Rating: NC-17
Classification: Case file/MSR, WIP, Humor, Alternate Universe…people are actually happy here…well, some of them
Spoilers: Everything through the first third of Season 7, the story taking place in the universe set forth in Absolute Beginners I, Absolute Beginners II–Better With Practice, and Absolute Beginners III–Comes The Morning—available on Ephemeral, Whispers of X, Fran’s Fanfic Addiction, and The Grove. (It’ll help to read ’em, honest!)
Keywords: Be careful what you wish for. Character death…not who you think. Necromancy. Santeria. Marriage Proposal.
Summary: This story takes place late in the year 2000. In the early Spring of the same year, Mulder and Scully finally got off the dime (after a false start, angst, guilt and a nightmare or two) and did the dirty deed. After a weekend of ‘solidifying their relationship’, they are pulled off the X-Files, but managed to find at least one way to console each other. Fast forward about six months–and you’ll be right we begin, dear reader.
Disclaimers: You know, they’re not ours. They’re Chris Carter’s. Just using them for the fun, no money involved.
Archive: Yes, anywhere. Just keep it intact.
Feedback: Yes, please. You can contact me: alvaradomccain@earthlink.net
Chapter 3
Note: lyrics taken from DJ Krush/Only the Strong Survive/Meiso
Interview rooms always had this particular smell. The very seats of the chairs were soaked with acrid odor of sweat and fear, while the carpets reeked of stale cigarette smoke. They all looked the same, too, with beige and tan duo-toned walls, or institutional green and cream painted cement blocks, those cheap-ass styrofoam ceiling tiles. The one way mirror, the tape recorder, the video camera. And, God, fluorescent lighting making everyone look tired and worn-out.
The Bureau somehow forgot to mention this when they recruited him.
Mulder pulled out a chair and sat down, carefully keeping his tie from dragging on the table. He arranged his notepad and pen, then, finally, gave the suspect the once-over while Lazarov put a new cassette into the recorder. This was turning into a day from hell. Today’s investigation had shifted to now include trying to tie a suspect in Gonzales’ murder to the others.
Hector Dean Shinoda was a massive man, still powerful looking in his late forties. He could have given any of the Bears’ linebackers a run for their money. His facial features suggested biracial, epicanthic folds at the eyes, an aquiline nose that in profile reminded Mulder of a priest in an Aztec codice. He had that golden tone to his skin, but there was a reddish cast underlying it. Japanese, Chicano, perhaps second generation. Brown eyes, large and lit with intelligence, an intelligence he deliberately tried to hide when addressed by anyone. He’d crammed his tall and wide body into the too small chair, heavy muscles straining the fabric of his orange jumpsuit.
Mulder thought the arrest was a stretch, at best. Lazarov had told him that there were two links potentially connecting Shinoda. Witnesses had ID’d him as someone who’d sold PCP in the recent past to one of the deceased, La Shawn Michaels. The Lieutenant was grasping at straws. There was also an informant who placed two other victims, Vincent Coluko and Ashleen Wienhoft at a club that Shinoda frequented. He’d suggested that maybe the two of them talked Shinoda into somehow offing Gonzales. The corollary theory, even less promising, then connected him to some possible intra-gang warring between the Kings and a faction of the Maloney family, headed by the recently deceased Dakota Roberts. Maybe Shinoda was the trigger and shot Gonzales by mistake. Then maybe all of them pissed Shinoda off and he killed them.
He’d spent the morning going over the files, listening to previous interrogation tapes, reading Gonzales’ reports. The rap sheet told him that the prisoner was late to the game, without a single arrest until he was 32. Then he hooked up with The Latin Kings, primarily though gun-running. But not a lot, just enough to make himself useful. He gradually took on a small turf for dealing, mostly PCP. Several arrests, one conviction, some serious plea bargaining and some minimal time done in Vienna, a downstate work farm. There was some evidence he was also involved in several gang-related deaths, but no conclusive evidence ever positively linked him. Mulder ran the name through the Bureau’s data bases and got an explanation as to where this man had been prior to all this.
Northwestern University. The Department of Philosophy, his thesis,’The Use of Weapons and The Warrior’s Mind’. It didn’t fit, it didn’t make sense, but it was true, nonetheless.
