"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com
Part 10 of 27: Not Waving, Drowning
Wednesday evening.
Sauceda was tired. Harris had nit-picked Mulder's profile for two hours, going over each point, Mulder's every answer prompting only more questions, an endless parade of inconsequential detail. Sauceda never failed to marvel at his partner's patience for these kinds of discussions-- and the amount of psychobabble Marty could dredge up to make it sound like he'd just pulled all this Spook crap out of a textbook somewhere.
Hell, who knows, Sauceda conceded, maybe he had. Some of it anyway.
Harris had dropped his skeptic routine, at least, apparently too fascinated by Mulder's insights to realize how odd all this looked: a seasoned police veteran being schooled by an upstart rookie. But the detective's interest was sincere and he wasn't fawning over the kid-- maybe Purdue really had known what he was doing when he hauled them here to Wheeling. Sauceda dared to hope they wouldn't have to go through the rookie hazing so many of these cases started out with. Most cops didn't appreciate Uncle Sam trotting out to tell them how to do their jobs; more often than not, Feds were about as welcome as a flu epidemic. Sauceda was generally viewed as the lesser of two evils, though: he might be a Fed, but at least he wasn't a Rookie Fed. The locals would take one look at Mulder's fresh too-damned-young face and the die was cast. There was always one overly-promoted ass who'd set in with the sarcasm, then the whole team would wind up blowing off brilliant profiles as so much hocus pocus, completely ignoring credentials and qualifications.
Marty always swore it didn't bother him, insisting the only ones hurt by the attitude were the victims. But victims of homicides are notoriously silent and it was Marty's reaction Sauceda had to look at: the pain that had no place in the young man's wise-ass cracks, the way he held his shoulders walking across blood-soaked carpets. Even his words were often deliberately chosen, flippant and cold, calculated to prove he wasn't emotionally invested in his own life's work. The victims could afford their silence; Marty, after all, hurt enough for all of them.
Harris' dinner invitation was a thoroughly pleasant surprise, then. Sauceda sat up with a grin and damned near choked when Purdue had the nerve to decline. A disappointed puff of air escaped Sauceda's throat with audible force and the ASAC sent him a murderous look. Sauceda nodded reluctantly. After Mulder's little upset at the diner last night, the last thing they'd need was a repeat performance with an audience. Still, it might have been nice.
Harris didn't tolerate rejection, however. Apparently, he'd put out the word the boys from the Bureau were working one of his cases and he was anxious to show them off. He was hauling Purdue's crew to the Pasta Palisade even if Harris had to kidnap them. Purdue was equally unyielding and the dispute took scant seconds to degenerate into the viciousness only true friends are capable of. Sauceda, disgusted, pulled his penknife and cleaned his nails. Well, hell. He disliked Italian food anyway. Didn't this burg have a decent steakhouse?
Mulder, consummate instigator that he was, seemed to be enjoying the fray. He sat enrapt behind the haze of his cigarette, never blinking, eyes never wavering. Sauceda grinned mischievously and gave his partner an encouraging nod. Mulder's answering chuckle brought both Purdue and Harris up for air and the profiler waved his cigarette in the sudden silence.
"Hell, Harris, if Purdue hates spaghetti that much, we can leave his butt here. I'm starving."
The ASAC leveled a glare that could have melded sheet metal and his verbal response bordered on the obscene. Mulder answered with a grin just this side of manic. Purdue's scrutiny turned wary but he yielded his end of the debate and Sauceda resigned himself to the specter of soggy noodles and ketchup-splattered garlic bread.
Purdue's surrender seemed to leave Harris slightly dazed. He shook his head. "Hell, Mulder, you don't even worry about getting written up for insubordination?"
Mulder shrugged. "I have a reputation to maintain." Despite the words, there was no challenge implied by the young man's tone. His voice was too flat, the words a reflex, his momentary humor past. He sat simply staring at the photo before him, staring through it. Dark blue suit, blue shirt and lemon yellow tie only highlighted the pallor of his face. Sauceda wondered how the state of Mulder's health had escaped his notice until now.
