by Julie Bozza
Dull and slow, he remembered that he’d moved the cassette player, and Halligan had told him not to touch anything. He allowed himself a sigh, and said, “For the record, I picked this chair up from the floor. I’d been sitting on it but when he began pushing at the table, I stood and slid the chair out of the way. It was on its side a few feet away.” Would Albert appreciate this pedantic detail? “I also righted the cassette player, which had fallen on its face. I brought the phone over to the table.” Damn this. “I checked his right wrist for a pulse. I haven’t touched anything else.”
The silence returned. Fletcher closed his eyes rather than look at the gun. Time stretched impossibly. Let this be over. Stillness like a dead weight bearing down on him.
And then at last the clatter of the front door opening, footsteps approaching, some heading into the living room. Fletcher opened his eyes. A uniformed officer was gazing at him from just inside the doorway, a strange mix of wariness and curiosity in his expression. The cop called back over his shoulder, “He’s in here.”
Halligan walked in, more of them pushed by - a motley surge of uniforms and plain clothes - some crouching over Garrett’s body checking for signs of life, others looking around for anything else of interest. “Ash,” Halligan said in terse greeting.
“Lieutenant,” Fletcher acknowledged.
“Is that your gun?” The man tilted his head towards the table.
“Yes. It’s the gun I shot Garrett with.”
“I see. Self-defense, you said.”
“Yes. This cassette player has been recording the whole time. Since before midnight, anyway. You can hear what happened.” As if on cue, the tape ran out, and the player clicked off. Fletcher and Halligan looked at it for a moment, but the sharp sound barely drew glances from the others.
The place was swarming with activity, with Fletcher and Garrett and Halligan at the heart of it. But then, for Fletch at least, the stillness gained a different focus: Albert had walked in, metal case in hand. Dark eyes searching, quickly finding him, sweeping intense across Fletcher as if to see for himself that Fletch was still whole and breathing. If there was relief, Fletcher couldn’t make it out. Perhaps there was anger, perhaps outrage, but Fletcher didn’t have time to fathom it. With barely a nod of greeting, Albert headed over to stand by the body, watching as the crime scene officers took photographs and outlined Garrett in white adhesive tape.
Already, they were rolling Garrett over to lie on his back. Fletcher made himself glance once at the man’s face - I know what I’ve done - then turned away.
Albert finally looked up at Fletcher again, and said, “You want me to assist with this procedure.”
“Yes, Albert. The Bureau will want you involved, they’ll want their own reports.”
The briefest of pauses, as if Albert wanted to say something despite all these people hovering around. Fletcher waited, needing whatever reassurance he could get. But it was silly to expect Albert to ask Fletch if he was all right, pointless to want Albert to be polite as if he were any ordinary person.
Halligan spoke first. “I hope you don’t want Sterne here to muddy the waters. Arguing jurisdiction is only going to mess this up even more.”
Fletch said very calmly, “It’s a Bureau matter, Lieutenant, because I’m directly involved. But I’m asking you to take part for the sake of clearing this up. I want everyone to be satisfied with the result.”
“Don’t expect me to let Sterne get you off the hook, Ash. I’m playing this one strictly by the book.”
“Of course you are. And Dr Sterne will behave as scrupulously as always.” Such a damned effort to maintain this carefully balanced truth and politeness and reason, when all Fletch wanted to do was go hide in a corner somewhere and cry his heart out. “It’s best that both the Bureau and the police are involved, Lieutenant, that’s the bottom line. Both agencies have an interest in knowing what happened. Let’s work together on this one.”
At last Halligan gave him a grudging nod, even seemed to relax. Perhaps the toughness had been partly an act in order to sound Fletcher out. “All right,” the man said. “Come over here, Ash, and let them get on with it.”
A glance at Albert, but his expression was even more unreadable now that Albert was on the job. Surprisingly enough, the man seemed to be cooperating well with the crime scene officer, though there were minimal words exchanged. And then Albert glanced up at Fletch, and the younger man could feel the anger. Of course. Albert was unique, but he was still human. His reactions at being lied to, and to his lover putting himself in a dangerous situation, were going to be much the same as anyone else’s when faced with betrayal and a loss narrowly averted.
Fletcher nodded in acknowledgment of this, picked up the cassette player and a fresh tape, and headed over to where Halligan stood by the kitchen benches. It was a relatively small room but at least the table now blocked the view of Garrett’s body.
“Tell me what happened, Ash,” Halligan said. When Fletcher plugged the player into a nearby electrical outlet, moving a toaster to do so, Halligan asked, “Why do you need that?”
“By the book, Lieutenant, remember? It’s best that we’re all clear about everything that’s said and done tonight.” The man was watching him, almost suspicious, but with no reason to prevent this. Fletcher pressed the record button. “Tape six, side one. This is Fletcher Ash talking with Lieutenant Harry Halligan. It’s three-fifty in the morning, the previous tape ran out some minutes ago. We are still in John Garrett’s kitchen.” Then he waited for Halligan to start again.
