The Common Fate of All Things Rare - Chapter 2
SUMMARY: Ever wonder what happened between the silence of Never Again and the flowers from Memento Mori? Well, we did...
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Season 4
DISCLAIMER: We read the IWTB novelization, guys. 'Nuff said.
**********
CONSTITUTION GARDENS
9:03 AM
The Vietnam Veterans' Memorial Wall is a stark and imposing thing. A rising circumflex accent made of seventy-five meters of solid black granite; sloping upwards from eight inches high to an apex of just over ten feet. And then back down again. Standing before the Wall, one is reflected in the highly polished panels, appearing like a specter behind the seemingly endless lines of names.
All along the base are tributes to the dead. The other night I plucked a single rose petal from among these trophies. And like the soldier it was left here to honor, it too has crumbled away to dust.
Leonard Betts' voice has been playing in a steady loop inside my head since we left Pittsburgh. "You have something I need."
You can't sense that a person has cancer, says the part of my brain where Doctor Scully, M.D. resides. It's impossible.
But Agent Scully, who has seen inexplicable things, is not so sure. Why didn't you want the doctor to do a CT scan in Philly?
Because the Glasgow Coma Scale did not indicate it, the good doctor points out. No need. No memory loss. Alert and responsive. Pupils equal size.
Sure, says the woman who is twice an X-File herself. How's that nosebleed?
Doctor Scully sniffs in annoyance. Dry air.
Whatever. Checked in on Betsy Hagopian lately?
I close my eyes and sigh. This inner dialogue is driving me insane. I still haven't told Mulder what Leonard said to me. What I'm afraid it could mean. And how crazy I think that fear makes me.
I look up when I hear a rustling noise and see an older woman stoop down to make a rubbing of someone's name. She wears a wedding ring on her right hand. Widowed. Was this her young husband who died? Is this all she has left of him?
The nature of my job has made death an intrinsic part of my life, but losing my father and my sister so recently has made me fully appreciate that actuarial tables do not represent a guarantee.
It seems so wrong to die of cancer. I'm young. I'm fit. I order my salad dressing on the side and that college smoking habit has dwindled to the occasional stressed-out cigarette. I have imagined that if I were to die of anything other than old age, it would be work related. A blaze of glory, not a slow decay.
I thought about this a lot on the trip back from the Betts case. What mark would I leave behind if I died? No spouse, no kids. I don't even have fish. The X-Files office is Mulder's territory; I'm still a guest there. No desk to clean out. No pictures to take down and send to my next of kin. Mulder said he thought of the back area as mine, but everything back there is a permanent fixture. I could go and it would stay, leaving no empty space to say, "Scully was here."
A few more people shuffle past, their faces tucked into scarves against the cold. Hands slip out of gloves to touch the etched names frozen in this bleak place. The Wall is dug into the earth like a grave, and the full height of it creeps up on you slowly, swallowing you in a V of black stone. It is a place of deep and foreboding sadness.
I had a gravestone, I have discovered. My mother had it made when I was taken away. She didn't think I would ever come back. But Mulder did, Mom told me tearfully. He was angry with her, and disappointed. Mulder believes in the fantastic, and he believed in me.
Past tense. What happened in Philadelphia left a serious dent in my profile, and what Mulder doesn’t understand, he doesn’t trust.
Contrary to popular belief, Mulder doesn’t do blind faith.
I look one last time at my dark reflection and the thin scars of names seem to be crossing me out over and over again, negating my existence.
There isn't anything to worry about, says Doctor Scully in her clipped voice. Nothing's wrong with you.
I pull my collar up and walk away.
**********
1621 ALICEANNA STREET
BALTIMORE, MD
11:09 AM
Mulder and I make our way to a wide living room where the forensic team is still collecting evidence and dusting for prints. A tall man in a black trench coat is talking with one of his colleagues in the living room.
“Tell them I’m busy not finding their daughter.”
“Jack, come on. They just want to meet the guy who’s in charge.”
“I don’t have time for this, Charlie. You go play the lapdog." Charlie walks off and Jack redirects his attention to a pair of techs crouched next to the coffee table. “No, Rick! Just use the bi-chromatic powder for that.” Rick sighs and pokes around the box at his feet.
“And Jasper - last warning. It is not charmingly ironic to wear serial killer movie shirts to crime scenes.”
Jasper looks down at his Manhunter shirt. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
Jack turns abruptly and notices us. “Ah, here’s the Hoover cavalry. So nice of you to come. It’s hard to find good help these days.” He gestures broadly to Rick and Jasper.
“We’re helpful,” says Rick sullenly. “You’d be nothing without us.”
“And my shirt was a tribute to the profiler guy,” Jasper adds, pointing at Mulder. He waves at me. “Hello, Clarice.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”
We introduce ourselves and wait for him to do the same. Instead he ogles me shamelessly. “Nice suit. Shame about the badge.”
“Didn't you get the memo? Law enforcement agencies are supposed to get along now,” Mulder says, stepping in front of me.
“The memo, right. That must be where the ink on my ass came from.” Oh Mulder, it looks like we just found you a match in the smart-alec department.
The detective is carelessly handsome, slightly taller than Mulder and broader through the shoulders. A thin scar cuts across his face from his left eye to the top of his mouth. His dress shirt is slightly rumpled; blue tie loosened at the collar. He jams his hands deep into his pockets and catches me watching him; holding my stare with his dark eyes and -
- Ed’s mouth is hard against mine, one hand pulling my hips against his, the other tugging impatiently at my shirt - closing on my breast. It's been so long and I don't have to see him again and he's kissing me, kissing me as I -
I avert my eyes, feeling myself blush.
Mulder rubs his hands together while scanning the room. "We read through the case file. Body of a prior kidnapping victim left behind and the occupant of the home taken?"
Our companion shakes his head with a mock sigh. "It's getting tragically routine. This guy's just determined to remove their left breasts, take out their hearts, fill the chest with metal beads, and make off with a new victim.”