Then there were Gonzales’ notes, private notes that never made it to the report. He’d pulled in Shinoda several times, in connection with killings that seemed way out of the league of a low-level hustler and thug. Errant Mafiosi in the Witness Protection Plan. Rich pedophiles. Politicians involved in a drug cartel. Never any real evidence, never any links, just Gonzales’ suspicions. After the last fruitless interrogation, the last note contained one word, ‘Chameleon.’
Mulder was here ostensibly to get a handle on this guy and get to the truth. He had a hunch he was going to get some answers, but none of them would have anything to do with the questions at hand.
“The time is two twenty-nine pm,” Lazarov said, taking a seat at the end of the table. “Sgt. Daniel Lazarov and Special Agent Fox Mulder interviewing Hector Dean Shinoda. Also present is Officer John Clark.”
Mulder nodded as Lazarov leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Shinoda, what can you tell me the death of Det. Naftali Gonzales?”
“Cops play for medals, killers play for corners, in the middle are your sons and are your daughters.”
Judging by his cadence, the easy way the lyrics flew off his tongue, Mulder guessed the man knew his rap music, knew it would antagonize his interrogators and threw it in their faces like a gauntlet. Somehow, Mulder couldn’t shake the suspicion Shinoda was dropping hints, and that, combined with the evidence that Shinoda just liked fucking with the two of them meant they were in for a long, long day. Now all he had to do was to decipher lyrics the man in custody tossed at them like hand grenades. Judging from Lazarov’s reaction, it was obvious the good lieutenant wasn’t familiar with the genre. Frankly, while D.J. Krush was so fresh, so clean, his own tastes ran to Tupac and Nortorious B.I.G. He was Old School.
“Cut the crap,” Lazarov snapped. “I’m not in the mood to deal with this shit today.”
“The ghetto reacts to warfare, real bullets miss you by your hair, survival of the fittest. Hell for three time losers, the prisoners of wartime maneuvers, hold down the fort, cause life is short enough to get it taken,” Shinoda finished with a smirk.
Well, that was easy enough to understand. But it didn’t answer his question. “Could you be more specific?”
Lazarov shot him a hard glance and shook his head. Mulder wondered how long it would be and what he’d have to say to begin to crack this one open. Shinoda was much more than he let on, and this posing was somehow necessary.
Shinoda eyed him, and wagged his head back and forth, drumming on the table, “Slip into the world of sheisty individuals, a troubled man stalked by criminals. He laughed, a deep rumble that shook him in his chair, then started drumming on the table again. “Orale, carnal, this ain’t nothin’ but a thang.”
Mulder stopped leaning his chair against the wall and sat forward, “Most people don’t find incarceration and a charges of capital murder all that amusing.”
“Make the charges stick, I wanna be a legend.”
“Your lack of concern surprises me.” He locked eyes with Shinoda. “I can play chicken, Homestyle.”
There was a sharp rap on the door before he could say another word, and Lazarov and Clark turned away, distracted.
”Matters of great concern should be treated lightly. Matters of small concern should be treated seriously.'” Hector wondered if he could toy with the FBI agent, there was something about him that set him apart from his pedestrian counterparts.
Something clicked in Mulder’s head, something that told him who Shinoda really was.
A uniform poked his head in. “Sgt. Lazarov…you coming? There’s a situation -”
“Sgt. Lazarov has left the room,” Mulder said to the recorder. “The time is two forty-one pm, Agent Mulder speaking. Initial questioning of one Hector Dean Shinoda. With me, is Officer John Clark.” He laid out the thumbnail by rote, “You’ve got a BS in Physics from U of C, an MS in Engineering and Applied Mechanics from Stanford, and a PhD in Ethics and Philosophy from Berkeley. I’m exceedingly curious as to why such an educated man did such a 360 degree turn.”
“I only tell the story to one person at a time.”
Mulder pivoted slightly toward the policeman, “Officer Clark, could you give us a few minutes? Just tell Lt. Lazarov I requested it.”
Behind Shinoda, Officer Clark’s eyes widened. What the fuck was going on? The genius from D.C. must’ve slipped a gear. There was no way in hell this worthless piece of barrio shit would fit this description. And he didn’t appreciate being shoved aside, either. He could barely contain his contempt, both with the prisoner and this pretty-boy profiler from out of town. “Yeah, no problem. I’m outta here,” his voice dripping with sarcasm. He turned his back on the two of them and stalked out.
