The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “Thought about it,” Garrett repeated. “Don’t know if I did.”

  “How does that make you feel, that you can’t remember?”

  Silence for a while. Then Garrett said, “Tony was magnificent. Thrill’s in the hunt as well as the kill, you know. He was as straight as they come, knew I had my eye on him, but he trusted me enough to have a drink with me, to come home with me. Had to do some smooth talking for that one. Fought once he realized, almost got away, determined to be free, but not as determined as I was to have him. Would have beaten the life out of me. Sweet to take him lower than he ever thought possible. Be in control of someone who never lets anyone get the better of him.”

  “Where did you meet him? Where did you take him for a drink?” And Fletcher worked on getting all the detail from Garrett, much of which could be verified. There might be witnesses at the bar Garrett mentioned, even after all this time. The very existence of the bar would add substance to Garrett’s story, with the pool tables he and Tony played at, and the decor he described. There had been mirrors on the wall, which provided the chance to watch not only Tony but a half-dozen reflections of him - and also to let Tony catch Garrett at it. Shared glances through the slightly unreal medium of the mirrors, Garrett of course getting turned on and Tony merely amused, too confident to feel the danger.

  And then, of course, there was all the detail of what Garrett had done with the young man once they’d reached Garrett’s house. Fletcher listened as Garrett described what caused each of the injuries Albert had so meticulously listed in his report. Worse than his imaginings of it, to know the hot and brutal truth; somehow worse to know the truth, even in the few instances where his imaginings had been crazier, crueler. Fletch did not want to be here, did not want to be listening to this, did not want to be seeing this so damned vivid in his mind’s eye, breathing in the night’s heavy humidity.

  “You really do understand, don’t you, Fletcher?” Garrett said after he’d described Tony’s death. “It’s wound so deep inside that you’ll never be free of it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Garrett began rambling again. “The other two in Oregon, I suggested they try this sexual asphyxia thing. You know about that, Ash? Tony wouldn’t have been into it, though, not as keen or queer as the others. Half-strangled, could do what I liked with them.” He frowned, losing some enthusiasm. “Wasn’t as exciting as it should have been, have to admit. Mistake - no, misjudgment. Used a silk scarf. Soft, shouldn’t have been any sign of it. Did your goon find any trace?”

  Fletcher started, stirred from the troubling images. “No,” he said. “Dr Sterne knew the cause of death and suggested the use of a scarf, but he couldn’t say for sure.”

  “He’s not stupid. Neither are you, Fletcher. Wouldn’t have got this far otherwise. But wasn’t smart to come here tonight.”

  Fletch asked, “How did you dispose of Tony’s body?”

  “You want all that boring stuff as well?”

  “You don’t find it boring,” Fletcher said. “That part of it is almost as significant to you as the violence. And just as necessary, in its own way.”

  Garrett considered him for too long a moment. But, apparently willing to explore his own deeds and motivations rather than Fletcher’s - apparently too self-centered to really take an interest in this other man - Garrett continued, describing the care he took and how clever he was. There were plenty of details that the public didn’t know. This was exactly the kind of evidence Fletch needed.

  The story of Tony Shield’s death took almost a full tape. Fletcher stopped the player, and put a fresh cassette in, thinking for a moment about the young man as he must have been in life. The images were so vivid, it felt as if Fletch had known him. But the combination of grief and fear was almost enough to undo him, so Fletch put the thoughts aside and pressed the record button. “Tape two, side one. Tell me about the first time you killed, John. What happened?”

  “Why do you want to know? It doesn’t really count.”

  “Tell me why it doesn’t count.”

  Shrugging, Garrett said, “It was beautiful, sure. But it was an accident. It wasn’t planned. I hardly knew how to enjoy it. What I’ve done since is more significant.”

  “I’m no psychologist, John,” Fletcher said, “but I’d have thought that the first time and the last time are the most significant of all. Do you disagree?”

  “It’s all significant,” Garrett insisted.

  “Yes.” A moment to gather himself, then Fletcher offered, “You said yourself that getting away with murder is an achievement in itself. Humor me. Tell me about the first time. How did you get away with it if you didn’t have any plans?”

  The flattery seemed to work. After a moment, Garrett said, “Took me a while to figure out I was queer. When I did, I always liked it rough, and once it went too far. A kid called Mark, back in Illinois. I was twenty-four. Didn’t know what to do, figured I may as well just enjoy it. Took him three hours to die. Glorious.”

  “What was Mark’s last name?”

  “Only remember their first names. When I’m in the middle of it, Ash, they’re nothing more than flesh and blood, they don’t have names. But I try to remember, it’s only fair. Like them with spunk, like them to be real, you know?”

  “Where did you meet Mark?”

  “Cruising. He was just a whore.” Garrett must have read Fletcher’s fleeting protest, for he laughed and said, “Expendable. They’re all expendable, Ash. That why you don’t like understanding this? You don’t like thinking all these guys are nothing more than flesh and blood? They’re there to be used, you know. You can let some of them go, give them some food and money to shut them up. The ones you don’t let go, you give them to the ground afterwards, that’s all right. But don’t let the rules and regulations get in the way, don’t let society make you impotent.”