Bold words, but his dark eyes look tired and his hair - touched with gray at the temples - appears not to have been cut recently. His fingers tap against his thigh in the jittery way of someone who has been living on too much coffee and too little sleep.
"Is the body still here?" Mulder asks.
"She was starting to stain the rug. We sent her for an autopsy to teach her a lesson." He steps over a tech and points to a dark spot on the floor.
I crouch over it. "She wasn't killed here. So how'd he get a body in without anyone noticing? And how did he get April Larsen out?"
"I assume those are rhetorical questions for the moment."
"I didn't catch your name," Mulder says.
"I didn't give it to you. I'm Detective Wickham. But you can just call me Detective Wickham."
Mulder serves him the whatever-you-say-asshole nod and smile combo I've learned to spot over the years.
I get to my feet and gaze absently at the rug, letting the image swim in front of my eyes while I think. "There are no connections among these women beyond being single and living in a certain geographic area. And those are both likely just factors of convenience. What does he see in them?" I wonder aloud.
Wickham eyes me up, lips curved in a knowing smile, as if he’d seen something in me that he knows I didn’t mean to share. "You're the pathologist? Why don't you head down to Penn Street and the folks there will let you play with all of their pointy toys? Crime scene's pretty much under control. These guys here are checking for fingerprints. We've been told that's useful."
"And why don’t you tell us what exactly it is you’ve been doing that would be deemed useful since these murders began, Detective?" I snap back.
He laughs. “Oh, be still my heart.”
“She can arrange that for you.” Mulder kneels with his head tilted as he examines the floor boards and traces a gloved finger along the letters carved there.
Mulder gets back to his feet and looks down at the place where the body was lying, as though meaning will reveal itself with the proper view. "Scully…" he says, resting his hand on my back.
I flinch and pull away before I realize it. Mulder's eyebrow quirks slightly, but he says nothing. Detective Wickham, however, has clearly noticed and is looking at the both of us with the calculating eye of a scientist given a rare and unexpected specimen. I'm cursing myself for being so careless and hurry to distract him from whatever analysis he’s begun to establish in his head.
"I was hoping you could answer a few questions for us before I begin the autopsy, Detective."
"Isn't your job supposed be answering a few questions for me? Isn’t that how it works? The mighty FBI swooping in from DC to enlighten us poor fumbling rubes? "
Mulder steps in before I lose my temper."Detective Wickham, my background is as a behavioral analyst. Why don't you let me see what I come up with and then you can decide if my profile is of any use to you?"
Wickham shrugs indifferently. "That's fine, Agent Mulder. You do whatever it is you do. Get in his head, analyze his mother, make a list of his probable favorite foods and start canvassing restaurants. I don't really care. As long as you do it without interfering with my end of things, you'll get no complaints from me."
He has turned away from us to begin directing the team to pack up the evidence they've gathered and Mulder and I are left standing uselessly, like the last kids chosen in gym class.
"You heading over to the ME's?" Mulder asks me.
"Might as well. There's nothing else to do here. I'm going to grab something to eat first and review the autopsy notes again before I get started. I don't want to find another body on Saturday. We have to find this guy."
Mulder is watching me too closely and I feel as though every bruise and scrape is emitting a flashing light to catch his eye.
"Cut it out, Mulder. I'm fine."
My partner doesn't respond, but gives me a hard look and then scans the room one more time as though memorizing it. He hands me the car keys, then takes his leave.
"Detective Wickham?" I begin. The man unsettles me somehow, but I need his cooperation.
"You're still here? How I've missed your dulcet tones in the past few minutes.”
"I'm heading over to the Medical Examiner's office to get started on the autopsy. Will any of your people be joining me?"
“Oh, pick me!” says Rick, waving his hand while doing a terrible rendition of John Hiatt’s “I Spy for the FBI.”
Wickham ignores him. "My people? I don't really have any people. But *I'll* be coming along, now that you've usurped my authority and have turned out to be impressively attractive."
I groan inwardly, but manage a tight smile. "Well, you can meet me there in an hour."
"It's a date."
I give no reply and leave in search of someplace quiet where I can obtain lunch and water to wash down the Motrin I need to fight off the monster headache I've got coming on.
**********
There's a dingy restaurant across from the Medical Examiner's office and I'm sitting at a corner table, picking at an egg salad sandwich and reviewing autopsy data before I take a look at the body found this morning.
Cause of death in the prior case was due to the severing of the carotid arteries and the jugular veins and there's no reason to expect otherwise in this instance. The incision was neat - ear to ear - and was done in a fluid, even motion with no evident hesitation. The blood loss would have been enormous and messy, so it is highly unlikely that either victim was killed at the scene. Histology reports for the first victim came in this morning; serotonin and free histamine levels indicating that death was extremely rapid. The removal of the left breast and the heart were both post-mortem. Both bodies show signs of refrigeration.
The waitress plunks down the steaming mug of coffee I ordered and her mouth widens in an O of shock when she sees the pictures scattered around my plate. I smile tightly as she backs away from the table, eyeing me cautiously.
I sigh and swallow half of the coffee in one long gulp. It's terrible, but it's caffeinated and thus perfectly suitable.
A toxicology screen indicates sedation by flunitrazepam and sevoflurane. Stomach contents consisted of bread, fruit, and venison. The women were kept in generally good condition prior to their deaths with no evidence of torture or sexual abuse.
Chewing thoughtfully on a chunk of celery, I wonder about the apparent lack of motive. Because the crimes have come so close together, it has been difficult for anyone to completely figure out exactly what's going on. I read the notes over again, wondering what I'm missing. How is he getting the bodies in and the women out undetected? Why does he take the hearts and breasts? And what possible motive could anyone have for such brutality? He scratched the word sinister onto the knotted pine floor. Does it mean he is not unaware of his evil?
I write "sinister" on a napkin and doodle around it, waiting for an epiphany.
I know these questions are circulating through Mulder's head right now, working deep into his brain, intersecting in an elaborate neural network. An EEG of his prefrontal cortex would be a wonder to behold.