There was still work to be done at the precinct, though. Ms Kelly's body had been positively ID'd; her sister was flying in from Tulsa in the morning. Not that they expected much from her. Statements were still being taken from neighbors and co-workers. Harris, thorough and not shy about ruffling a few professional feathers, had gotten the crime lab to spray Luminol throughout the apartment and even in the outside hall. The chemical, which caused even invisible traces of blood to fluoresce, revealed the killer's tracks through the kitchen and living room and even took them to the elevator. The sight had brought the boys in blue to total silence: glowing footprints, short, dainty steps, size six-and-a-half pumps. Everything from then on out had been *Mister* Mulder. *Special Agent* Mulder. And spoken with reverence.
Special Agent Mulder insisted on holding up his end of the paperwork and by six o'clock his blood-shot eyes had begun to clear. Sauceda, however, was still keeping a close watch on him: Mulder's walk was no longer terribly steady, and his pupils had developed a bad habit of slipping out of focus. His handwriting had degenerated to almost complete illegibility but he resolutely ignored Sauceda's offers to take dictation. And Sauceda decided if he heard "I'm fine, really" just one more time he was going to pull his gun. Purdue didn't improve the situation by stopping in with another report: statements from the super and two more neighbors. The ASAC walked in talking, stopped mid-sentence and did a double take.
"Agent Mulder? Are you all right--"
Mulder promptly told the ASAC to go take a flying piss and leave him the hell alone.
On that happy note, Harris popped his cheerful face in and informed them it was chow time. No one answered but it took no special training to detect the tension in the room. Harris told Mulder to get his butt in the Ford. Mulder accepted the rescue, grabbing his suit jacket. Harris ignored Purdue's renewed efforts to decline their invitation and followed Mulder down the hall. Purdue and Sauceda, conspicuously not invited for the ride, dutifully followed in the Chevy.
They'd driven several blocks before Purdue asked: "The someone walking up behind--"
Sauceda nodded, "--is getting closer."
"Shit!" Purdue slammed his palm against the steering wheel. "So why the hell does he insist on going through on this dinner? What? It'd kill him to admit to weakness or just needing some goddam help?"
Sauceda considered a moment as the car echoed the ASAC's rage. "Yeah," he answered softly. "I think it would, actually."
The rest of the drive was remarkable only for its utter lack of conversation. There was simply too much to say to even bother.
Harris and Mulder were waiting for them in the parking lot of the restaurant. If anything noteworthy had transpired within the Ford, Harris was admitting nothing, and Mulder's face was ominously innocent. The detective escorted them in and didn't bother to wait to be seated, making a beeline for a corner table and the middle-aged man who was waving at them frantically. Aside from the hokey wave, the stranger wasn't exactly the standout type; in fact, he reminded Sauceda of Abbot and Costello-- the shorter half. Cheap, decade-old double knit blazer and matching corduroy loafers should have provided comic relief but one look at the man's cocky grin had Sauceda's paranoia button sliding over to yellow alert status.
"Agent Fox Mulder," Harris beamed, "this is Andrew Nilson. Reporter for the Ohio Sun."
Sauceda bit back a string of profanity worthy of a Marine sergeant. Hell on a shingle, a friggin' *reporter*-- Mulder didn't need this right now. None of them did. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not one of Harris' guests made the vaguest move to sit and the detective hesitated.
Purdue ignored Nilson's proffered hand, slipping his own into his pockets. "Shit, Harris," his smile was tight, "What's the problem? You piss off every reporter in Wheeling and have to swim the river to find one willing to swallow your current line of bull?"
Harris didn't answer, ignoring the thinly veiled animosity, too busy watching Mulder slowly return Nilson's handshake. Mulder spoke slowly too, reluctant and careful.
"I may as well tell you straight up, Mr. Nilson, I don't generally talk to reporters."
"Really?" Nilson gave him a politician's smile. "Why's that?"
"The last reporter I granted an interview quoted me. The killer took the comments personally and escalated. Another four kids died before we found the son of a bitch."
Nilson shook his head. "Well-- surely you can't blame all those killings on the reporter, Agent Mulder."