“All right. Tell me what happened.”
And Fletcher went through it all, beginning with the decision to confront Garrett alone. He detailed as much of his early conversation with Garrett as he could remember, describing how that led to Garrett’s confession and his agreement to tape an informal interview. Halligan, naturally, was interested in the fact that some of the earlier conversation had been witnessed. “The young man’s name was Steve,” Fletcher repeated. “I don’t know his last name but he worked for Garrett so he won’t be hard to find. Early twenties, long blond hair, very slim. They appeared to have a sexual relationship, they were very comfortable with each other.”
“I’ll tread carefully,” Halligan said.
“Steve appeared to be mildly stoned, Lieutenant, and both of them had been drinking. The boy didn’t even pick up on the seriousness of what was going on. Don’t expect him to verify everything I’ve told you, except the obvious.”
Apparently Halligan was satisfied with this. “Anything else for now, Special Agent?”
Fletcher prevented himself from protesting at the title - he had not been acting officially tonight, he did not feel as if he were still an agent of the FBI - but he was smart enough and cynical enough to let the lieutenant treat him as one. Very evenly, he said, “For the record, Lieutenant Halligan, I came here with the aim of breaking the deadlock in my investigation and arresting Mr Garrett. I did not intend to kill him, though I realized it was possible that either he or I, or both of us, might die as a result of me coming here. When it happened, it was a situation he forced. He wouldn’t let me arrest him, he didn’t want to go to jail. So he was determined either to kill me or to be killed. I’m not happy about it, Halligan, but that’s what happened and I don’t think I’d do anything differently if I had it to do over.”
After a moment, Halligan nodded. “All right. I’m going to turn this tape off now and listen to the other tapes.” He waited a moment but, when Fletch didn’t argue, he pressed the stop button.
Grimacing at the thought of reliving it all, Fletcher said, “Tape five, if you want the end of it. This one.”
With the volume down, so that only Fletch and Halligan could clearly hear it, the lieutenant played the tape. There was the last of Garrett describing how he used the political system as part of his cover, and then Fletch asking about the victims. Garrett asking whether Fletcher was queer. A long silence, but then Garrett’s words made it clear,
if Halligan had doubts, that he was the serial killer Fletch had known him to be. The recorded voice became louder in response to Fletcher’s questions as they briefly discussed his family. Fletcher didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be listening to this.
One of the uniformed officers came in to the kitchen with a large cardboard box in his arms. “Look at this, Lieutenant.”
Halligan, intent on the tape, said, “In a minute.” But Fletcher, seeking any distraction, wandered over to the table where the man dumped his burden.
The box was full of silver chains and crucifix earrings, watches and wallets. There were a couple of folders containing neatly cut newspaper clippings, many of which Fletcher recognized from his own files. There was Drew’s college ID card, the notice of Sam’s funeral, a gold chain that might have been Mitch’s, a bracelet of woven turquoise beads that might have been Tony’s.
Fletcher had known, of course, that Garrett killed these young men. But to be faced with what little remained of their lives brought all his sorrow cascading back like the deluge of a New Orleans rainstorm. He grabbed up two handfuls of the dead jewelry and sat down, bowing his head, grieving over it if only he weren’t so numb. He should be crying right now, he should be crying his heart out for the twenty-two boys and for himself. Even for John Garrett.
Time passed. Dimly aware of the murmur of his own voice on the tape and Garrett yelling; cops all over the house searching for further evidence; Albert and another man dealing with the body, preparing to bundle it up and take it to the morgue. Time stretched, though it could only have been minutes until a gunshot blasted from the cassette player. Once. Twice.
Standard operating procedure. In his broadest Irish accent, Mac had always described it as To be sure, to be sure. Fletcher used to smile at that.
Halligan at last wandered over, cast an uninterested eye over the box and its contents. Eventually he said, “You were right about John Garrett.”
“Yes,” said Fletcher, lifting his head, hands still heavy with cold metal.
“And you’re not going to say you told me so?”
Fletcher shrugged a little. “No.”
A brief silence. “Guess we should have been more willing to believe you.”
“No. You did what you thought was right. Can’t ask for more than that.”
Apparently that was as much of an apology and an acceptance as Halligan was prepared for. He continued, all business now, “There’ll be an internal investigation. Maybe a grand jury, but I doubt it, they’re not going to indict you for murder.”
“Perhaps a grand jury should consider the matter as an abuse of civil rights.”
“You tell me, you’re the fed. Anyway, you’re free to go for now.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Fletcher sighed. “Perhaps I’ll take a look around here. I won’t touch anything,” he quickly promised. “But I want to get a better feel for who he was.”
Halligan nodded. “That’s fine.”
Alone again amidst the bustle, Fletcher began putting the jewelry back into the box, examining each piece as he did. What with the wallets and the newspaper clippings, he should be able to identify all twenty-two of the boys, which would at least close the books on some missing person cases. Allow some grieving parents to at last know the truth, terrible though it was. ‘It was the not knowing that was the worst,’ Tony’s sister, Jane Shields, had said. ‘It was the hoping he’d walk in the door one day, though he never did.’