I'm not sure exactly where we stand with each other right now. Is Mulder another one of those controlling authority figures? Is he someone else I've let down? The jury's still out on that, really. I know he's disappointed in me, but I'm not sure if it's professionally or personally. Mulder has managed to slip past my defenses and become more than a metaphor for the father I was never sure I could please. I'm not certain how to proceed with that. My relationship with him is a strange and wonderful thing, constantly evolving and throwing me off guard.
Mulder and I have always played at flirtatiousness and he is undeniably attractive, but lately I feel something more serious growing between us. Unsurprisingly, it has made me distance myself from him slightly. I like to believe it has to do with where I am in my life right now rather than a genuine romantic interest, but I know better than to over-think it.
To distract myself, I drain my mug and signal the waitress for a refill, then cringe slightly at the memory of what I confessed to Ed. "There are other fathers." Oh, Dana. How *could* you? The idea of what the trial will be like is ice water down my spine.
I shake my head, hoping the thoughts will scatter, and return my attention to the papers before me. There's a third woman out there somewhere. She is not yet dead.
The papers go back into my briefcase. After tossing some money on the table, I leave the restaurant, crossing Pratt Street without waiting for the light to change.
**********
HOLIDAY INN INNER HARBOR
12:36 PM
The walk from the crime scene to the hotel was colder than I'd anticipated and the hotel lobby is pleasantly warm. The friendly woman at the welcome desk hands me my key card and I sprint up the steps in a bid to warm up. I enter the familiar confines of another bland hotel room, dumping the stack of files Skinner gave us on the small desk against the wall. Scully's got my clothes in the car.
She went to the ME's office with Detective Wickham, Charm City’s Finest, and I make a mental note to pull a file on that guy. It has nothing to do with the way he looks at her. I like to know who I’m working with.
In any case, Scully will be tied up for hours. I remove my jacket and throw it on the bed, loosening my tie with irritated fingers. I cross the room to make a pot of bad coffee and hear the whine of a siren outside. The Holiday Inn is just a few blocks east of the Medical Examiner's office and the endless noise of Lombard Street provides a steady background hum below my window. I pull the curtains wide open to stare at the rain hitting the glass. I half expect to see the droplets clinging to it ascend like weightless crystal tears.
My world is all askew.
Something is amiss between Scully and me. It’s not that she doesn’t talk to me, because she does. And it’s not like she’s sulking or is angry because I would know if she were. But she keeps our verbal exchanges to a bare minimum, doesn’t bounce my ideas back like she used to and ignores my jokes. Well, that last part isn't new - but previously I could at least see that she was deliberately choosing not to indulge my dubious sense of humor. Now she doesn't even seem to notice it.
It's as if some part of her has detached itself and flown away like a party balloon, ever since she came back to work yesterday and informed me with an indulgent, sad little smile that not everything is about me.
And now she won’t even let me touch her.
I kick my shoes off and drop to the bed, tucking my hands behind my head as I try to focus. I really should not be thinking about my personal issues with my partner right now. I have a killer’s mind to invade.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, lifting my right hand, holding it high above me. I exhale slowly and step backward inside the dark corners of my head. Yes, I can feel it now, the weight of a knife - or is it a scalpel? - in my hand. I give a few experimental slashes in the air.
I cut their throats smoothly and efficiently. They died fast, in a hot spray of arterial blood. Did that matter? Did I let it rain over me, or did I kill them from behind?
They died fast, I think again. They don't matter to me while they're alive, because my work doesn't start until they're dead.
I took the time to remove their breasts carefully. Scully pointed out that the cut on the last victim looked neat and professional. I have done this before; maybe I’m a doctor….or a butcher. The flesh is soft and heavy under my hand as I slice. Do I like this? Do I like to see their blood escape them like a burst fruit? Is that an added bonus, or don’t I really care? I can’t remember that just yet. I know I have to reach their hearts. The hearts are important, that’s why I keep them. I slice their breasts off and steal their hearts. Like they stole mine? Am I a spurned lover?
Why do I keep them?
I can’t remember that either. I leave a message in the wood: “sinister”. Am I passing judgment on myself or on these women? Do I know what I am and do it anyway? I know I’m not a vulgar thief, I also leave payment. Selenium beads. Why do I choose to leave these? It means something. Selene is a moon goddess.
Is this the connection?
Missing breast.
Missing heart.
The moon.
Women and the moon.
Women and their moods.
Lunar cycles.
Changes.
She’s got a tattoo now.
Shit.
Focus, for God’s sake.
The moon and the hearts.
She still won’t tell me what it is.
Maybe it’s a caduceus. Or some cryptic Equation. Not E=MC^2, too obvious. And I’m pretty sure it’s not some lame tribal or Chinese symbol either.
The moon and the hearts.
Scully would go for something meaningful - well, the Scully I thought I knew would. Except that the Scully I thought I knew would never get a tattoo in a million years. She wouldn’t have a one night stand either.
THE MOON AND THE HEARTS, DAMMIT!
I punch the mattress with both fists and release an exasperated sigh.
This isn’t working.
I jump off the bed and open the window, letting in a rush of freezing air through the screen. The Bromo Seltzer tower rises from the corner like a rook, wrapped in a swirl of exhaust fumes and fog. Outside the sky is heavy and gray. The rain has stopped and it’s still early in the afternoon. I glance at the desk, where the pile of documents and photos waits to be assembled into a coherent picture of our killer.
I sigh again and get ready for a shower, hoping the water will rinse away thoughts of Scully and put me in the right frame of mind to solve this puzzle.
**********
MARYLAND STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
BALTIMORE, MD
1:13 PM
The other pathologists are pretty much wrapped up for the day down here. I suit up in borrowed laboratory finery before pulling the woman's body out of the refrigerator. Wickham should be here shortly and I want to get started before he arrives.
I unzip the body bag and wince a bit at the gaping wound. The left breast has been sheared away entirely. I examine her hands for any defensive wounds or other evidence that may have been missed.