To Shinoda, “The Hagakure.”
A flash of recognition passed between the two men.
Shinoda sat erect in his chair, his slouch and attitude transformed. He was serious, and his eyes burned into Mulder’s with the white-hot intelligence he’d been working so hard to suppress. He dipped his head, in a quick bow. There is honor in this one, he thought. Warrior to warrior, he understands the Way. He abruptly leaned forward. “I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill them.”
“No?”
“No,” He motioned towards the door with one finger. “Lazarov’s just desperate to get a conviction and figures I’m the best candidate for the position.” His speech was impeccable, his voice clear.
“Why?”
Shinoda snorted. “Because he’s a careerist, because convicting me would mean he could get out of the field and into an office with comfortable furniture and meeting with the Mayor. Any more questions, Kitsune?”
Whatever deja vu Mulder felt at hearing the word was well-concealed. He folded his arms. “How’d a university professor end up as a small time gun-runner and drug dealer? ”
“It serves a purpose.”
“That’s it? Cryptic. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better that that.”
“Turn off the tape recorder.”
“What?”
“Turn it off and I’ll tell you.”
Mulder’s hand moved to the tape recorder, and the button clicked off.
“One must prepare for death every day. The weak, the corrupt, the false, must be punished. I travel on my path and Det. Gonzales traveled his. Naftali Gonzales knew the incorruptability of the Way. He served his retainer, as do you…This I respected… But the nature of my service, Kitsune, is a different matter…I have no master, but serve many. But I was never called on to deal with him. Or the others. Someone else attended to matters there. Perhaps someone who knew them better than I.”
Mulder honed in on what had just been said. “But…his suspicions were right? You contract out to those who have a need you agree with…you execute ‘the weak, the corrupt, the false.’ ”
“My affiliation with the Kings makes many things possible. No one suspects the dedicated small man capable of large things. A very old form of camouflage. ”
“And you spared Gonzales because he was a brother.”
Shinoda gave him a disappointed look. “No. No more than you are. He was my enemy as much as any other criminal, but unlike them he was honorable. A samurai – ”
“Whereas you’re ronin,” Mulder interrupted, with memories of Robert Patrick Modell swirling in the back of his mind.
“Those who understand the Way live and die by that code, that is the singular truth of things.”
” ‘It is bad when one thing becomes two.’ ” Mulder needed to hear how Shinoda reconciled his life, his choices, what he’d become.
Shinoda’s voice was soft, “My other life was a dream. Degrees. The University. All illusion. But slowly, I began to awaken, and chose the Way. There is no conflict, Agent Mulder, only a man awakening from a dream. And as I said, my affiliation with the Kings is no more than a tool.” He looked at his adversary and saw no acceptance, but a kind of understanding.
Mulder studied the man across from him, then spoke slowly. “You’re going to walk on these charges concerning Gonzales.”
“More than likely.”
“And what you’ve told me, what we’ve discussed, is hardly a confession to other crimes.”
“Hardly.”
“And if I tried to have you arraigned for a series of murders…”
“A judge would refuse on the basis of hearsay evidence and insufficient proof. Besides, which murders would we be talking about?”
Mulder drummed on the table for a minute with his pen. “But you understand I need to finish this interrogation, don’t you?”
“I would expect it, Kitsune. But I know nothing about your samurai’s death.”
“Only the deaths of certain lesser men. Men that Gonzales tried to link to you…But there’s nothing else you’re going to say, is there? Honor forbids it,” Mulder leaned into Shinoda, his eyes locked onto the other man’s steady gaze. There was a long silence, and neither one of the men moved.
He made a last point, ” ‘As for the things that we don’t understand, there are ways of understanding them. Furthermore, there are some things we understand just naturally, and again some that we can’t understand no matter how hard we try. This is very profound. It is natural that one cannot understand deep and hidden things. Those things that are easily understood are rather shallow.’ ”
“You do understand the Way.”
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The tape recorder whirred as he hit the on button, “Where were you when the murder occurred?”
He was about to answer when, Clark pushed the door open and strode in puposefully, “Lt. Lazarov says it’s back to standard operating procedures, normal interrogation,” with special emphasis on the word normal. That meant he’d be staying for the rest of the interview, and that they were detectives on the other side of the mirror. The other two men both knew what it meant. Mulder blinked, and in that split second, Shinoda’s mask descended.
