever it is you think you have.”

  “If you want a lawyer present during my questioning, you’re entitled to one.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “You understand that you can have a lawyer here but you’re refusing? Whether you’re guilty or innocent, that could be seen as rather naïve.”

  The man nodded, all good humor. “I understand, Special Agent, both the advice and the warning.”

  “All right. I’ve been investigating the murders of fourteen young men across four states. I believe they’re all linked and that they’ve been committed by one man. Given that you were in each of those four states at the relevant times, I was hoping you could help me.”

  A shrug. “If I know anything about these murders, it would only be what I’ve read in the newspapers.”

  “It seems suspicious in itself that you happened to be living in those particular states at those particular times.”

  “I move around a lot. I see a business opportunity, or a good job with some responsibility, I take it no matter where it is. When the job’s over, or when I’ve built the business up, I sell for a profit, and move on again. There’s nothing sinister in that.”

  “The odds against this being a coincidence are enormous.”

  “But it is a coincidence, Special Agent.” So self-assured.

  Fletcher considered the man. “Again, you don’t seem upset at being accused of a number of murders.”

  “It only happens in the movies, you know,” Garrett replied, “that an innocent man is convicted of the sorts of crimes you’re investigating.”

  “What sorts of crimes are those?”

  “Murder, you said it yourse
lf, on quite a grand scale.” Garrett paused, and smiled confidingly. “Bill told me some of it. Ask him if I was shocked at first, being accused of these things. I’m sorry if you feel the shock’s worn off too quickly, but it’s really nothing to do with me.” The eyes were cold and assessing, though the expression remained relaxed and sincere as he leaned forward. “Let’s sort this thing out, Special Agent.”

  Fletcher looked down at his notes, more to provide a beat of silence than because he needed to. He’d had some time to consider how he’d handle this. “Oregon,” Fletcher began. “You worked on a construction site, building offices.”

  “I was project manager for the site.”

  “One of the young men who worked for you is now dead.”

  “Yes. I read about that in the paper, I had a colleague send a wreath to the funeral.”

  “What was the young man’s name?”

  Garrett seemed to have no qualms about meeting Fletcher’s direct gaze. “Tony.” After a moment, he added, “Tony Shields.”

  “You found Tony attractive.”

  Shrugging, Garrett said, “Yes. Is that a crime? It’s not something I make a secret of.” He looked over at Halligan, who echoed his shrug, as if to say, It’s no big deal.

  “I am not concerned with your homosexuality per se. I am, however, concerned about your violence.”

  “I am not a violent man, Special Agent.”

  “Did you ever proposition Tony Shields?”

  Garrett said dismissively, “The kid was straight.”

  Without reacting to this, Fletcher repeated, “Did you ever proposition Tony Shields?”

  “No.” Though the man glanced away.

  “Why is that the first question to make you uncomfortable?”

  “Only because … I’d have liked to, sure, Tony was quite a guy and he knew it. But if I’d put the word on him, he would have belted me. Hell, he might have dropped a bag of cement on me from the seventeenth storey.” Garrett paused, glanced around at Halligan again. “Makes me sick, what happened to him. Fine young man like that.”

  Halligan nodded. “Some crazy,” he said. “Some nutcase.”

  Again, Fletcher didn’t react. If Halligan was going to run a good guy/bad guy routine, deliberately or not, at least Garrett would recognize the ploy from the movies and dismiss it accordingly. Fletch asked, “How well did you know Tony Shields? Did you ever socialize with him? Have a drink after work?”

  They filled forty minutes of tape dealing with Oregon, Fletcher asking a variety of questions either directly related to Tony and the other victims, or adding detail to Fletcher’s notion of who this man was. Garrett, while apparently willing to answer everything he could, didn’t offer anything he didn’t have to. Neither did he say anything that would incriminate him. Fletcher had always known this man was clever.

  “Georgia,” Fletcher eventually said. And was interrupted by a knock on the door. Halligan opened it, and there was young Bill with a tray of steaming coffee mugs. Well, Fletch wasn’t going to get angry over this, or let it faze him. In fact, he welcomed the coffee itself. He took the mug handed to him, though he couldn’t bring himself to smile or thank the man, then waited through Garrett’s pleasantries. Halligan at last sat down once Bill had left, though he remained over by the door rather than joining Fletcher and Garrett at the table. Fletcher repeated, “Georgia. What do you remember about GTK Builders?”