Her nails have been scraped clean of trace evidence, though not by the forensics team. I uncurl the fingers of her left hand and see where the nail polish has slopped a bit onto her cuticles. The right is much tidier; handedness being the bane of do-it-yourself manicures. So she's left-handed. Beyond this, her hands tell me nothing. These are the moments that humanize victims for me. Melissa was a leftie and always had to be strategically placed at dinner tables so she wouldn't bump someone's elbow.
I shake off the memory and return my attention to the victim's chest. I remove the jigsaw puzzle piece of bone and muscle that's been cut to allow to access to her heart. Cupped in the hollow between her lungs are a few dozen gunmetal-gray beads. Selenium.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," calls the voice of Detective Wickham.
Splendid. "I'm just getting started, Detective. You're welcome to watch."
"Agent Scully! We've only just met." He shrugs out of his overcoat and hangs it on the stool next to me.
I ignore him, knowing that any reaction will only be viewed as encouragement. "Take a seat. And hold this cup." I hand him a small plastic container and begin scooping the beads into it.
He watches them tumble into the bottom, clinking softly. "Like a goddamned pachinko machine," he remarks. "The Japanese love pachinko, you know. Maybe we're dealing with one of those obsessive Japanese collector guys. What are they called? Otaku? Some of them get into that hardcore hentai. Really bizarre S&M comics. Once saw one that involved a threesome with an octopus. You ever read hentai?"
I open Heike's lower abdomen and try not to think of some kind of pachinko machine torture fetish.
"I'm afraid I haven't. I'm hoping that I can find some evidence linking these beads to the killer. My reading on the way up here indicates that anode metal from electrolytic copper refineries is the primary source of selenium, and that the element has applications in glassblowing, photography, and several other fields."
"Talk nerdy to me, baby."
"You need to be mindful of your conduct, Detective Wickham," I say in a steely tone.
"Commanding. I like that. So what next, federal agent?"
His nonchalance is beyond irritating but I push it away for now.
"The report says you've been interviewing people in the fields I just mentioned, so you've either not come across him yet, or you have and he's not rattled by it."
"Your firm grasp of the obvious is dazzling."
I ignore the bait. "Any evidence regarding what he does with the breasts and the hearts?"
"None so far. Trophies I suppose. I imagine his freezer will be a treasure trove of both evidence and protein. Though you know Ed Gein liked to fashion little craft projects. I think he had a belt made of nipples. Maybe this guy's making throw pillows or something."
I run my finger over the cut edges of her ribs. "He knew what he was doing. Look how neat these cuts are. I think he used a Stryker saw. He has some experience with this. There's no evidence of hesitation marks on the skin or other tissue. It's a fluid motion."
"Admiring his work?"
His question is meant to put me on the defensive. It works, too, but my voice hardly ever bleeds my true feelings. Years spent working side by side with a profiler will teach you a thing or too about the need for obfuscation.
"Just taking notes,” I lift my head up to look straight at him. “How did you get that scar, Detective Wickham?"
His smile is surprisingly gentle. “How did you get those bruises, Agent Scully?”
Primum non nocere, I remind myself. But the scalpel glints temptingly.
I turn my own Stryker saw on and remove the other half of the ribs that cover her thoracic cavity. Bone dust flies everywhere and it occurs to me that our killer's probably going to have traces of it all over the place.
I fill several vials with various bodily fluids and squeeze her gall bladder into a cup to collect the bile. I am aware of Wickham's eyes moving over me and I'm unsure if he’s just being a cop, monitoring my actions, or if he's checking me out.
Probably both.
The red neon glow of the tattoo parlor fills my head. The needle pierces my skin - unbearable delicious sting - Ed’s eyes are full of lust and I want, I need…
“Wanna go for a drink after this?”
I nearly drop the container I’m holding and turn around to stare at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Wickham stands up, smoothing the sides of his coat as he approaches me. “You, me, beer. We could exchange Tales of Two Cities.”
“Are you asking me out, Detective?” I carefully place the vials onto a rack.
He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “What if I am, Agent Scully?”
I don’t even look at him as I load my samples into the dumbwaiter that goes to the lab and then return to the cadaver. I make an incision across the back of the head.
“I’d say you’re way out of line.”
“As far as I know, asking a pretty woman out is not against the law.” He winks at me. “I should know. I *am* the law.”
“I’m flattered but I’m not interested," I say, peeling away the front half of Heike's scalp. "Besides we’re in the middle of a case.”
"I see. Things seem to be off with you and Mr. Behavioral Analyst, but I wouldn't want to step on any toes."
I blink at him. "My partner? Let me assure you that my reasons for declining your offer are entirely my own."
"And those would be…?"
"None of your concern," I tell him firmly, turning the saw back on. The blade dips easily into the exposed bone.
"How long has this lover's spat been going on?"
I insert a skull key into the neat cut I made in the cranium and give a firm twist, hoping my contemptuous glare conveys my thoughts on Wickham's impertinence.
"It's fairly obvious. You two seem tense around one another," he says glibly.
Everyone's a pop psychologist.
"Thanks for your concern, but Mulder and I are fine." Wickham watches as I carefully pull Heike's brain out and set it into a pan. I reach in with a pair of tweezers and crack the sella turcica like a walnut, plucking out the pituitary gland and dropping it into a test tube. Push a little further with those tweezers and I'm right in the honeycomb of sinus cavities. Right where all those women had their tumors.
I take a deep breath and the thought recedes for now, but I can still feel it lurking at the corners of my consciousness.
I reach into the gaping chest cavity, working my hand upwards to free the tongue, and lift the large block of organs out of the body. I deposit them onto the stainless steel counter, snipping off bits to send to the lab.
“I don’t know whether to throw up or be turned on,” Wickam tells me as he walks over and leans against the wall. "Well, let me know if you change your mind." He sounds confident that I probably will.
I must confess to finding him attractive and strangely intriguing, but this is not the time. For so very many reasons.
"I'll keep you posted," I reply dismissively.
He grins and then looks concerned. I can feel something tickling my upper lip.
"Agent Scully…?" He rips off a sheet of paper towel and holds it out to me. I peel off my bloody gloves and accept it, trying to look casual - as though I am always plagued by mid-autopsy nosebleeds.