"No, not all of them," the agent conceded. "But if I blame just one, that's just one too many. Don't you think?"
Nilson's laugh was a response of nerves, the man was obviously unaccustomed to being flustered, but Mulder jerked his hand back like he'd been electrocuted. Nilson gave him an apologetic shrug.
"Look, kid, I've worked quite a few cases with SAC Vara out of the Cincinnati field office. You can check with him if you're worried about my credentials--"
Mulder's voice was cold. "Considering Terry Vara couldn't find a criminal on San Quentin Point, you'll pardon me if I don't take that as a glowing recommendation."
Nilson blinked and got his hands on his hips. "Well. I'll tell him you said so." His smile was calculatedly dangerous.
"I've already told him," Mulder assured, "but you feel free to remind him."
Nilson finally stopped grinning long enough to regard the boyish face, the utterly calm, listless eyes. Sauceda could have warned him not to look too close: still waters were often deadly and the unfathomable depths of Mulder's soul were no exception. Nilson broke away of his own accord, however, as Harris tried for an intervention.
"Nilson's not like that, guys," the detective promised. "I've used him before. You know: proactive reports to lure the suspect into a false sense of security, things like that. I figure you guys might want him to help us out with this one." He looked pointedly at Mulder. "I have *not* shared any current information with him on this case."
"That's right," Nilson side-stepped Mulder for another try at Purdue. "I don't print anything, sir. Not one word until you've rubber stamped it."
Mulder rubbed his eyes. "So much for freedom of the press."
He sat heavily in the nearest chair and Sauceda resisted the urge to feel his forehead for a temperature. He took the seat to Mulder's left, frowning as the reporter grabbed the seat to the right, almost slamming into Purdue to grab the coveted space. Sauceda tried to recall where it was Judas had sat at the Last Supper.
The waiters descended and the homey fragrance of fresh baked bread prompted an unspoken truce. They made small talk and ordered, except for Mulder who remained absolutely mute. For all intents and purposes, Marty could have just as soon not been there. For all intents and purposes, suddenly, he wasn't.
Nilson, apparently unfazed by Mulder's stoic silence, maintained an easy banter. He wasn't fooling Sauceda, though. Out of the corner of his eye, the reporter was cataloging every breath Marty took.
*The ass--* Sauceda only just managed not to say the words aloud. Each lull in the conversation set his heart to pounding, and he slipped his formidable conversational skills into overdrive, intent on keeping the reporter busy talking or listening, trying to insure Mulder wouldn't be expected to take too active a part in the proceedings. Purdue was way ahead of him, though, and assumed the lion's share of the burden. Harris snapped to a minute after with the air of a man who'd gotten a swift kick under the table. Between the two of them, they quickly had Nilson spilling his guts about every case he'd ever assisted on. Nilson, assured of making a good impression, was happy to oblige. With the reporter adequately distracted, Sauceda risked a closer assessment of his partner.
Mulder sat quietly, making no sudden moves, uttering not a sound. But the tension radiating off him made the hair on Sauceda's right arm rise up against his shirtsleeve. The calm of his demeanor was an inadequate veil, Mulder's muscles, tortured and too fiercely restrained, trembled occasionally. His pupils were fully dilated and had the fixed, unfocused quality Sauceda expected to find when he pulled the sheet back on a gurney. The eyes were feral, possessed of no human conscience. Thoughts flickered over their surfaces like the candlelight, leaving no trace within the boundless depths-- it would have been easier, Sauceda imagined, to leave an imprint in a pool of oil.
*Shit,* Sauceda hissed mentally, *what the hell did the kid do with his shades?*
Sauceda ordered for the both of them, making the process look routine and even expected. He ordered himself a beer-- hell, he wanted something worthwhile out of this evening, after all-- and ordered Marty a glass of wine.
On the other side of the table, the ASAC had been hazarding the occasional questioning glance. His brows did a short dance on the wine order and Sauceda gave him a determined twitch of his jaw. With members of the media present, he couldn't exactly break out the Valium, but it was obvious they'd be having serious problems if he didn't get the kid medicated somehow.