“Pues, carnal..I got an al-i-bi.” Slouch. Scowl. All in place.
Clark jumped in, as Mulder he knew would. “Asshole, just answer the fucking question.”
Mulder grimaced. Brilliant interrogation style. This man had a career in law enforcement supervision ahead of him.
“Seeing my girlfriend.”
Officer Clark snorted.
Shinoda spit on the floor, “Hey, fuck you, you dickless wonder.”
“And her name?”
“Her name.” Clark grabbed a handful of orange jumpsuit, only to have his arm pushed away by the prisoner as if he was no more than a pesky fly.
“Vanessa Murasaki.”
Mulder raised a questioning eyebrow as he wrote down the information. “Japanese?”
“Nisei.”
“And where does she work?”
“The Genji. It’s a club. I was there with her, people saw me. Big Dog got his party on all night long…”
“She’s a dancer?” The wheels in Clark’s narrow little mind started whirring.
Mulder kept taking notes. “The Lady Murasaki, ” he murmured. He shrugged one shoulder, making the point more for himself than for Clark.
Shinoda looked up at this samurai, this FBI agent. Vanessa had left the University with him, disappeared into this universe. A chid prodigy, with her doctorate in Eastern Literature at age 19. It was unfortunate she’d never meet this man. He was a worthy adversary, this would be an excellent tale.
Clark shifted in his chair. “Must be her stripper name.” He wondered how Shinoda had to pay for a lap dance. How long he waited before going to one of the private rooms for a trick. The man was fucked in the head if he thought a ‘exotic dancer’ actually considered herself his girlfriend. Besides, in his world, Asian women didn’t date outside of their ranks. On the other hand, times had changed. And business was business.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Shinoda said, upper lip curled into a snarl. “You want to know what is like to be with a beautiful woman. Too bad, carnal. No action for you, Ese.”
“And the only action you’re gonna see, Hector, is when you become a prison tier bitch. You better tell…” Clark was red in the face, and had leapt up from his chair.
“Clark, sit down. Try not to be an embarrassment.” Mulder interrupted, turning to see who had opened the door.
A short, stocky man with a broad face and a well-tailored suit entered the room, Lazarov hot on his heels. He slung a leather briefcase onto the table, popped the clasps. “Mr. Shinoda will not be answering any more questions until I’ve had a chance to speak to him.”
“Goddamnit, Gillespie, you can’t do this!” Lazarov roared, slapping his thigh for emphasis.
“Quite to the contrary, Sergeant. By law it is my client’s right to representation, regardless of what you think. Now,” Gillespie hit the stop button on the recorder and looked from Lazarov to Mulder and back again. “If you’ll excuse us?”
Lazarov made an inarticulate sound of fury, then stalked out of the room. Mulder followed, closing the door behind him.
“Jackson, Dunphy, get the hell out of there,” Lazarov muttered to the two detectives watching the proceedings from the other side of the one-way mirror.
“Who’s Gillespie?” Mulder asked, trailing the man into his office.
“Big shot attorney,” Lazarov sat down heavily, the chair squealing in protest. He opened a drawer and drew out a large plastic bottle of white pills, offered it to Mulder, who declined with a shake of his head. “They say an aspirin a day keeps heart attacks away, but I don’t think it makes a damned bit of difference when you have to deal with scum like him.”
“Shinoda or his lawyer?”
Lazarov huffed, then dry swallowed two pills, grimacing at the taste. “Both. Gillespie’s already got the machine in motion. He’s got a flunky down at the courthouse, bailing that piece of crap out as we speak. I knew this whole thing was a long shot, but fucking Shinoda is guilty of something. Tell me, Agent Mulder, how the hell did we ever got here? What kind of society do we live in, where gangbangers, drug pushers shove the Constitution in our face? Where some fuck gets to play executioner and we get to stand around with our dicks in our hands? Where a cop gets killed in a driveby and we keep coming up with zip?”
Mulder had no answer for him. But he knew plenty about a world of shadowy men, and killing above the law, and assassins who can disappear without a trace. He just didn’t think Lazarov wanted to hear about it.
“That’s a question I ask myself more times than you could imagine.”
“Agent Mulder?”
“Yeah?”