"It's nothing," I say, looking up and pinching my nose. "Happens to me in the winter." This winter, anyway.
"I have to say it would have been the most creative rejection I'd ever encountered. Why don't you head out anyway? Dr. Riviera is still here and he can finish up for you. I talked to Karen Chase, our joint lab manager, and she's going to have everything rush ordered, but can't promise anything before morning. Go get some rest because I don't want you dragging around tomorrow. You look exhausted."
"I'm okay," I tell him, pulling on fresh gloves and turning my attention to the dark slab of liver.
He nods slowly. "All right. Have it your way. Well, I'm going to look through the interview transcripts again, see if anything jumps out at me. If I hang around here I'll probably ask you out again and give you another nosebleed. Later, Madame Doctor." He heads out into the hall and I feel a rush of relief.
It doesn't take me long to finish up. I toss my bloodied cover-ups into the trash and hang the borrowed lab coat back where I found it. Only a few people are left downstairs. I take a solo ride in the elevator up to the lobby.
The air outside is raw and bone-chilling. A glum rain has begun to fall, but I've parked close and crank the heat up as soon as I start the car. The drive to the hotel is short, offering little time for thought, though Mulder, Wickham, and the ruined bodies of the dead women have all paraded through my head by the time I reach the front desk to get my key. I almost forget to ask where my partner's room is.
I load our luggage on a cart and take the elevator up to the seventh floor where I knock lightly at Mulder's door. He answers it in a hotel bathrobe, steam curling out from the bathroom behind him.
"Thanks," he says, pulling his bags off the rack. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to lounge around in this all night." I lean awkwardly against the doorframe while he hangs his garment bag in the closet. "Come on in, Scully," he says. "Tell me what you found."
I shrug. "Not much, really. I'm heading back to the ME tomorrow morning. They're supposed to have some results for me. Wickham's looking back over the interviews they've conducted, so you might want to give him a call and see what he turns up."
"Sure, thanks. You want to grab something to eat? Just let me get dressed and we'll order something up." He's pulling jeans out of his duffel bag.
I chew my lip. "No, I'm okay, Mulder. I had a sandwich not long ago. Not really hungry, but you go ahead. Let me know if you think of anything, okay? I'm two rooms down in 746."
He looks up and seems mildly surprised, but I pull the door shut and head down the hall before he can ask me anything else.
**********
HOLIDAY INN INNER HARBOR
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 22nd
7:17 AM
I finish shaving and gulp down some scalding coffee before looking at the files again. The closeness
of the room is making me anxious. I'm tingling like a lightning rod about to be struck. I really have to
cut back on the caffeine.
Scully was distant again last night and I wasted more time thinking about her, wondering what the hell
is going on under that glossy red hair. I want to go for a run this morning, to help clear my head, so I
toss on some sweats and sneakers, then grab the orange that was left from my dinner last night. I
stop by Scully's room before I leave, knocking at the door.
"Room service!" I say when she answers, offering her the fruit. Her hair is sleep-rumpled, her eyelids
heavy.
"Hey," she says, accepting the orange and setting it on the counter. "Thanks."
"Heading for a run. You off to get those test results?"
She glances down at her pajamas. "Yeah, just have to shower first. Call if you need anything. I'm
going to try and get a closer look at the cuts on her ribs. I want to see if I can narrow down the blade
used to a particular manufacturer."
"Good luck," I say and she nods before shutting the door. I take the stairs down to the lobby and walk
over to the map on the wall to plot out my route before heading outside.
Baltimore is a good sports town. Babe Ruth was born here and his childhood home's been turned
into a museum. There's a Sports Legends museum too and even I teared up when Cal Ripken broke
Gehrig's streak at Camden Yards in '95. Our hotel is situated right near these prime attractions. I'm
hoping the change of scenery will do my brain some good. The wind smacks me in the face as soon
as I open the lobby door.
After a brief warm-up, I kneel by a hot dog stand to tighten my shoe laces. Two guys waiting to be
served are arguing loudly about the new football team. The Ravens just finished their first season in
Memorial Stadium. I meant to catch a game, but DC belongs to the Redskins and I felt vaguely
disloyal about it. 4-12. I didn't miss much anyway.
"You don't know what you're talking about, man. The Ravens are the shit. Football's back in
Baltimore!"
"Still a stupid name. First Orioles, now Ravens. Birds suck."
"Your mother sucks."
"Whatever. I'm just saying that ravens aren't scary. Maybe vultures. They're kind of badass."
"It's from that poem! By that guy! That creepy dead motherfucker. You know the guy. They leave the
whiskey and stuff on his grave. Aw, who's that guy?"
"Dr. Seuss?"
"Edgar Allan Poe," I offer.
"Yeah, him! He wrote all kinds of fucked up stuff and that Raven crap was freaky. I always forget that
guy's name."
"Have you been quaffing any nepenthe?" I inquire.
"Are you a narc?"
I laugh and decide to incorporate old Edgar into my run. His grave's not far from here, so I can take a
nice meander past my desired tourist attractions and still keep on the safe side of MLK Boulevard. I
wonder if Scully's killed Detective Wickham yet. He does not fully appreciate what he's tangling with.
I start running and soon the rhythmic sound of my sneakers hitting the concrete helps me concentrate
on the case again.
So, am I a hateful killer or a vengeful one? I follow a precise ritual and so far, I have not deviated from it. After I've killed them I leave - no, not leave, display - my victims - no, they're not victims, they had it coming, it was for the greater good, it was an honor to be chosen. Okay, so I display my trophies, my messages, in the same place where I catch my next project. I display, I carve the word "sinister" in the wood and I take, and again - like a chain - a necklace? Is this why I leave beads in their chest? Am I doing this according to a geographical pattern? How many beads?
Must ask Scully.
Scully owns a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Sometimes, when she is deep in thoughts, she
plays with one, head titled to one side - a study in Pre-Raphaelite stillness - who'll introduce you to the
barrel of her gun if you startle her. Like the oyster where her pearls originated, she hides things from
me; the surface of her shell has turned hard, jagged and uneven and I can't find a way to pry it open
without damaging either of us.