When he was done, Fletcher stood and found Albert waiting for him. The man said, “I’ll take a swab of your hands.”
It would have been funny under any other circumstances. Not that there were any other circumstances it could have happened in, with Fletcher admitting to shooting a man and Albert seeking the evidence of gunpowder residue. “You’re so damned thorough,” Fletch complained, but he sat again for the procedure. Albert, deft in rubber gloves, moistened a cotton ball from a small bottle, swiped it over the back of Fletcher’s right hand, and placed it in a plastic bag. He repeated the procedure for the palm of the right hand, and then the same for the left.
“All done?” Fletcher asked. When Albert nodded, Fletcher turned away, wandered out to the living room. He didn’t want to see Garrett’s body being carried out. Knowing he should be curious about this house, Fletcher spent a few minutes in each room, trying not to get in the way of the cops who were looking through everything. It was just a house, and strangely empty now as if it knew its sole occupant was dead. Fletcher remained unloved.
Once the ambulance had taken Garrett away and while Albert was too busy gathering evidence in the kitchen to notice his absence, Fletcher walked out the front door, climbed into his car, and drove away.
The sun rose behind him, glaring gold in the rear vision mirror, as he left New Orleans.
Mid-morning. Fletcher was parked off the road, looking down over a small and uninspiring beach. Must have driven into Texas, must have only recently stopped given how far that was, though he had no memory of any of it. There was no traffic, no one else around.
The ocean shifted under the sunlight, restless shimmers. The most minimal of waves broke a few feet out, surged onto the sand only to listlessly fall back again.
Fletcher rubbed at his face but he really didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to get to the other side of this numbness. He was tired and aching and afraid of the despair he was going to start feeling soon. He felt grubby all over and thoroughly confused. Battered and used.
The ocean waited. Let me wash you clean.
He was heading down the dunes to the beach, stripping off his clothes and empty holster, letting them fall to the sand, walking naked into the water. Fresh and invigorating, not cold. Welcoming. Fletcher strode out until he was waist deep, enjoying the water’s resistance to each step, and then he began swimming.
Good to feel his body work, all of it in splendid coordination, strong and able. Traveling through the water as if it were his home. The tiredness and the aches, the sweat and the grubbiness sloughed off him, dissolved in the salt water.
Amazing how far he’d reached. He floated on his back for a while, having glanced back to see the land distant. It was good out here, away from all the trouble and confusion. Away from the guilt and despair. The ocean bore him gently as if he were its child, rocking him in the sunlight, lapping at him.
Maybe he should just stay out here. Maybe he should keep swimming. Maybe this was the only peace he would ever know.
Albert could never follow him here, though, Albert would never share this peace. Albert would be left alone and grieving, would repress all that love and passion in him so deep that it would never see the light again.
Poor Albert, left behind to endure. Poor Fletcher -
He shouted. It was so unexpected and so full a shout, that Fletch promptly lost his balance and submerged, trying not to let the shout grow into a laugh. If he was going to drown, it wasn’t going to be because he couldn’t stop laughing. When he surfaced, Fletch began treading water. The burst of self-mockery, the joyous uncompromising thrust of truth, had faded already - but the revelation it brought hadn’t. Who am I trying to fool? Fletcher asked. I’m considering suicide.
If that was what he was going to do, then it would have to be a conscious decision. None of this swimming off south, conveniently ignoring the fact that he wouldn’t be able to reach land again. How romantic and melodramatic an end, with his clothes a sad trail on the shore. How lonely and pointless and stupid a death. What a ghastly thing to do to Albert.
No. If he’d survived the night, if he’d lived through the confrontation with Garrett, then Fletcher could survive the aftermath. He’d been prepared to die in return for something of the utmost importance - but that didn’t mean he had to die now that he’d achieved that goal. Ludicrous notion.
He’d killed a man, but he would manage somehow to live with that. Fletcher would give the blood-guilt its due, would make some kind of reparation. He’d probably never be quite th
e same again but he’d get beyond the pain of it. He owed it to Albert and he owed it to himself. Fletcher almost laughed again. He’d been prepared to die to ensure Garrett killed no more, and yet here he was considering whether to become Garrett’s posthumous twenty-third victim. Ridiculous, truly ridiculous.
For a moment, joy threatened. This case, this horrible case was over now. Fletcher needed to tie up all the loose ends, he needed to talk to the families of those young men who’d died, but it was over. All those years of unrecognized work were over. And he’d won.
Fletcher began swimming, heading for what he thought must be the beach he’d started from.
Leaving the ocean, he felt the clarity and the cleanliness falling away from him again. But he was alive, and he was determined to stay that way. Without bothering to dry himself, Fletcher pulled on his clothes, and walked up to the car. Luckily, no one had stolen it, though he’d left the keys in the ignition. He climbed in, and turned the car around, drove down the road.
Now, if only he could find some signposts, he’d get back to New Orleans.
