So, first Friday on WriSoMuFu
and we are showing off. Or something.
Anyway, we are supposedly posting something of what we wrote during this week, and, as I really couldn't cut this scene, I'm posting it here.
This is part of a very long X Files fic, who had been resting on my HD for years but I'm just gonna end this thing. *serious face*
Crime-scene. Multiple crime scene work, actually. Not really graphic, but still... multiple crime scene
So, here it is, and please, feel free, very, very free of skip this. Seriously.
May 17 1.998 "20:17 p.m.
Smithsonian Museum's sub-basements
Washington DC
Voices. Lights. Movement. The place was crowded with people. Policemen. FBI Agents. High ranking
Metro employees. Forensic men. The poor people from CSI, trying to do their work...
A constant murmur of voices, demanding, asking, rejecting. Flashes. Hasty footsteps. The
bloodcurdling sound of body bags being closed.
Charlenne was seated in an opposite corner of the sub-basement, her back leaning against a damp stone wall, her gaze fixed somewhere on the wall opposite, her arms resting lightly on her knees. She had remained seated there since Scully took her away from the bodies more than three hours ago.
Skinner had used his cell phone to call the Bureau, and reported finding the bodies, and the well-oiled machinery of justice was set in motion. The whole area was now cordoned off and a barricade with a 2 Km perimeter had been set up, although deep inside he knew that it was useless. The murderer had escaped through the sewers. He had slipped by them like the
pest that he was, and he had disappeared without leaving any more trace of his trail than a rat would have left. He could be anywhere, kilometers from this place or only a few meters away, watching them.
He had taken charge in order to give the necessary orders to his agents so the search for the UNSUB could begin. He had given a description of the man they were looking for, making sure it was clear that it was quite possible the suspect was armed, and that he was, undoubtedly, dangerous. He reported that an Identikit picture of the guy would be prepared later. The APB
on the Honda was added to suspect's information.
The FBI experts, in the meantime, didn't seem to have any kind of problem with the people from CSI. Both teams worked quickly and with efficiency. They picked up samples, they took pictures... they certainly had a hell of a job in front of them, and they knew it.
In the meantime, the Forensics people waited for authorization to remove the murdered women's bodies.
They had been told that the last victim's body, a young woman still unidentified, should be sent to Quantico for post-mortem analysis. Scully would take charge of the autopsy and she had already left with that purpose in mind.
Mulder, on the other hand, went through the place, trying to capture a sense of what the murderer was trying to achieve by means of the deaths of these women and their children. He looked at the enormous piece of wood that acted like a table, around which in a grotesque parody, the murdered women's bodies had been seated.
Although the bodies were clearly arranged according to some kind of pattern, it didn't seem that they had been arranged in chronological order. He still had not been able to understand what meaning this placement had, but he was sure that it was important.
There was something there, something that was escaping to him...
He threw a look toward his colleague who was still sitting in silence, apparently unaware of the frantic activity that was unfolding almost in front of her eyes. He shook his head with deep pain. He understood. He understood perfectly how the woman was feeling. He had been there.
Guilt. Rage. Guilt. Frustration. Guilt. Self-hatred. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
They had not arrived in time. The murderer had escaped and he would continue killing until they were able to stop him. Eventually, they would catch him.
But it would be late.
It was always too late.
'The blood of the innocents fall on us. It doesn't matter what the others say. We were not sufficiently clever. We were not sufficiently quick. We were not able to get into his head in time...In time for what? Because whenever we arrive,' he thought, 'They have already killed at least one time, and generally, more. They always have the advantage over us...'
He shook his head again, with sadness, and continued with his task.
And all during this time, Charly had remained seated, immobile, in silence.
Anyway, we are supposedly posting something of what we wrote during this week, and, as I really couldn't cut this scene, I'm posting it here.
This is part of a very long X Files fic, who had been resting on my HD for years but I'm just gonna end this thing. *serious face*
Crime-scene. Multiple crime scene work, actually. Not really graphic, but still... multiple crime scene
So, here it is, and please, feel free, very, very free of skip this. Seriously.
May 17 1.998 "20:17 p.m.
Smithsonian Museum's sub-basements
Washington DC
Voices. Lights. Movement. The place was crowded with people. Policemen. FBI Agents. High ranking
Metro employees. Forensic men. The poor people from CSI, trying to do their work...
A constant murmur of voices, demanding, asking, rejecting. Flashes. Hasty footsteps. The
bloodcurdling sound of body bags being closed.
Charlenne was seated in an opposite corner of the sub-basement, her back leaning against a damp stone wall, her gaze fixed somewhere on the wall opposite, her arms resting lightly on her knees. She had remained seated there since Scully took her away from the bodies more than three hours ago.
Skinner had used his cell phone to call the Bureau, and reported finding the bodies, and the well-oiled machinery of justice was set in motion. The whole area was now cordoned off and a barricade with a 2 Km perimeter had been set up, although deep inside he knew that it was useless. The murderer had escaped through the sewers. He had slipped by them like the
pest that he was, and he had disappeared without leaving any more trace of his trail than a rat would have left. He could be anywhere, kilometers from this place or only a few meters away, watching them.
He had taken charge in order to give the necessary orders to his agents so the search for the UNSUB could begin. He had given a description of the man they were looking for, making sure it was clear that it was quite possible the suspect was armed, and that he was, undoubtedly, dangerous. He reported that an Identikit picture of the guy would be prepared later. The APB
on the Honda was added to suspect's information.
The FBI experts, in the meantime, didn't seem to have any kind of problem with the people from CSI. Both teams worked quickly and with efficiency. They picked up samples, they took pictures... they certainly had a hell of a job in front of them, and they knew it.
In the meantime, the Forensics people waited for authorization to remove the murdered women's bodies.
They had been told that the last victim's body, a young woman still unidentified, should be sent to Quantico for post-mortem analysis. Scully would take charge of the autopsy and she had already left with that purpose in mind.
Mulder, on the other hand, went through the place, trying to capture a sense of what the murderer was trying to achieve by means of the deaths of these women and their children. He looked at the enormous piece of wood that acted like a table, around which in a grotesque parody, the murdered women's bodies had been seated.
Although the bodies were clearly arranged according to some kind of pattern, it didn't seem that they had been arranged in chronological order. He still had not been able to understand what meaning this placement had, but he was sure that it was important.
There was something there, something that was escaping to him...
He threw a look toward his colleague who was still sitting in silence, apparently unaware of the frantic activity that was unfolding almost in front of her eyes. He shook his head with deep pain. He understood. He understood perfectly how the woman was feeling. He had been there.
Guilt. Rage. Guilt. Frustration. Guilt. Self-hatred. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
They had not arrived in time. The murderer had escaped and he would continue killing until they were able to stop him. Eventually, they would catch him.
But it would be late.
It was always too late.
'The blood of the innocents fall on us. It doesn't matter what the others say. We were not sufficiently clever. We were not sufficiently quick. We were not able to get into his head in time...In time for what? Because whenever we arrive,' he thought, 'They have already killed at least one time, and generally, more. They always have the advantage over us...'
He shook his head again, with sadness, and continued with his task.
And all during this time, Charly had remained seated, immobile, in silence.