I look down Penn Street towards the ME's office, wondering what she and Wickham are doing in
there. What has she found on the dead woman? Scully with her keen eye and her cold blades. Scully
with blood spilling down her white face over the fading ghosts of bruises.
I press the heel of my hand against my temple. Stop thinking about her. She's irrelevant to this.
I slit their throats. A nice clean cut. I do this casually, without rage; it is something that needs to be
done. Do I feel that what I'm doing is sinister? Have I retained enough humanity to feel guilt about
what I'm doing? Maybe, but it would seem that I have no other choice than to display my message
until the work is complete.
I need the world to know.
What's the message?
I pause at a traffic light, jogging in place. I am nearing the cemetery. I slip back within myself to get a
bird's eye view of the situation.
These women are all part of a whole. They are the compulsive re-enactment of some deep trauma,
something that hurt the perpetrator so profoundly it sent him around the bend. Not many murderers
will admit they enjoy killing. Luther Lee Boggs and John Lee Roche were among the few I've met who
truly did.
Killers will often dissociate themselves from their crimes by saying voices in their heads made them
do it, or blame some vague, irresistible urge. Something they can't control or fight. "This is not who I
am!" they'll claim tearfully in court and there's always a neighbor around to say: "Such a nice man, I
just don't get it!"
I follow Fayette Street and slow down to a brisk walk, staring up at the Gothic structure of
Westminster Hall. All arched windows and time-worn brick, it sits incongruously between
unimaginative modern buildings. Wrought iron and a low masonry wall come together to shelter its
famed cemetery from loiterers.
The darkness that floats in the souls of men doesn't come to the surface if it knows it's being
observed. People only let you see the side of them they've designed for you. There is no such thing
as uncharacteristic; there is only previously unwitnessed.
If Ed Jerse hadn't been driven mad, I wouldn't have known about my partner's one night stand and
fondness for inked needles. She would have come back - smooth and prim as ever in her sober suits
and fuck me heels - and I would have been none the wiser.
What do I really know about Doctor Dana Scully?
First and foremost, Scully is her work. And she's well-known for it. The few times she's let me look
over her shoulder at her inbox, I've seen the stack of queries she receives daily from students and
other respected doctors.
She's a loyal, trustworthy workaholic who's compassionate and straight as an arrow. And she's saved
my ass more times than I can count.
I know she's a fine shot and a fast driver. She's a health food nut, but I have seen the Ben & Jerry tubs
in her freezer and she's got a weakness for spare ribs. She can be playful and sarcastic and her
smile is dazzling.
I know she's stubborn, rigid in her beliefs, and capable of some impressive feats of righteous anger.
I've seen her outstare Skinner and unsettle hardened criminals with the raise of an eyebrow. She can
make you feel like you're not even worth being scraped off her shoe. I know she can be cold and so
distant you might as well try touching the Orion belt. She has a hard time letting her weaknesses
show, but her faith helps her cope with the horror we regularly witness. She goes silent when she's
hurting.
I know she's hot. Yes, I have noticed. Just because we have a mutual unspoken agreement to keep
things professional between us doesn't mean I can't enjoy the view. I'm tall, she's short and she
doesn't button those silk blouses all the way to her throat. It's simple math. I've been known to rise to
the occasion after having scientific jargon whispered in my ear. And I've caught her checking my ass
out a couple of times. These things happen when you work with a partner of the opposite sex. It's no
big deal.
I don't know much about her private life. I tease her about boyfriends and she teases me back about
my video collection but that's as far as it goes. She dated her instructor at the Academy, so I figured
she had a thing for older men. Her reactions to the Kindred case and Skinner's hooker were
disdainful. After that I'd pegged her -maybe unfairly - as somewhat conservative in bed. But to be
honest, my partner's sexual preferences are not something I had much pondered until Philadelphia.
And the only reason I'm pondering them now is because the latest events upset my collected
knowledge of her. Really, that's all it is. Professional pride. I like to know who I'm working with. So let's
update her profile and be done with it:
Scully doesn't mind one-night stands.
She likes it rough.
She likes tattoos.
There, all done. Let's move on.
I peer over the fence at Edgar Alan Poe's grave. There's a raven in bas-relief on the gray stone and
the famous 'nevermore' quote inscribed above it. I bend over with my hands on my knees to catch my
breath and the sound of my heart drumming in my chest becomes louder in my ears.
The heart is important.
The heart reveals the truth.
I lift my eyes and stare at Poe's grave. The raven with its broken beak seems to mock me.
The Tell-Tale Heart.
A sinister tale of paranoia.
The beating heart.
Under the floorboards.
I get a flash of the latest victim, lying in the living room. A living room with pale reclaimed pine
floorboards.
Could it be…?
I look once more at the raven before heading to the Medical Examiner's at full speed.
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.
**********
MARYLAND STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
9:28 AM
I refocus the microscope on the section of rib I've removed and then step back, rubbing my eyes.
"Dammit," I grumble without any real conviction. I wasn't expecting to find much, but it at least made
me feel productive to try. The edge of the bone cut by the killer is identical to the end I cut with the saw
down here. Stryker saws are available everywhere and it's going to be impossible to try and trace
anyone that way. But at least the information will be useful if we find such a saw in the home of a
suspect.
I turn off the microscope and check my watch again, hoping the lab work will be ready soon.
"Thought I might find you here. I come bearing caffeine."
I look up and see Wickham, who is carrying a large cup of coffee. "Daily Grind. Much better than the
swill you had here, I'm sure."
I accept the cup gratefully and take a sip. "Mmm. Thank you."
He sits down next to me. "I went over those interviews again and nothing's coming up. Any word from
Agent Mulder, profiling wunderkind?"
I shake my head. "Nothing yet. He's out for a run. He'll come through though."
"Feeling okay this morning?"
I shrug, uncomfortable. "Yeah. Just waiting for data to come back. It occurs to me that the killer may
be a hunter. The women were fed venison, which isn't commonly sold in stores, and it would certainly
explain his proficiency with a knife."