  “I remember the name. That was a while ago.”

  “But you had business dealings with them.”

  “During a couple of large projects, I think I sub-contracted some construction work to them. Yeah, nothing major.”

  “Who do you recall from the company?”

  Garrett shrugged. “I dealt with a guy named Kowalski, he’s the K in GTK. Why?” The barest hint of impatience. “Is Kowalski dead, too?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Do you recall anyone else?”

  “It’s too long ago to remember names.”

  “Philip Rohan.”

  The man looked blank. “Doesn’t mean anything. Was he with GTK?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s the one who’s dead, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Another shrug. “I don’t remember the kid.”

  “Maybe Philip Rohan was middle-aged. Why call him a kid?”

  Garrett stared at Fletcher, unflinching. “You said at the start of this that you’re investigating the deaths of several young men. Why else would you mention this Rohan guy?”

  “What happened to Stacey Dixon? Why was she shot?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know who Stacey Dixon is.” And, after another thirty minutes of tape was devoted to questions relating to Garrett’s time in Georgia, Garrett asked, “How much longer is this likely to take, Special Agent?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Colorado as well, but of course you’re free to go at any time.”

  Garrett considered him for a long moment, tired but shrewd. “No,” he said. “Let’s get this over with. Maybe then you’ll be satisfied. Otherwise you’ll be hounding me, won’t you?”

  Ignoring this, Fletcher said, “Colorado. You drove a black four-wheel-drive vehicle, top of the line, very expensive.”

  “Yes. Is that a crime?”

  “Did you use it to pick up boys?”

  The expressions passing over Garrett’s face encompassed amusement, frustration, vexation. “Believe it or not, Special Agent, there are young men - consenting adults - who are prepared to have sex with me. Ready, willing and able, I assure you. I don’t have to cruise the streets for the kind of boys who’ll be impressed by a shiny new car.”

  “You might not have to,” Fletcher conceded. “But have you done so?”

  There was a long silence. At last Garrett said, “Perhaps. Once or twice. In the past.”

  “Did you pick up Andrew Harmer on the street, in your four-wheel-drive?”

  “I don’t recall the name.”

  “Drew Harmer was a college student in Denver.”

  Garrett shook his head, slowly, apparently searching his memory. “I don’t recall.”

  “He told a friend that a man of your description, in the type of car you drove, propositioned him in the street.”

  “It’s remotely possible,” Garrett said, shrugging. It seemed he couldn’t be less interested. “But I doubt it was me.”

  “Later that evening, Drew planned to meet with you. He was never seen again.”

  “I certainly had nothing to do with him disappearing,” Garrett said.

  “Drew’s friend is prepared to testify in court.” It was more an overstatement than a lie. Fletcher said it smoothly, relieved when Halligan didn’t contradict him, or react in surprise. Fletch added, with slightly more truth, “The description Drew gave him is uncannily accurate.”

  Garrett retorted, “Hearsay is inadmissible. You’re bluffing.”

  “It’s not inadmissible in these circumstances. Don’t believe everything you see on TV. You’re the one who’s bluffing.”

  A brief silence, then Garrett said, “You have the wrong man, Special Agent.”

  “I don’t think so,” Fletcher said firmly. He leaned forward a little for the first time, staring hard at Garrett and letting the man see how driven this FBI agent was. “I have you in all four states at the right times. I have links between you and at least one of the victims in three of those states. What are the odds against that, if you’re not the killer? So remote that it’s statistically impossible.”

  “Whatever the hell the odds are, it’s still a possibility. Obviously. Because I am not the man you want, Special Agent.”

  “How did it feel, Mr Garrett?” Fletcher asked in the same tone of voice. “This was Drew’s first date. There he was, infatuated, full of hope, all yours. How did it feel to see the fear in his eyes when he realized what you are?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrett said flatly.

  “How did it feel to have hi
m helpless, begging for your mercy? This pitiful boy-child crying and sobbing, screaming and bleeding.”

  The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched - but Fletcher had seen those cold eyes flare. Garrett said flatly, “Sounds like you know better than I do, Special Agent.”

  “How did it feel to hit him, to hurt him?”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  Fletcher didn’t miss a beat. “How did it feel to watch him die? Did you look into Drew’s eyes as you strangled him? Or were you raping him while you killed him?”

  “Enough!” At last Garrett stood. “I don’t have to listen to this. Halligan?”