ELS Chapter 6 By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. Posting Date : November 5, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 6/? Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : R (Violence) Story Rating : NC-17 (Violence) Missing Chapters : http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm Summary : Dupree stalks his next victim as Mulder and Scully depart to take on a new case. Spoilers : None that I can think of. Casting : Russell Crowe, "Mark Dupree" : Alec Baldwin, "Tony Littleton" : Barbara Barrie, "Estelle" : Helen Hunt, "Captain Alex Cahill" : Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross" : Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks" : Robert Beltran, "Detective Chavez" : Robert Piccardo, "Dr. Keystone" Content Warnings : Violent content. NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. Enjoy! +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Annapolis, Maryland The Next Day 0730am Mulder parked his car in the visitor's spot next to Scully's building and climbed out, yawning and stretching at the same time. By mutual agreement, they'd long ago decided that they would alternate driving to the airport. With the amount of traveling they did, it seemed the only fair division of labor. It was his turn, and he was a little early, but Mulder wanted to spend a little time with Scully before they left for the airport. As he strode through the lot towards the front door to Scully's building, Mulder wondered what it would be like if the day ever came when they didn't have to switch off driving to the airport. If all they had to was to quickly make breakfast after waking up in each other's arms, and then decide who was going to drive their car to the airport. In the elevator, Mulder closed his eyes, enjoying the mental images his fantasies created. He could see Scully moving around her apartment in that light blue bathrobe with the moon and stars design, gently nursing her first cup of coffee for the day, her hair disheveled from sleeping, her slight form all but lost in the huge robe. The doors opened with a soft ding and Mulder exited the elevator, striding down the hall towards Scully's door. He knew that there was a long road ahead before anything as wonderful as that happened. A road that was fraught with danger, the potentials for breakdowns, and stretching a really bad metaphor to it's absurd conclusion, the very real chance that one of them would want to take an offramp before they reached that final, wonderful destination. Shaking his head in self-mocking exasperation, Mulder raised his hand and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by a fully dressed Dana Scully, who held a cup of coffee in one hand, and because she'd had to open the door with the other, had jammed what appeared to be a half-eaten blueberry Pop Tart into her mouth. "Ge marnigh!" Scully said around the Pop Tart. "Good morning," Mulder answered, amazed that he'd understood her. "Po Tar?" she asked. "Sure," Mulder said, strolling into the kitchen. He found the open box on the counter and helped himself. Scully, from the archway, said, "Ur Ely!" Mulder, glancing over his shoulder, grinned. "Yes, but I figured we could have breakfast together." She nodded, holding up her coffee mug in salute. They sat at the table and ate silently. Mulder was moving to get up and fetch himself some coffee when Scully slid her mug towards him. "Finish it," she said. "I'm done." He looked at the half-full mug for a moment, a strange expression on his face, and then lifted it to his mouth, draining it in a single pull. Lowering the mug back to the table, Mulder was at once fascinated at the incredibly intimate feeling such a simple action had given him, and touched that she had made such a gesture without thinking. Staring at the cup, he noticed the light lipstick marks on the other side of the rim. His mind announced with a certain wondering clarity that Scully's lips had been pressed against this very mug only moments ago. The power of his reaction amazed him. "I'm almost ready," Scully said. "Just have to finish packing." "Take your time," he said, reaching for the newspaper. "Gotta find out how my Knicks did last night." "You didn't watch the highlights?" "Working," he shrugged. Scully nodded, stood and vanished into her bedroom. Mulder peeled the paper apart, looking for the sports section. Just another day at the office. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Citywide Major Cases Squad New York Police Department One Police Plaza New York City Captain Alex Cahill, Commanding Officer, Citywide Major Cases Squad, stood in the doorway of the CO's office and regarded the desk. There were case files piled high, wide and deep, covering most of the visible surface of the desk. A small brass nameplate mounted on a prism-shaped chunk of wood declared that "Capt. A. Cahill, CO," resided in this office, but it looked more like some kind of demented police pat rack lived here. Alex Cahill was thirty-four years old, stood five feet nine inches tall, and had spent just over nine years on the job. Having joined the FBI after law school, Cahill had successfully completed Special Agent Training, and had promptly been assigned to the Miami Field Office. Two years of chasing bank robbers, drug dealers and the more-than-occasional Dade or Broward county corrupt public official had made it more than clear to Alex Cahill that the FBI was not the correct career choice. After resigning, Cahill returned to New York and joined the NYPD. Cahill discovered a natural affinity for police work, and rose quickly through the ranks, making Detective at 27, Sergeant at 29, Lieutenant at 31, and now, most recently, Captain at the tender age of 33. Not the youngest captain the NYPD had ever seen, but certainly the youngest female captain. Alex (born Alexandria,) Cahill, had never expected to be given command of one of the single most elite units within the entire NYPD. As a brand-new captain, she'd expected command of a precinct, or perhaps one of the larger detective bureaus, such as Bronx Narcotics