Wickham nods. "We'll cross-reference hunting licenses as well." Just as he finishes jotting down
notes on his pad, Mulder appears in the doorway; hair, t-shirt and running pants soaked with rain or
sweat. "I know where the hearts are," he tells us, out of breath.
"Speak of the devil," observes Wickham.
Mulder looks puzzled for a second and then walks over to us.
"I think he hid the hearts under the floorboards, Scully. Both of the women were on hardwood floors. He
scratched that word - sinister - above them and I think it was at least partly to hide pry-marks."
Years together and I will never figure out how he does this. "Why would he do such a thing?"
Mulder shakes his head. "I don't know yet. Maybe something to do with Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart. Did
you find anything new on the body?"
"I don't think so. Her nails were scraped clean, but not by the forensics team. Our suspect probably
has defensive wounds and he scraped the evidence from under her nails. He knows what he's doing,
this guy. He has …proper tools. He's in control of himself."
Kaye Schilling hacked roughly to pieces and stuffed in an incinerator.
I have the creeping feeling that Mulder knows exactly what's running through my head. I blink away the
thought.
"If you don't mind me interrupting, I'd like to go see if Agent Mulder's channeling our boy or not,"
Wickham interjects.
I nod and peel off my borrowed protective gear. "Sounds like a plan."
Wickham twirls his keys around his finger. "Let's go, honey. I've got a sweet '92 Crown Vic and the
backseat is roomy."
"Oooh, I'm definitely sold," Mulder quips.
I roll my eyes, pulling my coat on in the elevator up to the lobby. We walk out to the car, where
Wickham climbs into the driver's seat and I pause for a second between the passenger and back
doors. Mulder jerks his head slightly to the front. I climb in, scooting my seat up as far as it will go to
give him room.
"So I hear you guys do a lot of this type of work. Not just bogarting cases, I mean. Rumor has it you
two are like the Hardy Boys of the FBI. If there's weirdness to be found, you stumble upon it,"
Wickham says.
"We have worked on a number of unusual cases," Mulder informs him flatly.
"Anything I'd hear about? What have you done lately?"
My nails are digging into my palm and I bite down on the inside of my cheek. How vindictive is
Mulder feeling today?
"Just an illegal weapons and smuggling ring," Mulder answers. "Agent Scully handled it. I've been on
vacation."
The yaw is slowly stabilizing, I think. We're coming back to center.
Wickham calls for a photographer and some techs to meet us at the scene. He turns down Eastern
Avenue, then weaves through Fells Point until we pull up at April Larsen's building on Aliceanna.
Mulder unfolds himself from the backseat and I catch his eye for a second. He nods almost
imperceptibly.
We head into her ground-floor apartment, ducking under the crime scene tape. Wickham looms like a
sentry over the scratched floor until a photographer trails in with two techs whom I recognize from
yesterday.
Wickham gets to his knees and presses his ear to the floor. "Lo!" he booms in an ominous voice. "It
is the beating of her hideous heart."
I don't dare laugh, though someone snickers slightly. Jasper, who is tamely arrayed in a Nick
Cave t-shirt.
The other one - Rick - begins prying up the floorboards while the camera clicks softly in the
background. Mulder peers over the proceedings anxiously, watching as Wickham's gloved hand
reaches around in the growing hole in the floor. He blinks in surprise and then pulls out a human heart.
"I'll be damned," he says to Mulder. "You spooky son of a bitch."
He passes the heart to me so I can examine it. "He tried to preserve it using some kind of resin or
latex, though he may have needed to work fast because it's a pretty slapdash job and barely dry. We
should be able to find a manufacturer, but it'll take time."
I turn the organ over in my hands and slip my finger into the superior vena cava, feeling around the
right atrium. I look up in shock.
"This isn't her heart."
Mulder walks over. "What are you talking about?"
I poke around some more, making certain that I'm not missing it. "Heike Brandstatter had an artificial
bileaflet tricuspid valve. She had to take warfarin - blood thinner - because of it. This isn't Heike's
heart."
"It's the wrong fucking heart?" Wickham asks.
"That's some twisted shit right there," opines Rick.
Mulder's staring at the heart, utterly at a loss. Then something shifts in his face. "The victim before
Heike. It's hers."
"What?"
He closes his eyes, tapping his chin. "He takes a woman and leaves the prior victim at the home. It's
a chain. I think that's what he does with the hearts. He left Heike's body in April's apartment and the
prior victim's heart below Heike. He's connecting them all. Who was the prior victim? Before Heike?"
"Carla Stewart," Wickham replies without hesitation.
"Okay. I think this is Carla Stewart's heart. And if we don't catch this guy, we'll find Heike's heart under
April."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Wickham says grimly.
"And, of course, the million dollar question is, 'whose heart is going to be under Carla?' " Mulder
points out.
Wickham's face falls. "There's another victim."
"One we haven't found," I finish for him.
"One we're not supposed to find," says Mulder, searching his pockets for his notepad.
Wickham pulls out his phone and calls the station, making arrangements to have Carla Stewart's
house searched.
When I begin to examine the heart again, I see something glint on my finger. I look closer. Several tiny
grains of what appear to be sand sparkle under the bright lights. I hold it out for inspection.
"Look at this. Some of the resin or latex or whatever it was is still tacky in there. This came off on my
glove."
Rick whistles, looking impressed. "Damn, FBI."
Mulder and Wickham stare at my hand while the photographer takes pictures.
"Glassblowers," says Wickham. "Glassblowers use sand. And they use selenium to color the glass.
We've been doing background checks on people who have ready access to selenium due to their
professions, but we haven't been able to narrow our focus to one field. You know how many
goddamned photographers there are in this town?"
"Glassblowers," Mulder repeats. "How many are in the area?"
Wickham is still fixed on the tiny particles. "In the metro area? About eight. But we're pretty sure the
guy's right in the city based on his victims. There's only one glassworks in a twenty mile radius. Right
off 83."
"You go ahead," I say to Mulder and Wickham. "I'm going to head back to the lab, see what I can find
with this heart and try to get more information on these particles."
