The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (55 page)

“How can you be sure? That is the issue.” The judge held up one enormous hand as Fletcher opened his mouth. “No doubt you and Ms Atwell have already told me everything you’re sure of. Well, Agent Ash, it is not enough. I cannot issue a warrant based on these circumstantial connections, you have no grounds to arrest the man, and a grand jury would not indict him if you did.”

“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 yourself, 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.”