or Manhattan Auto Theft. The Table of Organization and Equipment (TOE) for the NYPD stated that the Commanding Officer of the CMCS should be a Deputy Inspector, not a Captain. Which, to Alex, meant one of two things. The NYPD held examinations for promotions every few years. Promotions to the ranks of Sergeant, Lieutenant and Captain were based on the results of those tests, and the department's needs. Promotions above Captain (to Deputy Inspector, Inspector, and then into the various one, two, three and four-star ranks of Chiefs,) were given (and in some cases taken away,) at the behest and desire of the police commissioner. So, Alex knew that one of three possibilities existed for her being given command of CMCS. First, that she was scheduled for a promotion sometime in the near future. Second, that a departmental reorganization had occurred, and it had been decided that giving a captain command of such a major unit instead of a Deputy Inspector was a cost-cutting move, or thirdly, that for some reason the political wind had shifted again, and Major Cases was not being held in the same regard as it once had been. Which was hard to believe, considering the manpower and resources assigned to the CMCS. In addition to the sixteen Detective First Grades she had assigned to this office alone, the five borough Major Case Squads reported to her, as did the Citywide Stakeout Squad, the Technical Assistant Response Unit (The NYPD's version of a black-bag unit,) four anticrime teams made up of ten plainclothes officers assigned to street-level enforcement, her own personal Crime Scene Unit, as well as two Emergency Service Unit RMP's and three Assistant District Attorneys assigned to push her cases through the justice system of the City of New York. So, that left cost-cutting and promotion. Alex devoutly hoped it was a promotion. That would make her, without a doubt, the youngest Deputy Inspector in the department's history. The phone, buried under another teetering pile of paperwork, rang. Glancing through the doorway to the bullpen, Cahill saw that she was the only person present. "Major Cases, Cahill," she answered. "Central radio, Captain. Midtown North Detectives are requesting a response to a DOA call." Alex sighed. She glanced at her watch. The 8-to-4 shift didn't start for another fifteen minutes. "Gimmie the address," she said, grabbing for a pen to write with. The dispatcher read off the address and then said, "Captain, I'm going to log notification at eight-oh-one." "Thanks," Alex said, smiling. "I appreciate it. Any details?" "We have two RMPs, a CSU unit, ME, and Midtown North detectives on the scene. They're all waiting for you." Alex closed her eyes, calculating. At this time of the morning, it would take her about twenty minutes to make her way to the address. "Any ID on the victim?" "Uh...one John Wagner. That's all I have." "Thanks," Alex said, hanging up. She held the switchook down for a count of three, lifted it and dialed the number for BCI from memory. She ordered a run on any and all John Wagners that might be known to the Bureau of Criminal Information and asked that the printouts, if any, be forwarded to CMCS as soon as possible. When she looked up, Detective First Grade Samuel Cross was standing in her doorway, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Job?" he asked. "Midtown North would like the assistance of two of my very best detectives," Alex started. "But...since you're here..." "Ooh, Captain, you wound me," Sam teased. "Whatdaya got?" "DOA, one Jack Wagner. No details yet. Full crew on the scene. Take...oh, take Hicks with you." "Daryl's not in yet." "Says who?" a voice behind Cross shouted. Sam turned and Alex saw Detective First Grade Daryl Hicks standing slightly behind and to the right of Cross. "Sorry, didn't see you." "Whatdaya got, Cross?" "DOA. Midtown North." "Good. Didn't feel like going out to the boonies today. Let's go." Sam turned back to face Alex and arched an eyebrow. "Boonies?" he mouthed, and Alex smiled. Detective Daryl Hicks had never managed to lose the Georgia accent he'd been born and raised with. Like most New Yorkers, Alex had immediately subtracted forty mental IQ points from Daryl's score the moment she'd heard him speak. She only came to learn as time went by that he used that inborn prejudice to his advantage. He might have sounded like his namesake, a hick, but Daryl was an incredibly intelligent person, a natural interrogator, and one hell of a good cop. The case assigned, Alex turned her attention to the paperwork on her desk. DD5s, and lots of them. Every single open case inside the NYPD Detective Bureau required a follow up report (Report of Continuing Investigation, Form DD-5,) filed at least once every six months. Cases dating back to the 1920's were still updated faithfully every half-year. One of Alex's first command decisions had been to remove the burden of paperwork from her detectives as much as possible. Since it was her job to sit in the office and make decisions, and not to be out on the street handling cases, Alex had decided that it was easier for her to open each DD5, write "No further information at this time," sign her name and move onto the next than for her detectives to be hamstrung. Outside, in the bullpen, Detectives Daryl Hicks and Sam Cross opened their desk drawers, found new, blank notebooks, and opened them. They each entered the date, the time, and what information they knew about the case. "Victim's name is John Wagner," Cross said. Hicks nodded and wrote it down. "Ready to go forth and fight the forces of evil?" Cross asked. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Aboard Flight 981 En Route to Portland, Maine Scully was reading a forensic journal when Mulder stood, opened the overhead compartment and rummaged around inside his carryon. A moment later he sat down, holding one of the thick case folders. Scully frowned. Opening a case folder on a crowded plane was not a good idea. "What's up?" she asked softly. "Hunch," Mulder said. He went through the file slowly, reading everything again as if for the first time. Scully was again amazed that he never took notes. If he remembered everything he read, she wondered, why does he need to read it again? The case was confusing. The Portland Police weren't even sure that they had a serial killer on their hands. All they knew was that eleven young women, between the ages of 19 and 25 had vanished in the last six months. In each case, the woman had been spotted in the company of a well-dressed, handsome man. The confounding part was that the descriptions of the man varied in each case. He'd been variously described as tall, short, thin, fat, with six different hair colors, and as many styles. He'd driven several different kinds of cars, and no one could remember seeing the "victims" in the company of "the well-dressed man" on the day of their disappearances. No bodies had been found. No ransom demands had been made. Eleven women had just vanished off the face of the earth. The women were different, too. No physical similarity could be found. They matched different physical descriptions. Some were tall, some short, some heavy, some not. One was a waitress, another had been an attorney. Two homemakers, single mothers with young children. All they had to go on was a hunch. A hunch, and powerful political connections. The brother-in-law of the senior senator from Maine just happened to be the Chief of the Portland Police. God, Mulder thought. I hate political cases. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Detectives Hicks and Cross parked their unmarked Caprice Classic at the crime scene, noting that a small crowd made up of neighborhood residents were milling around, talking to themselves, gesticulating wildly at the victim's house. Cross reached for his portable. "One-Mike-Seven to Central, K," he called. "One-Mike-Seven." "Uh...I'm gonna need an anticrime unit to respond to this job, K." "Stand by..." Before the dispatcher had a chance to find a free anticrime unit, another voice hit the air. "Six-Adam-Six, we're in on that job." "Ten-four, Adam-Six." Exiting the car, both Detectives checked to make sure that their gold shields were visible. They walked slowly towards the crime scene, both of them glancing around to see if anything seemed obviously amiss. A uniformed officer was standing on the sidewalk, guarding the yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the walkway. Cross and Hicks ducked under it, nodded to the uniform, and slowly walked up the steps leading to John Wagner's house. Another uniform was guarding the front door, his face grim and slightly green. Hicks glanced at the man's uniform. "Officer...Johnson. Want to tell me what's going on here?" "We got a report by phone of a body at this address. My partner and I responded, knocked, didn't get a response. I glanced in the window over there," he said, tilting his chin, "and saw the DOA through the glass. We kicked the door, secured the scene and called the squad." Hicks nodded as he wrote. "Gimme your notebook," he said, holding out his hand. Officer Johnson handed over his notebook, and Hicks quickly made a notation that he'd taken the officer's statement, added the date and after checking his watch the time, and then handed it back. "Thanks," he said, smiling. "It's pretty gruesome in there," Johnson offered. "Oh, I think we can handle it," Hicks said, grinning. Johnson shrugged. Whatever. Entering the house, Hicks and Cross were immediately struck by the smell. Copper, warm, hot copper, fresh. Blood. Both reached into suit-jacket pockets and returned with rubber surgeon's gloves. Snapping them on, they moved deeper into the house and discovered what all the fuss was about. Four Crime Scene Unit detectives were working the scene, plus a Deputy Medical Examiner. The DME was slowly inserting what appeared to be a meat thermometer into the abdomen of the deceased. One of the CSU detectives was carefully walking around the living room of John Wagner's house, pointing a video camera at everything and anything. He was followed by the still photographer, who was pointing an expensive and complicated-looking Nikon at the same things, clicking off a shot every few seconds. The other two CSU detectives were on forensic collection duty; one of them was using a portable, battery-operated vacuum cleaner on the rug. The other was carefully holding a bloody knife with two fingers, turning it this way and that. Over in the corner, two Midtown North detectives stood, talking quietly to each other. Hicks walked over and held out his hand. "Hicks, Citywide. What's up?" The first detective glanced up and smirked. "Well, since we got us a fucking mystery, our CO thought we'd better call the real Sherlocks in on this one." Hicks lowered his hand, all business now. "So...we were called for...?" "This," the second one said, holding up a clear glassine envelope. Hicks twisted his head, trying to make it out. "What is it?" "We found it on the body. Take a look." He handed Hicks the envelope. Hicks turned it over in his hand so he could read it. 5410:401. "That's it? That's all it says?" The second detective nodded. "Yup. Seeing as how that's too cryptic for a stupid Midtown North detective to figure out, you major case guys got the job." "Here," the first one said, holding out another bag. "Wallet, keys, the usual." Hicks nodded, by now used to the snide comments and sideways glances that the PDU detectives loved to give. "Gimme your notebooks, and I'll sign you two off this job." Grumbling, they did as Hicks asked. He quickly signed and dated their notebooks, watching as they picked their way out of the house. He turned to find Cross squatting next to the body. Joining him, Hicks glanced down and felt his stomach flop. The victim had been...Hicks didn't know the exact word, but filleted came to mind. His throat had been slashed from ear to ear. There was a long, deep wound channel leading from the notch below the Adam's apple all the way to Wagner's crotch. The skin had been peeled back to reveal the organs, muscles and bones. Squinting, Hicks could see the results of what appeared to be a series of frenzied