Lazarov rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Whatever you think are my reasons for wanting this case solved, whatever you’ve heard, Nat was a good detective. He deserves some justice. And somebody’s got to find our vigilante and stop him.”
He heaved an enormous sigh and shook his head sadly, “I just wish our side would get a easy win for once, don’t you?”
“All the time, Lieutenant, all the time.”
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The two men walked in silence until they reached the elevator. Lazarov got on, but Mulder stood in the threshold, tapping himself in the chest, lost deep in thought .The lieutenant held the doors for his companion, but soon realized that he’d better say something.
“Give you a lift, buddy?”
“Yes. No. Actually I think I’ll just walk over to Records, it’s on this floor, right?”
“Down the hall and to your left.” Lazarov’s broad arm gestured in a lazy arc. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I just want to do an in-depth review the of police reports on the deceased, then cross check them with the local coverage on the cases. I’ll need access to a computer, though.”
“I’ll call from my office and take care of it. You’re looking for something, Agent Mulder. Want to let me in on what it is?”
“I won’t know what it is until I find it.” Mulder was eying the door on the left side at the end of the hall.
“So that’s FBI prime investigative technique, huh?”
He wasn’t paying attention anymore to Lazarov, focusing instead on possible search parameters.
“Mulder!” The Lieutenant’s voice boomed.
The FBI agent snapped to, “Sorry, occupational hazard. I get a little preoccupied. ”
“So I noticed.” Lazarov let the elevator doors close.
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They stopped at the hospital cafeteria for something sweet before heading down to the basement. Kris bought a brownie and one of those little things of milk, like she used to have in school. Trying to comfort myself, she thought.
Agent Scully scrutinized Kris and said, “I confess I’m a little surprised that you aren’t more familiar with the morgue.”
Kris grimaced at the dryness of the brownie and set it aside, started peeling her napkin apart instead. “I know. It’s hard to explain. I see dead bodies all the time on the job, in all sorts of ways, from beheadings to eviscerations,” she looked down, brushed the remaining shreds of napkin off of her lap.
“I guess it’s the fact that once they get here, they’re…just stiffs with a toe tag….body parts. As bad as it can be at a crime scene, somehow I’m still able to see that they were people, that they had lives, even if some of them were wasted. Does that make any sense?”
Scully capped her soda and stood. “It does. But Det. Jorgensen, what science offers here is an explanation as to how those lives were cut short. An explanation that needs to be revealed….to victim’s families, to ourselves.” She looked away, remembering it was just a small portion of what was owed the dead. What she still owed Emily. And Melissa. What she and Mulder owed so many loved ones.
And for a split second, she saw a wave of images–dead men, dead women, dead children swirling in her mind’s eye, freezing her in place. She took a deep breath, swallowed hard, steadied herself. Dear God, help me do this, she silently pleaded, make me ready to do this. This is how I pay that debt, Lord. I find the answers hidden in these bodies. She asked for herself, for Mulder. Strength, give us the strength to do what needs to be done.
“Agent Scully, is there a problem?” Jorgenson immediately noticed the abrupt halt in the procedings.
She recovered, professionalism locked into place once more. “I’m fine. Not enough caffeine this morning, I suppose.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty in the machine, I’ll keep you stocked. Just let me know when.”
“Good to know. Now let’s get started, shall we?”
The morgue was what Kris expected, the nostril-searing odor of chemicals almost more than she could bear. Oddly enough, the overlying sweetly rotten scent of decay was far more manageable. There were two rows of perforated steel tables, above which were hanging scales like the ones you found in the vegetable aisle at the grocery store. Along one wall were jars filled with remains and parts of remains, she really didn’t want to get a closer look. Smaller tables held instruments she could imagine were first used during the Spanish Inquisition, or maybe the European Witch Trials. She’d have a hard time putting the image of the bone saw out of her mind.
Agent Scully walked swiftly into the room, having changed into oversized blue scrubs and a white lab coat while Kris waited outside. She had declined when Scully had offered to find her a pair of scrubs as well — there was no way she was going to get any more involved than she absolutely had to. “Here,” Scully handed her a small bundle of cloth. “Those are booties, a hair net, gloves, and an apron. I’ve got some wintergreen oil if you need it.”
She really didn’t like the sound of this. She slipped the gloves on last and followed the other woman into the cold room. Bodies wrapped in sheets and white plastic bags lay on tables on both sides of the room. It was enough to give a person a serious case of nerves. Scully had to open a few sheets before finding the right body. “Here we are, one Vincent Coluko.”