  Fletch nodded as if he understood all this, even agreed with it. No rules, you cruel bastard. That was your beginning, and it will be your end. Fletcher nodded some more, swallowed hard, feared and suspected he wasn’t behaving as consistently as he should. Had to fool this man, continue to fool him. Finally he said, with a firmer voice than he would have thought possible, “What caused this first death? I would think there was some event in your life that triggered the act.”

  “It was a mistake, I wasn’t prepared. Had no idea. Would have happened sooner or later, though. Always liked it rough.” Garrett’s interest abruptly focused. “It’s a shock, finding out who you really are. What you are. Makes sense, all adds up, sure - but still a shock. Tried to end it then. Does that surprise you?”

  Garrett was unbuttoning his left shirtsleeve, pushing it up to his elbow, laying his arm on the table, palm up. There was a long scar down Garrett’s forearm, unswerving, so that Fletch could imagine the force behind it driving the knife deep through the flesh. Fletch knew that some serial killers became suicidal, just as he knew that the first and the last deaths were the most significant, but he also guessed that John Garrett would not take kindly to comparisons to other people, favorable to Garrett or not. Fletch decided to say, “It does surprise me, John. Tell me why you did that.”

  “It was a shock, like I said. To realize that’s what it was all about. The death. The pain and the terror and the death.” The man paused for reflection. “Guess I thought I wasn’t up to it. Wasn’t clever enough to take it all the way, to invite the darkness back again and again. You can see the darkness coming, you can see it in their eyes. It’s incredible. Terrifying. But the darkness didn’t take me. This is what I became. Of course I’m clever enough, brave enough. I guess not everyone is, right, Ash?”

  “No, not everyone.” As Garrett talked more about those first days, about the neighbor who’d called an ambulance in time, Fletcher’s mind cried, Why didn’t the damned darkness take you, too? A death for a death, Garrett carrying out his own justice, that was surely fairer than the man surviving to kill at least fifteen more. But, if that was so, why should th
at long-ago boy Mark be sacrificed to save the other lives, to save Fletcher’s sanity? Fletch might as well ask why Garrett even existed. No point in getting into all that now, probably no point in getting into it ever.

  Fletch didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be doing this. But, seeing as he was, he might as well do it the best he could. When Garrett had quieted again, Fletcher said, “Let’s talk about the other victims. You said there were more than fifteen in total.”

  “Can’t even figure how you got fifteen.”

  “Let’s run through those,” Fletch suggested, “and then you can tell me about the others.”

  “You know about Wyoming, Colorado, Georgia and Oregon. Three boys in each state, that’s all I allow myself, gets dangerous otherwise. Except there was this kid, Sam, in Oregon. Didn’t mean for that to happen. That’s thirteen, Ash, not fifteen. And there was blood in my cellar, too, but you wouldn’t know about that. I mean, you didn’t get in there, right? I sealed it up.”

  “No, I didn’t know about that. Tell me.”

  Garrett almost laughed. “Don’t know, either, Ash. I’d dumped Sam down there, but it wasn’t his blood. Perhaps this tramp I picked up for sex, when I first arrived, thought about it then, cutting a cross into his arm like I cut mine. But I think I let him go. Maybe I got him later, maybe it was someone else.”

  “I see,” Fletcher said. “Are you having trouble remembering some of the deaths?”

  A fierce, shrewd look. Silence, and then a quiet admission: “Guess I am.”

  There had almost been a question in the tone of voice. Fletch nodded a little, said carefully, “I think you are, too.” He continued, “I’d like to know what happened to Stacey Dixon. Do you remember her?”

  The only response was an irritable glare.

  “She was Philip Rohan’s girlfriend, in Oregon. We found her in a river, downstream from where Philip had been buried. She’d been killed around the same time as Philip.”

  “I remember Philip. Shaggy short blond hair, mischievous. Knew what I wanted, knew I wanted to jump him, he was high on the idea, and scared. Brought his girlfriend along to save him -” Garrett stopped, stared at Fletcher for a moment, then let his eyes rove around the room as he apparently searched his memory. “Hell,” Garrett muttered after a time. “You’re right, Fletcher. Forgotten her. But I didn’t make a mistake, did I? Didn’t leave you any clues, didn’t even leave you the bullet.”

  “What happened?”

  Garrett suddenly grinned. “Didn’t expect her, had to change plans. Have to be clever, to factor in something like that. Seduced them both, would have done anything for me, got them upstairs.” He left a pause, then leaned forward as if grabbing at Fletch’s attention: “I made her watch.”

  Fletcher almost shuddered, but somehow prevented it. “You made her watch while you killed her boyfriend?” It was bad enough imagining how Philip had died - the victims in Georgia had suffered massive injuries, their deaths would have been long and painful - let alone imagining Stacey having to watch it all. Didn’t want to be listening to this, enough to make him believe in hell.

  “Wanted a witness, someone to know. You’re my witness now, Ash. Don’t turn on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t work. She gave him strength, can you believe it? She should have humiliated him.” A return of the grin. “So I shot her. That brought him lower than he’d ever thought possible. That was good.”