stabbing motions. "Someone was quite angry with our Mr. Wagner," Cross observed dryly. "I don't think this was a revenge job," Hicks said. "Take a look at this." He handed Cross the note. Taking it, Cross turned it in his hands and read it. "What the hell does that mean?" "If it means what I think it does, this is not the first time this particular critter has killed. Nor will it be the last." Cross looked up, frowning. "Serial?" he asked. Hicks nodded. "You sure?" Shaking his head, Hicks said, "No. Gut feeling. I'm gonna reach out to all the PDUs and see if anyone caught a homicide with similar...whatdaya call 'em? Signature?" Cross nodded. "Yeah. Signature. You do that. I'm gonna call the boss." He stood and stepped into the hallway, digging in his pocket for a cellphone. Speed Dial 02 was set to the number that matched the phone on Alex's desk. "Major Cases, Cahill." "Hey, boss, it's Cross." "Must be big if you're calling it in." "Midtown North found a note at the scene. The only thing on the note are two numbers, one four digit, then a colon, then three digits. Body's cut to shit. It looks like-" "A serial job," Alex finished, sighing. "Great. Just what we need. Ok, what does Forensics say?" "They're still washing and waxing the floors. I'm sure that if a mere detective were to call the CO for Midtown North CSU and ask for this to be expedited, he'd be politely told to go jump in the lake. However, being a Captain, I'm sure you could prevail on Lieutenant Thornton to give this case the proper attention." Alex laughed in his ear. "Understood, DETECTIVE Cross. The ME have anything interesting to say?" Cross cupped his hand over the phone. "Cause of death being the throat slash?" he asked loudly. "That'd be my bet. But that's not official yet. Time of death... say...somewhere between eight and midnight." "ME says the throat slash killed him, puts the time of death between eight last night and midnight." "Well, at least he's fresh," Cahill observed. "What do you need from me?" "Bodies. Two, preferably four detectives for a neighborhood canvas. We have a lot of doorbells to ring. Also, call BCI-" "Already did. Have you got a birthdate on the vic?" Cross opened the other bag and pulled Wagner's wallet out. "June 19, sixty-seven." "Okaaay...hold one..." Cross heard the sound of shuffling paper. "Ok, Wagner, John. White male, thirty, no arrests, no convictions, no moving violations. Got his driver's license...two years ago? That's weird. BCI has nothing on him. I'll run him through NYSPIN and NCIC and see if anything else comes back." "Ok...Daryl and I will do the house, see if we can find out where this guy worked, who his friends, family..." "Ok. Talk to you." Cross hung up and nodded to Hicks, who was standing in the entranceway of the living room. "We got ourselves a mystery," Hicks said. He didn't look like he was happy. "Maybe we'll luck out and discover that our friend Mr. Wagner was a homosexual killed in a frenzy by a jilted lover, and the note has nothing to do with any of this." Hicks grunted. "Like we could be that lucky." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Flight 981 "What's your hunch, Mulder?" "Well, Estelle was right, to a point. I think this guy, if it is one guy, is pretending to be Mr. Sensitive. Very non-threatening. I think he's got better than average looks, and that he comes across as Mr. Nice." "So what did she get wrong?" "I don't think he had a domineering mother. I think he had a sexual relationship with his mother." "Incest?" Mulder nodded. "Yeah. I think the rage he's exercising through these...murders, kidnappings, whatever they are...I think they're a result of that sexual relationship. Judging by the age of the women, and taking into account a statistical mean of mother's ages at birth, I think we have the son of a girl who got pregnant very young, maybe fifteen, sixteen. When he was seven, eight or so, they started a sexual relationship. It probably went on for a long time. Then, something happened. She left him, she died, maybe she got caught and did some time. Whatever, that influence left his life." "What makes you think that, Mulder?" "Hunch, Scully. I don't have anything concrete to go on. But all the women have a very wholesome, girl-next-door look about them. Two of them were actually mothers. I think that when we investigate, we're going to find that all these women spent time around children. And that's how he's finding them." Scully nodded, wondering how the hell he did this. "So how do we find him?" she wondered. Mulder shrugged. "I don't know." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Omega Productions 444 Madison Avenue New York, NY Cross and Hicks exited the elevator on the twelfth floor. A small reception area was set back from the hall, with a pretty young receptionist seated behind the desk. Cross approached, his shield in his hand. "Detective Cross, NYPD," he said, a smile on his face. "I was wondering if we could speak to John Wagner." The receptionist blinked. "He hasn't come in today." "Oh," Cross nodded, as if he wasn't expecting that answer. "Perhaps we could speak to his superior?" "Has he done something wrong?" "We just need to talk to him," Cross said gently. The receptionist nodded and reached for the phone. Dialing four numbers, she waited, tapping pencil against the desk. "Mr. Sanders, there are some police officers here to see you." Cross grinned wider. A moment later, a middle-aged executive type came striding out from somewhere inside the office, his face red. Approaching Cross and Hicks, he smiled nervously. "I'm Mr. Sanders. What can I do for you?" "Detective Cross. This is Detective Hicks. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?" "What's this about?" Sanders asked. Cross glanced pointedly at receptionist. Sanders flushed. "Please follow me," he said, turning and walking back into the office. He took them to a conference room down a short hallway and led them inside. Hicks closed the door. "Sir," Cross started, "do you have a John Wagner working for your firm?" Sanders grunted. "Yes, we do, but he hasn't shown up for work today." Cross and Hicks exchanged another glance. "Sir, we're going to need to see all the personnel records relating to Mr. Wagner." Sanders crossed his arms. "I'm going to have to ask what this is about. I mean, don't you people need a warrant or something?" "No, sir, not in this case. Mr. Wagner was found murdered this morning in his home." Sanders paled and reached for a chair, lowering himself gently into it. "Oh my god," he whispered. "Dead?" he asked again. "Yes, sir. Murdered. So you can understand why we need to learn as much as we can about Mr. Wagner. I'd also appreciate a list of his friends and co-workers here. We'll need to talk to them as well." Sanders nodded. "Of course." He paused. "Dead?" "Yes, sir." Sanders nodded again and reached for a telephone on the conference table. He dialed four numbers. "Diane, this is Barry. Do me a favor and pull Jack Wagner's personnel file and meet me in Conference Room A, ok?" There was a pause. "Just do it, Diane. I'll explain later." He hung up the phone. "This should only take a moment." "Sir, how close were you to Mr. Wagner?" Hicks asked. "Uh...he worked for this company. I own it. He was a graphic artist in our production department. That's about as much as I know." "You called him 'Jack,' sir. Our records indicate his name was John. Did you know him well enough to call him Jack?" "No...that's what everyone called him." "I see. Was he a good employee?" "In what way?" "Was he punctual? Did he have any personal problems that came to the attention of the company? Creditors calling, that sort of thing?" "Not to my knowledge. Our payroll staff would be better suited to answer that question, Detective." "Did he have any problems with anyone here at work? Conflicts?" "No, he was quiet, kept to himself mostly." Sanders laughed. "That's usually what they say about the guy who snaps, not the victim." The door opened to reveal a short, plump woman with frizzy blonde hair. She carried a thin file folder in one hand. "Barry?" she asked, obviously annoyed. "I'd appreciate it in the future if you didn't hang-" "Diane, these men are the police. Jack's been murdered." Diane's mouth formed into a silent, surprised little "O". "Ma'am?" Hicks asked, reaching for the folder she carried. "If I may?" "Of course," she said, handing it over. "My God...Jack... dead?" "Yes, Ma'am." Daryl sat down at the conference table and opened the file. It didn't contain much. A job application, containing the basic name, address and educational information. Hicks noticed that Wagner had listed a job-training course as his education, and had also not listed any previous employers. That was odd, he thought. "I see here that Mr. Wagner didn't list any previous employers. How did you check his references?" Diane shot a glance across the table at Sanders, who coughed. "Uh, we participate in a job-placement program with the school Jack ... Mr. Wagner attended." Hicks nodded, making a note of the school's name and address. "Ma'am, did Mr. Wagner pose any personnel management issues? Was he tardy? Hard to work with, anything like that?" "No," Diane said. "He was quiet. He-" "Kept to himself," Cross finished with a smile. "We've heard that. Diane, do you know if Jack was having problems with anyone outside of work? An ex-wife, girlfriend, jealous boyfriend, anything like that?" Diane thought a moment and shook her head. "He really didn't talk much to anyone here. He just came in, did his work, went home." "Is there anything you can think of that might be important to us?" Diane shrugged. "He liked to work a lot of overtime." Cross frowned. "Was he an hourly or salary employee?" "Salary. But we give comp time. Two hours off for every hour worked as overtime." Cross nodded. "Did he use that time? Or was he wracking it up?" Diane thought about it. "He hasn't taken a vacation in about a year, I think." Cross nodded. "Ok." He reached into his jacket and came back with a slim leather folder. "Here's my card. Please call me if you think of anything else, or anyone calls asking after Mr. Wagner." Hicks was studying the personnel file. Tapping one page, he looked up. "No one to call in case of emergency." To Diane, Cross said, "Do you know of any family we might notify?" Diane shook her head again. "I can't think of anyone." "Thank you for your time," Cross said, offering his hand. They both shook it, and he and Hicks left Omega Productions. On the ride down in the elevator, they compared notes and impressions. "Quiet, never bothered anyone, no problem. No next of kin. A big blank zero," Hicks complained. "Yeah," Cross agreed. "So what now?" Hicks asked. "I got someone in front of me I can ask questions, we get somewhere. I'm no good at this 'detecting' shit." Cross smiled. Hicks liked to put himself down. With only a cursory examination of his past arrest record it would become obvious to even the most dense of readers that Hicks was full of shit. In those rare cases when he had to wear his uniform, Hicks' was decorated with more baubles and awards than Cross had ever seen. He'd gotten his gold shield ten years before by running a cop-killer down on a rooftop, a situation that had almost ended up with Hicks plummeting seven stories to his own death. "Well, Sherlock, I guess it's time to go visit Mr. Wagner's school and see if that turns up anything." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine A somber-faced man wearing a suit and a very nice Burberry trench coat was waiting for Scully and Mulder as they trudged off the plane. "Mulder?" the man asked. When Mulder turned towards the voice, the man thrust out a hand. "Detective Chavez, Portland PD. Thanks for coming." "This is my partner, Special Agent Scully," Mulder said, tipping his head towards her. Scully shook his hand and he smiled warmly at her. "Agent Scully. Thank you both so much for coming. We're in a bit of a bind here." "Well, without a victim," Scully started apologetically. "That won't be a problem any longer, I'm afraid," Chavez said. "Oh?" Mulder asked. "We found a body. Two, actually." "The missing women?" Chavez nodded. "One of them. The other is so badly decomposed that we have no idea who she is. We're waiting for word from the ME." Scully glanced at Mulder who quickly nodded. "Have they started the autopsy?" she asked. Chavez shook his head. "I don't think so." "Could you call and ask them to wait? I'd like to...participate." Chavez pulled a cellphone from inside his jacket and dialed. "Hey, doc, Bill Chavez. Do me a favor; if you haven't started cutting on that unknown, hold off. One of the FBI agents wants to observe." Scully bit her lip. Mulder touched the man's arm. Chavez covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Scully is a forensic pathologist. I think she'd like to...assist." Chavez's eyes widened, but he nodded. "Uh, change of plans, doc. The Agent in question is a pathologist. She wants to...yes, she...she wants to participate." Pause. "Thanks, Doc." He hung up. "Dr. Keystone would very much appreciate any help the FBI can offer," he said to Scully. So what was that 'yes, she' thing? Scully wondered. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= ITT Technical College New York City Cross and Hicks found the registrar's office with little trouble. They flashed their ID and asked for any information about a student named John or Jack Wagner that had attended their graphic artist's course two years ago. After a fifteen minute wait, an administrative assistant appeared looking flustered. "Do you have his social security number?" she asked. Flipping open his notebook, Hicks located the number and read it off to her. "Come with me," she said, waving them behind the counter. They followed her down the hall and into her office. The desk was piled high with paper. A PC sat on a credenza. Flopping into the chair, she typed the number Hicks had given her. A moment later the computer beeped. Squinting, Cross could make out the dialog box. "No matching records found." "He's not showing as ever having been a student here," the assistant said. The detectives glanced at each other. The answer was obvious. "We're going to need a list of all students that took the graphic artist's course in that time period. Just last name, first name, middle initial if you've got it, and social security number." The assistant looked as if she was considering refusing the request, but in the end she leaned over the keyboard and typed. A moment later Cross could hear a laser printer spooling up somewhere down the hall. "It'll just be a minute," she said softly. They waited for the printout. When she brought it to them, it was over thirty pages, sixty names to a page. "It's a very popular course," she explained. Hicks spoke. "I just had an idea. You offer job placement service, right?" She nodded. "Do you keep track of what companies you place your students with?" Again, she nodded. "Ok, give me a list of all of your students that were placed with Omega Productions on Madison Avenue in that same time period." She sighed. "We'll get out of your hair after that, I promise," Hicks said. A few keystrokes later, the computer beeped again. "No records found." "Now we've got a real mystery," Hicks mumbled. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine The ME's office was located in the Government Administration Building on North Chester Avenue. A good fifteen-minute ride from the airport found Scully and Mulder in the autopsy bays. There were two tables, both occupied. The first table contained the third woman to have vanished. According to the case file her name was Jessica Reed, aged 24. In life, she'd had long, straight blonde hair and blue eyes. Wholesome, girl-next-door image. In death, her hair was muddy and dirty, streaked with leaves and twigs. Her eyes were lifeless, pale blue. She'd been strangled with bare hands, judging by the marks on her neck. Scully took one look at the body and turned to her partner, lowering her voice. "My God, Mulder, she's only been dead a few days, if even that!" Mulder got it instantly. He was keeping them somewhere. Keeping them alive for unknown reasons. Which meant that there were nine, possibly ten women being kept somewhere. Mulder consulted the case file. Jessica Reed had been taken seven weeks ago. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of what she must have been going through for those lost weeks. He glanced at Scully, wondering if what she had gone through was worse. Probably, he thought, and felt a wave of guilt wash over him. The pathologist entered from another door, wearing scrubs and a rubber apron. "Hello," he said smiling. "I'm Dr. Keystone." Scully stepped forward, offering her hand. "I'm Dr. Scully, with the FBI. I was wondering if you'd mind if I assist you with this autopsy." "Of course not, Dr. Scully. There are scrubs through that door. I'll wait while you change." Scully nodded and marched off. Mulder hid a smile behind his hand. She was always more at home in the autopsy bay than anywhere else. "So, anything new?" Detective Chavez asked. Keystone shook his head. "Sorry, nothing to report at this time. Perhaps later, after we've had a chance to examine both bodies." Mulder knew that the autopsy on the unknown victim was going to be gruesome. "Detective Chavez, perhaps we'd better leave these two to their work," he said. "We can go to headquarters and go over the case in more detail." Chavez looked happy for the opening. "Of course, Agent Mulder. An excellent idea." They waited for Scully to return. When she re-entered the room, Mulder moved to her and bent his head. "Chavez and I are going to headquarters. Give me a buzz when you're done, and I'll come get you." She smiled, and nodded. "Sure, Mulder." He stepped back, looking at her dressed in the plain green scrubs. Something was wrong. Narrowing his eyes, he realized that she wasn't wearing her cross. Well, he supposed...she probably wouldn't want to when she was... Gulping, he shook his head to clear it. "I'll talk to you later," he said, turned and left, Chavez trailing behind. "Well," Scully said brightly. "Should we get started?