Kris helped her roll the table into the other room and watched as she unwrapped the body. Vincent was not an attractive sight.
Scully snapped on her latex gloves, “I’ll take his head, you grab his feet. On the count of three we’ll lift him onto the autopsy table, okay?”
Scully nodded, grimacing as she rotely began to probe at his chilled flesh, surprised to see Det. Jorgensen utterly focused on the task at hand. Once he was on the table and under better light, she found things that caught her attention right away. There were dark yellow bruises around his chin, and his nose was off-kilter, clearly broken. At some point he had bitten through his bottom lip. His right ear was cut through half-way. Another cut was on his throat, barely visible on the left, obviously cutting through skin and fat to the muscle beneath on the right. The Y incision was more of a U, running from one shoulder and underneath the nipples to the other shoulder, then a line straight down the middle, to the left of the naval, finishing just above the pubis.
Scully snipped through the neatly stitched incisions with tiny sewing scissors, glanced up at her curiously. “You seem to be handling this well.” Maybe better than I am, she thought. She used her scalpel to freshen the cuts, giving her easier access.
Kris shrugged. “It’s…easier than I thought it would be.”
Scully smiled slightly. “Well, you must have heard the secret, then. We have a saying in Forensics, ‘The bigger the cop, the bigger the drop’. ”
“I like it,” Kris said, trying to focus as the other woman exposed Coluko’s internal organs. “Should they look like that?”
“Not ordinarilly, no. Once an autopsy is performed, all the organs weighed, all necessary tissue samples taken, everything is then replaced. You could reattach the organs, but what’s the point? Their families aren’t interested in seeing what we’ve done, only in the results we get.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” she watched as Scully lifted and prodded the various masses of flesh and tissue, bits of fat. “What are you doing now?”
“Checking for anything out of the ordinary. Lumps, nodes, odd smells.”
Kris stared intently at each poke. “Right…You’d have to.”
“You can tell a lot from smell alone. Did you know that in Medieval times, physicians would diagnose many causes of death this way, by examining the odors of everything from feces to pus?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve got that covered…”
Scully eyed her. “Can you smell the alcohol this man was drinking before he died?”
Kris gave a cautious sniff, concentrating on what exactly she was smelling, and there it was. Faint, but becoming stronger the more she inhaled. She opened her mouth, let the flavor roll across her tongue. Rancid smell of booze and cadaver.
“About half of the population can detect the bitter almonds of cyanide. Unfortunately, because of OSHA regulations, pathologists are now supposed to wear rebreathers and metal mesh gloves, which means you don’t smell anything except plastic and recycled air, and you rarely feel anything of note. Of course the gloves prevent you from cutting yourself with the scalpel, but I think you lose more than you gain…” Her voice trailed off as she realized something, she’d smelled rum on Coluko. There was no rum listed in any of the coroner’s reports that had been turned over to her this morning.
“Det. Jorgensen, I want to run this man’s tox screen again. The autopsy report doesn’t list what I think I’m smelling. And while we’re at it, re-run the screens on the others’.”
“I’ll take care of it I’m assuming you’ll want the results first thing in the morning.”
“I would think so. You were about to ask me something else?”
Kris made a mental note to call the coroner’s assistant, then shifted gears “Yeah, actually. I did have another question. What about HIV? Aren’t you afraid of exposure from infected blood?”
Scully shrugged. “It’s a calculated risk, and for the most part, I practice universal precautions. Although, having said that, I did get hepatitis from my very first autopsy, when I was in med school.”
Kris watched her inspect Coluko’s hands, the insides of his wrists and elbows, his armpit, his feet. With the organs removed, she helped turn him over onto his stomach. Despite the maroon lividity, he had a number of barely visible spiderweb tattoos on his shoulders, a clock face without hands, a crying woman. All inked in prison, judging by the lack of quality. He’d certainly done a lot of time. “I wonder what kind of life he dreamt about when he was a little boy.”
“Probably not ending up on a morgue table at thirty-five,” Scully murmured, peering at an impression in Coluko’s skin with a magnifying glass. She hadn’t dreamed about slicing open men with jailhouse tattoos with she was little, nonetheless, here they were.