We leave the crime scene and head our separate ways.
**********
I follow Wickham back out to the car and climb into the front, adjusting the seat from its Scully-height
configuration.
"What is she, like five-six?" Wickham queries as we head towards to highway.
"Five-three. She wears deceptive shoes."
"Ah," he says, making a sharp left and nearly mowing down a cyclist in the process.
"How far is it?" I ask him.
"Fifteen minutes with traffic. So Agent Scully. She's single?"
Now we get to it. "To the best of my knowledge," I say. I don't feel as though I can speak about Scully
in the absolutes of less than a week ago.
"To the best of your knowledge? Not partners with benefits then?"
I laugh. "Scully and me? No. We just don't talk much about our personal lives." Or body art. "Why? Did
she shoot you down?"
He smirks. "That she did. She's a bit prickly, isn't she?"
"She's going through a rough patch," I say vaguely.
"Her injuries…?"
I shake my head. "You'll have to talk to her about that."
He gives me an appraising look, then exits onto Northern Parkway. "You help solve this case, Agent
Mulder, and I'll get you seasons' tickets to Camden Yards."
"That's very generous of you Detective Wickham, but I think it's only fair to let you know I'm a Yankees
fan."
Wickham looks disgusted, as I expected. "Well, how about this then? You help solve the case and I'll
refrain from running you out of my fair city on a rail."
I grin. "Sounds like a deal."
We pull up in front of a low brick building surmounted by several chimneys, all of which are disgorging
a dark smoke that blends in with the low, gunmetal sky.
"So what are we looking for?" Wickham asks me as we walk to the front door.
"I have no idea," I confess. "I'm hoping I'll know it when I see it."
"I hope so too. Time is running out," he says, holding the door open.
We walk inside and the noise is overwhelming. The roar of furnaces provides a base note, while the
sound of hammering, clanking, yelling, and other unidentifiable noises makes a cacophonous layer
on top of that.
A man in a heavy leather apron walks over to us. "Can I help you?" he asks loudly. "Oh! You're that
detective. I remember you. Who's this guy?"
I flash my badge. "Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. Mind if we have a look around?"
He examines my ID. "You trying to catch that crazy sonofabitch?"
"Yes sir, I am."
"Then make yourself at home. Ask around if you need anything."
I thank him, then take a loop around the room, watching the craftsmen at work. I am amazed by the
way they take glowing blobs from the furnace, transforming them into sculpture. Glass flowers and
animals and vases take shape in mere minutes, bold colors flowing through the glass as the artists
puff, tap and spin the molten substance into the forms they've envisioned.
From the corner of my eye I see a glass cat taking form, its back rising and its face an angry hiss.
Something tugs at my brain and I walk over to take a closer look.
"Wow," I say. "That's amazing, the detail you've got there. It looks very lifelike."
The man making it doesn't look up, but nods slightly. There are some snapshots of glass sculpture
taped to his work area: a tall, creepy house where one might expect to find the Addams family, a
raven, and black grandfather clock.
I feel a surge of electricity down my spine. Representations of Poe's work. The Black Cat, The Fall of
the House of Usher, The Raven, and The Masque of the Red Death.
"Your work is extraordinary," I tell him. "Part of a series?"
He finally looks up. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Doing a display for the Poe Birthplace. They commissioned a
set. I've just got a few more left."
"The Tell-Tale Heart?" I ask. "It's probably one of his most famous, after The Raven."
If this means anything to him, he hides it well. "Yup. Doing one for that. Pit and the Pendulum. A few
others. I've got it all written down somewhere, with sketches and stuff. You a fan or something?"
"Somewhat. How about you?"
He shrugs and turns his attention back to the cat. "Sure, I guess."
I signal to Wickham and mouth: "Poe."
"That's a great cat," Wickham remarks as he strolls over.
The man looks suspicious now. "If you guys have something to say, just say it. I'm busy and I already
talked to you people."
Wickham catches my eye and I shake my head slightly.
"No, we have no further questions. Just admiring your tribute to one of the city's favorite sons,"
Wickham reassures him.
The glassblower grunts and returns to his work.
We head back out to the car where Wickham wants to know what's up. "You want to tail this guy?"
"Yeah, I do. Let's find out when his shift ends and follow him. I don't want to bring him in yet or
anything. If he won't tell us where he hid April we may never find her and she'll be just as dead as if he
slit her throat."
Wickham nods and gets on the phone to delegate responsibility. He turns to me when he hangs up.
"So what now?"
I sigh. "I don't know. What's this guy's background?"
Wickham closes his eyes for a moment, searching his memory. "James Alfred Montaldo. Served
thirteen months of a two-year sentence for armed robbery. In and out for various scuffles, but nothing
serious. Nothing particularly sadistic or noteworthy."
"Domestic violence? Rape?"
"Not that I recall, but we'll double check. I wish we had some goddamned prints to run from the
scenes." He twirls his sunglasses by the earpiece and looks frustrated.
"Check his juvenile record too. And I want a warrant to search his place while we're waiting for him to
leave work."
"Shouldn't be hard. I got a couple of favors I can call in," Wickham assures me.
"Excellent. We need to look for all properties in his name and any aliases. He's going to be working
somewhere underground, probably the basement of a house. You want to look for a large refrigerator
where he can store the bodies and some kind of table where he works on them. He'll want a back
entrance out of the basement to carry them up and there will probably be an alley behind it too. And a
van of some kind."
"I was thinking he might even have a meat locker down there. Agent Scully theorized that he could be
a hunter."
I am impressed and tell Wickham as much. "The venison the victims had eaten coupled with the cold
storage," I muse. "I didn't even think of that."
"You think he's keeping them where he kills them?"
"If not in his house, somewhere close by that only he knows about. He wants ready access to them.
He doesn't torture them at all, but this is very much a control thing. He wants to be able to see the
transition from whatever they represent when they're alive and what he turns them into. It's important to
him."
Wickham regards me with interest. "You're good," he says simply.
"We'll see," I reply, and we head back downtown.
**********