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza New York City Captain Alex Cahill glanced up at Detective Cross as he entered her office, trailed closely by Detective Hicks. "Talk to me," she said, leaning back and crossing her legs. "Mr. Wagner is posing something of a problem," Cross started. "First off, he had the audacity to become a murder victim in _my_ city." "How thoughtless of him," Hicks interjected. "Yeah, yeah," Alex said, waving her hand in a come-on gesture. "What have you got?" "Not much. As far as BCI and DMV are concerned, the DOA is John Wagner, AKA Jack Wagner, 30 years old, white male. He had a job as a graphic artist at a place called Omega Productions in midtown. No one there knew him very well, no friends that we can find. His work says that he was a good employee, always punctual, quiet, kept to himself." "But," Hicks said, interrupting his partner, "he's got no job history. Omega told us he came in with a placement firm, from the school that he got his graphic arts degree from. Only problem is, they don't have a record of him attending classes there, or of them having placed him in that job." Alex titled her head, absorbing this. "So...and DMV says his driver's license is two years old. It's almost as if this guy just appeared out of nowhere two years ago. Anything on the house?" Cross shook his head. "Rented from an agency. Two years worth of payments, always on time. Sometimes early." "But that's not the best part," Hicks said. "She knows," Cross replied. "The note?" Alex asked. Both detectives nodded. "What do you think it means?" They shrugged. "Hey...you guys are the best and the brightest! You're supposed to figure this shit out!" They shrugged again. "Any response to the reach out?" Alex asked. Cross shook his head. "Nothing so far. Only Bronx North hasn't called back." "Call them again," Alex ordered, and then thought better of it. "No, let me. Callahan is a prick." Captain William Callahan, commander of Bronx North Detectives, had dearly wanted the slot that Alex had gotten after her promotion, and Alex was sure that he was holding a grudge. Flipping through a departmental directory, she found the number and dialed. "Bronx North Squad," a voice answered. "Hey, it's Alex in Major Cases." Pause. "Good morning, Captain." "Who's this?" "Lieutenant Ziski." "Lieutenant, I was wondering if you guys, or the Bronx Homicide Task Force, caught any strange ones lately." "Strange how?" "Note, found at the scene, nothing but numbers." There was a very long pause. "Captain, may I ask why you're inquiring?" "Answer the question, Lieutenant," she said sharply. "Yes, we did. But Captain Callahan wanted that information kept close-hold. He's got Bronx Major Cases working on it." "Not anymore," Alex informed him. "Do me a favor. Warm up the Xerox and get me everything you have on your victim. We're going to be coming over for it. As of right now, Citywide is taking this one over." "Captain, with respect, ma'am, but...can you do that?" "I just did," Alex said, slamming the phone down. Slapping her hands together, she continued. "Hot shit. Bronx north caught one just like ours. Get over there, Cross, and get everything they've got." Cross nodded and moved towards the door. "Hold it," Alex called. "Let me reach out to Bronx Major Cases and see if they'll play nice. I have a feeling that Callahan is going to go screaming to the CofD, and I want to be prepared." She dialed another number, this one from memory. "Bronx Major Cases, Lieutenant Lee." "Harry, Alex." "Hiya, Alex. What's shaking?" "You guys caught a strange one a few days ago? A DOA with a note, nothing but numbers?" "Sure. How'd you hear about that?" "I'm supposed to hear about them _all_," Alex pointed out. "Uh...right, Ma'am. What about it?" "Citywide is taking it over. We just got another body in Midtown North. Detective Cross will be over there in a bit to grab your files. Do me a favor, and help him out?" "Sure, Captain. But you should know that Captain Callahan," "Whom you don't report to," Alex reminded him. "Cap, his brother-in-law is the Bronx Borough Commander." "Well, tough noogies. It's our case now. Cross will be there forthwith." "Nah, forget it. I have a man going down to one PP with some house mail. I'll just hold him until the file's ready. I take it you will be calling the illustrious CofD to inform him that you are stepping on powerful toes...again?" "Yeah, yeah," Alex said, hanging up. To Cross, she said, "Forget the errand. Someone from Bronx Major Cases is hand-delivering the file later today." Cross grinned. "Ok, I'm going back to Omega. I'd like to find out how he was hired with no job history and no record of placement." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine Scully sighed as the water beat down on her scalp. Dr. Keystone had offered her use of the staff shower after the autopsy. Getting the smells and tastes out of her system after an autopsy was always hard, but this was helping. The body had a tentative identification. It wasn't much to go on, but the case file had included partial dental records. The only problem was that the results didn't make sense. Well, she thought...Mulder will make sense of it. +=+=+= He picked her up in an unmarked car Chavez had loaned them for the duration of their stay. She got into the car and slammed the door. "Back to police headquarters?" she asked. "Nah," Mulder said, turning and pulling into traffic. "This is Maine, Scully. They knock off early here. We're going to the hotel, check in, relax, and you can tell me all about your day." His light, teasing tone did little to hide the distaste in his voice. Mulder held little love for the details of an autopsy, something Scully had learned early on. She tried as hard as she could to keep the more grotesque details to a minimum. "Anything new?" "Not a thing." "Well, I have news," she said smugly. "We got an ID. Tentative, but I think it'll stick. We're waiting for complete medical records. Failing that, DNA test. But that'll take at least a week." "So...?" "June Sinclair," Scully said proudly. Mulder's eyes lost focus as his whip-crack memory kicked into gear. "Wait a minute..." he said. "She's the most recent abductee!" He glanced over at Scully's pained expression. "Kidnapee just sounds weird." She granted the point with a nod. "He's killing them out of order," he said. "Or we're finding them out of order," she pointed out. "No, Scully, you saw the body. She'd been out and about for weeks before she was found. Jessica Reed is only days old." Scully granted that point with another nod. "And something else..." Mulder said. "Something I can't put my finger on..." "Well, give it some thought, I'm sure it will come to you," Scully said, leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes. "God, I'm beat." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 444 Madison Avenue New York City Omega Productions was closed. Detective Sam Cross stood in front of the closed and locked glass doors on the twelfth floor, wondering what the hell was going on. It wasn't three yet, and the place was deserted. Pulling out his cellphone, Cross dialed the number on the door. Three beeps and a voice. "The number you have dialed...five five five six seven eight nine, has been disconnected. No further information is available." Cross checked the number he'd dialed against the door, just to make sure. Weird, he thought. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Val-U-Rite Motor Lodge Portland, Maine Scully knocked on the adjoining door and found Mulder laying on the bed, the case folders spread around him. "Hey," Scully said softly. He didn't move. She walked to the bed and sat down with her back towards him. Looking over her shoulder, she tried again. "Hey, Mulder." Nothing. Waving a hand in front of his eyes, concerned, she tried a third time. "Mulder?" "Scully..." he said softly, his arms reaching for her. She resisted. Snapping out of it, he turned to her. "What? Against the rules? I thought cuddling was allowed." "It's not that," she said, a little sadly. "It's just..." "What?" "Well...after I finish one, I still...smell like one of them." "You showered, right?" "Yeah." His arms found her shoulders and pulled her down against him. "Scully...if you think a little formaldehyde is going to turn me off..." She smiled into his chest. "Thinking?" she asked. "Yeah. I know there's something connecting the victims, and I just can't put my finger on it. Something dumb, I know. I know it's going to be something so obvious that...it's going to make me nuts when I figure it out." "Just relax, Mulder. It'll come to you." "I know I can be a jerk..." He trailed off, then whispered. "Jerk. Just." "What?" "Shhh...jerk. Just. Jessica. June. Holy shit!" He sat upright, dislodging Scully from his side. He tore into the case files, reading the names. He got halfway through when he stopped. "Shit. I thought I had it." "What?" "June. Jessica. Janet. Jennifer. Geraldine. Julie. Jackie." Excited, Scully asked, "And?" "Laura. Karen. Katherine. Anne." Scully bit her lip. "What about middle names?" she asked. Mulder looked at her and then dove back into the files. "Hit," he said. "Laura Jane. Karen Janet. Anne Jewel." He stopped on the last. "Katherine Lloyd. Must be a family name." "Still, Mulder, ten out of eleven is a match as far as I'm concerned." Mulder nodded. "But it doesn't fit. Katherine Lloyd was right in the middle, number six. Why deviate?" Scully rubbed her forehead, thinking. And then it hit her. "Do we have a family contact for Katherine Lloyd..." she glanced over Mulder's shoulder before finishing. "...Bennett?" Mulder read the number off. "Mother." Scully dialed the phone. "Hello?" "Mrs. Bennett?" "Yes?" "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm calling in regards to the investigation into your daughter's...absence." "Have you found her?" Mrs. Bennett asked. The fear in her voice was coming through loud and clear. "No, ma'am. Not to my knowledge. I just wanted to ask you a fast question. It may not make any sense to you, Ma'am, but it would help the investigation if you could answer." "I've told the police every single thing I can think of about my daughter," Mrs. Bennett said. "We weren't very close." "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bennett." "What do you want to know?" "Did your daughter have a nickname?" "Why, yes!" Mrs. Bennett said, brightening. "Junebug." Scully glanced at Mulder and gave him a thumbs-up. "Did she use that name in public? Is that what her friends called her?" "Oh, no...just her father called her that. No one else ever did." "Thank you, Mrs. Bennett. You've been a big help." "Are you going to find my daughter?" "We're trying as hard as we can, Mrs. Bennett." "God bless you, dear. Please let me know if you find anything out." "I will. Have a good evening, Ma'am." Scully hung up and turned to face her partner. "Junebug," she said simply. "Her nickname was Junebug." "Scully...Starbuck...you're a genius!" Scully winced at Mulder's use of her father's nickname. "God, I'm sorry, Scully," he said, noticing her expression. "No," she said, waving it away. "It's ok...for a long time, my father was the most important man in my life. I guess that it's only appropriate that..." she trailed off, considered her next words and the effect they would have, and then plunged ahead anyway. "... that the most important man in my life right now uses it, too." Touched, Mulder moved to her side, swinging his legs over to dangle off the bed. "Thank you, Scully," he said. She turned to face him. "Mulder...I have a really bad feeling about this," she said. "About us?" "No, about the case. June Sinclair was strangled, but we found evidence of other...abuse. Torture." "Such as?" "Some of the underlying muscle tissue in the chest, abdomen, thighs, and buttocks showed evidence that a low-voltage electrical charge had been applied to the body." "He's electrocuting them?" "Not to the point of death. I think he's...torturing them, Mulder. "I think he's torturing them until they beg him to kill them." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 6 END NOTE: I am most definately not a fan of the television show "Walker, Texas Ranger." Any similarity to character names should NOT be inferred.