“I’d hate my daughter to end up like this,” Scully didn’t reply, in fact she did nothing more than continue with the examination, but Kris felt as if she had crossed some invisible line. She was debating whether or not to apologize when Scully straightened and readjusted the overhead light to get a better look. The woman’s expression was not quite the mask of Federal implacability she had become used to seeing.
“How old is she?”
Kris sighed. “Fifteen going on forty-seven. Convinced she knows it all.”
Scully smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Do you have children, Agent Scully?”
“I did. She died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she began.
Scully shook her head. “You didn’t know.”
Silence, apart from the soft and slick sounds of body parts being moved around, reigned until Kris’ cell phone chirped. With an apologetic glance at Scully, she answered.
“Jorgensen.”
“Mom?”
“What’s wrong, are you okay?” she asked, lowering her voice and moving away from the table. Several long seconds later, No, it’s OK, I’ll be right there.” She sighed, turned off her cell, “Shit.”
“Det. Jorgensen?”
“It’s my daughter…she’s pregnant…and now there seems to be a problem. I need to go home, probably take her to an emergency room.”
“Did she tell exactly what her symptoms were?” Scully had stopped the examination, stripped off the gloves and was heading toward Jorgensen.”
Well…no. But I thought…” It was obvious how unnerved the call had made her, she was shaking. Almost imperceptibly, but Scully noticed immediately.
“I have a better idea. Let’s go over there together, and I’ll do an initial triage, then we’ll see what she needs.”
Jorgensen let out a ragged breath, closed her eyes, and patted her chest ” I guess this mom needs your help too, Agent Scully…Thank you.”
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“Hannah!” Jorgensen yelled, leading Scully past the stairs and into the living room. “Could you come down here, please?” Taking off her coat, she said, “Are you hungry at all? I think I’ve got some ham and cheese in the fridge, if the bottomless pit hasn’t already gotten to it.”
Scully was starving, actually, but didn’t want to stay for that long. She hated herself for being envious, for not having the grace to accept her own lack with humility, for not being able to be happy at the luck of others. The pregnancies of other women dredged up an ache in her that for the most made her feel off kilter, vulnerable, too vulnerable. And especially on a day like today, that feeling was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Once today was enough. Maybe later, maybe while she and Mulder lay in the dark, but not now.
“Thank you, no.”
She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the combination of chintz covered furniture, needlepoint American flag pillows, dark wallpaper, carpeting in British racing green, and reproductions of Degas’ ballerinas just didn’t gel with who Jorgensen seemed to be. Magazines littered the coffee table, TV Guide, New Scientist, and Nature competing for space with YM and Teen People. Two rubber plants bracketed a bookcase beyond the back of the couch, reaching for the ceiling with dusty leaves.
Jorgensen picked up a throw crocheted in colors reminiscent of 1973 and folded it, tossed it over the arm of the couch. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got coffee, decaf, tea, soda…”
“I’m fine,” Scully answered, wishing she had suggested the girl go to the nearest emergency room, instead.
“Mom?” The speaker was tall and skinny, straight, mouse brown hair falling past her shoulders.
“Hannah, this is Dr. Scully, a colleague of mine. She agreed to come take a look at you, make sure you weren’t miscarrying or anything like that.”
Sullenness, thy name was ever ‘teenager’. Scully couldn’t quite work up a smile that reached her eyes, not after the look of intense dislike thrown at her from Hannah. God, she hoped she had never treated the guests of her parents in the same manner. No, that would’ve never happened. “We could do this in private, if you prefer.”
Hannah looked nervously at her mother, then nodded her head.
“Okay. I’m not an obstetrician, so this is at most just a preliminary checkup to make sure you’re not on the verge of a miscarriage. You’ll need to see your own doctor as soon as possible, and by that I mean within the next day or so, okay?”
“Listen, I’m going to go make a few calls, see if I can get an appointment as soon as possible,” Jorgensen said, already heading out of the room.
Scully took a deep breath and began the examination. She did what physical checking she could, given the lack of equipment, asked questions and received enough terse answers from the girl to ascertain that neither she, nor the baby were in any immanent danger. She knew she wasn’t a patient person, even though it was obvious that this girl felt embarrassed about the whole situation. This was the reason she preferred the dead over the living. The dead never lied, didn’t try to sway a person towards one answer or another, didn’t need coaxing and prodding. There was always a clear cut answer with the dead, once you asked the right question, the whole story was revealed. Hannah on the other hand, revealed just enough, not an iota more.