  Fletcher said, “Tell me about Sam Doherty.”

  “Forgotten him, too, until tonight. Thinking of that boy, what’s his name, Steve.” Garrett smiled. “Sam. Dry humping on the sofa like a pair of teenagers. Sweet, but killing him was sweeter. Just a hand over his mouth, that’s all it took. Never done it like that before.” The smile grew confiding. “Intimate. Should have done it again.” Then Garrett asked, “Who was the fifteenth?”

  “There were four young men killed in Wyoming, not three.”

  “Yeah?” Garrett sounded disbelieving, even uninterested. “What happened there?”

  “I don’t know, John. It seemed like you carried out your plans with all four. In Colorado, where one went wrong, you didn’t seek a fourth to make up for it.”

  “That’s right, had to kill one before I was finished. Not in Wyoming. What were their names?”

  “You tell me.”

  Garrett rubbed at his face with both hands, remained silent.

  “You said there were more than fifteen, John. Who am I missing?”

  “Enough questions,” he said gruffly.

  Fletcher stared at the man. “You wanted to talk, John. You wanted to tell me all you’ve achieved.” He waited a few minutes, but Garrett remained still and silent, elbows propped on the table, head fallen forward. “What happened after the first one in Illinois, John?”

  “Moved to Minnesota. Tried not to do it again. But I got carried away, few months later.” The voice was dull. “And then a third one, went kind of crazy for a while. Gave them both to the ground, Mark I dumped in a river. Moved to Washington State.”

  “When did you begin planning it?”

  “Washington. Realized the cops didn’t have much of a chance if I wasn’t still in the same state. Decided I was going to do this smart, and get away with it.”

  “How many young men did you kill there?”

  “Washington? Three. That was the rule. Three every two years. After Washington, I went to Wyoming.”

  “Waiting two years between the deaths must require a lot of restraint.”

  “Control,” Garrett said, bleak. “Doesn’t mean anything without control.”

  Fletcher left a beat of silence, then leaned forward. “I know, John, it’s all right. This is the end of the line.”

  Garrett stared at him, intent, almost mesmerized, with the faintest glow of what looked like relief in his eyes. Then the glow turned angry. “The hell it is, Ash, I’m not finished yet, not even halfway through the season. Plenty more deaths to arrange, pain to plan. Going to reach the Super Bowl. Magnificent.” He drew a deep breath, and asked, “Ever heard a boy scream, Ash, because of something you did? Ever created that perfect pitch, made him hit it time and time again? Ever create sheer utter terror, they can’t remember their own name? Ever see the fear in their eyes as the darkness comes near?” Brief wait for an answer that Fletch didn’t provide. “Of course you haven’t, coward. Don’t tell me it’s the end, when I’ve barely begun. What the hell have you ever created?”

  It’s destruction, how can you call it creation? Fletcher almost screamed it out. All right, he thought, willing himself to remain calm and outwardly unmoved, he acknowledges he’s out of control and that it’s meaningless to continue without control. Where to from there? Another appeal to Garrett’s vanity, perhaps. “Explain it to me, John. Tell me what you created with Drew Harmer.”

  “Yeah,” Garrett said. “Yeah, it was the first time for him, like you said. You know, I can have sex like any other man. Better than any man. Don’t need the pain, not all the time. Did it with Drew, real gentle like he wanted, real sweet. Then showed him who I am, that was sweeter. Created the most perfect betrayal. Most incredible surprise. Took him so high, then so damned low. You couldn’t do either.” A pause, then, “If his friend could testify, you would have used it by now, Ash. You didn’t have any evidence when you came here. Except the partial fingerprint.”

  “The evidence was mostly circumstantial, that’s true. But it added up to be statistically impossible that it was anyone else.”

  “You couldn’t arrest me on that basis.”

  “But I knew it was you. And now I have these tapes.”

  “You won’t be in a position to use them, Ash.”

  “Yes, I will.” And Fletcher smoothly changed the subject. There was no point in returning to the threats. Not yet. “Tell me about how you camouflaged yourself in each new state.”

  “People see what they want to see, bunch of idiots. Self-deluded, right? I’m this nice friend
ly guy, I employ their sons and friends and nephews, I buy them beer. That’s what they want to see, they don’t look beyond it. It’s easy, all you have to do is charm them.” He grinned for a moment. “You know what works? Tell them enough of the truth, they won’t look for more. Tell them you’re queer, but still be a friendly regular guy, they won’t go looking for anymore dirt.”

  “You’ve always been open about being gay?”

  “Sure. It’s no big deal. Or it wasn’t, times are changing again. Just buy people off, with charm and money. Donate the right amounts to the right political campaigns. Do some volunteer work for them, putting up signs, handing out pamphlets, applauding speeches, whatever. Then they work for you. I usually follow the Democrats, they’ll hate that when they know what I am. If you get through this, tell them all about me, Fletcher.” He laughed at this joke he’d been playing on an entire political party. “You know how the system works, Ash. Money and deals.”