She finished, repeated her recommendations, and watched Hannah scurry off to her room. Good deed for the day all done, she only wanted to get back to the hotel and take a nap. She just needed some time for herself, to not think of what she couldn’t give him, what she couldn’t have. She’d let Mulder soothe the rest of it out of her tonight, including this morning’s fear and hesitation. He’d gotten quite good at finding the hurts and making them go away, and she’d gotten better at letting him.
A wave of self-pity lapped at her, so she distracted herself by wandering over to the bookcase to see what Jorgensen liked to read. There was the usual panoply of general knowledge books, atlases and dictionaries and a well-thumbed Roget’s International Thesaurus. Jorgensen had some of the same texts as Mulder – the Crime Classification Manual, the Death Investigator’s Handbook, Sexual Homicide: Patterns and Motives. Oddly enough, she also had several True Crime books, which Scully would have thought Jorgensen would avoid, considering her day job. Then again, even she herself had a few titles stuck somewhere in the back of her closet.
“Agent Scully?” Kris was standing in the doorway, anxiety writ large on her features, “How’s my girl?”
“It looks like some minimal spotting, no abdominal pains, so I think we’re in the clear. But she needs to see an OB/GYN as soon as she can.”
“I’ve got her got an appointment with my doctor at Illinois Masonic, 11 am tomorrow. I’m on duty, but my best friend Rachel will take her.” Scully’s response had smoothed out the tension in her face, and she sighed with relief. “Excuse me for a sec, I need to inform my darling daughter of her upcoming itinerary.”
Scully wanted to get going, she’d pulled herself together again, but was sure it would last long if she had to be part of a mother and child reunion. Her cell phone trilled in her pocket, “Scully.”
“Miss me?” Mulder’s innuendo was just what she needed to hear.
“I’d say it’s you who misses me. You’re the one calling, after all.”
“Busted. We’ll, I do have another reason for interrupting your busy day at the morgue.”
“I’m not at the morgue. Jorgensen’s daughter needs a medical evaluation and so the good Detective and I are at her house.”
“Anything serious?”
“Well, the daughter’s pregnant and there was a possibility of miscarriage…everybody’s good, though.
“Including you?” He knew something like that would weigh heavy on her.
She waited a beat, “Yeah, I’m OK. What was the reason you called?”
“The interrogation was a washout. I did meet someone who’s guilty of several murders, but not the one’s we’re investigating. And just as a parenthetical aside, he didn’t leave enough evidence for anyone to do anything about the killings he’s actually responsible for. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing a little record diving. And you, Agent Scully? You come across anything tasty?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it tasty, but one of the deceased smelled of alcohol. Rum, I think. I asked for all the tox screens to be run again, since this particular man’s autopsy report didn’t show anything but trace amounts of beer, peanuts and possible residual use of PCP.”
“Why all the tox screens? Sounds like you’re making a leap here, Scully.”
She could hear the amusement in his voice. “You’re right, the end of civilization must be at hand. Seriously, I just want to be sure nothing else got missed. What about you, did you come up with anything?”
“Well, for one thing, facts in the police reports and the local papers pretty much mirror each other. The killings were so well publicized, coverage so detailed, that we could have anyone of a number of copy cat killers at work here. One thing stands out, though. Since the murders started about two weeks ago, they’ve occurred every three days. So we’re due soon for another, if the pattern holds.”
“That’s the good news?”
“That’s the news. I tracked down Gonzales’ girlfriend at home, and it’s probably a good idea we talk to her. Alex Ruiz-Cardenas was a witness to his shooting. Maybe she can help us to connect Gonzales and the other deaths, maybe give some idea where to look for suspects. She’s at 424 Diversey Parkway. At least it’s near the lake, Scully. ”
She looked up to see Kris back in the room, motioning that she was ready to go. “I’ll have Jorgensen drop me off…424 Diversey Parkway? I should be there…” Jorgensen mouthed ‘thirty’. “In a half hour.”
“Good. I’ll be in the lobby. Hey, Scully?”
“Yeah?”
“I need a house call, Dr. Dana…I’ve got this condition…”
“Good bye, Mulder.” She hit the off button, but there was just the wisp of a smile at the corner of her mouth.