Nilson pretended oblivion. "So," he waved a hand vaguely, indicating the dining room without being too specific, "howdoya like the joint?"
Sauceda frowned to keep from swearing. He might have known he had this goon to thank for his inevitable indigestion. The Palisade was what Sauceda's wife would call "a fancy place." Sauceda usually translated that to mean okay food you have to pay double for and wait twice as long to get. Right now a bucket of chicken would have been just fine, thank you, so long as they had Mulder in the quiet sanctity of his motel room.
Mulder glanced up just then, his face lit with sudden interest. He looked Nilson full in the face then looked away without speaking; Sauceda recognized the event: a random flicker of memory and neurological response. Whatever had brought Mulder's attentions to focus wasn't located anywhere near *this* zip code.
To Nilson, however, Mulder's actions could easily be interpreted as deliberate disinterest. "This," the reporter waved again, eyes narrowed slits, "is one of the finest restaurants this city has to offer."
Sauceda couldn't resist. "Well, then, maybe we won't be in town too long." He felt a breeze pass across the bit of exposed leg between the hem of his pants and the top of his sock. Across the table, the ASAC looked like he was recalculating his aim. Sauceda pulled his feet under his chair and attempted an apology of sorts.
"I'm just more of a steak and potatoes man, Mr. Nilson. Sorry."
Nilson eyed him suspiciously but seemed willing to accept a truce. "You know why homosexuality's on the increase now, don't you?" he asked knowledgeably.
Sauceda's brows scrolled up and he chanced a speculative glance at Harris. The detective was beet red, just about the shade of the tablecloth.
Sauceda answered the reporter with a cautious shake of his head.
"It's all these damned hormones they're pumping into the beef." Nilson nodded. "Gotta watch your intake of that stuff. I've got stats that would curl your hair--"
"My hair's curly enough, thanks," Sauceda grumbled, then winked viciously, "if you had a decent perm, though, you'd be quite a looker."
Harris gawfed, and effectively ended all conversation with one of his more involved "Hey, Reg, do you remember when" stories. It was apparently one of his more embarrassing memoirs but Purdue egged it on with the occasional ribald laugh and wink. Grinning resolutely, Purdue spent most of the meal with his fists clinched, wielding knife and fork like implements of destruction, chewing with menacing passion.
Mulder, on the other hand, was holding out fairly well. He hadn't refused the wine. In fact, once placed in his line of vision, the young agent seemed content to devour most anything: bread sticks, wafers, wine and water-- every item was consumed with the same dispassionate deliberation. His motions were hesitant and brittle, as tightly controlled as a blind man who's been told to reach into a fire, but at least the kid was eating. Sauceda began to hope they might just pull off this fiasco-- unless of course, Nilson stuck his Budweiser too far into Marty's territory.
Sauceda had to remind himself not to stare as Mulder worked his way through most of his lasagna, oblivious to the world. The water was sipped with the same unconscious reflex that had downed the alcohol but mid-way through the meal, Mulder's movements began to assume more of their accustomed grace, the hesitation becoming simply discreet deliberation, the muscles more fluid with only an occasional tremor.
Mulder had begun focusing again, too, staring around him with the air of a man awakening in new surroundings. Sauceda was reminded of his own father, stolen from him even before death, kidnapped by the cruel hand of Alzheimer's. Marty had the same startled expression and watched, bewildered, as Harris attempted to diagram a particularly involved section of his story with a napkin and several forks.
Harris made his point, and Nilson and Purdue exploded with laughter. Mulder was instantly alert and wary, every muscle tensed for flight. Sauceda reached to lay a comforting hand on his arm and thought better of it, fearful of the Marty's reaction to an unexpected touch.
Mulder, meanwhile, had discovered Nilson at his right flank. His mouth opened in a kind of half-strangled gasp and he suddenly dropped his head to stare at his plate. Harris hesitated mid-sentence and Nilson glanced over, confused but silent, mouth full of linguini. The pasta sauce on his lip reminded Sauceda of an image in an old horror flick: vampire gorging on blood.
Mulder was blinking rapidly and seemed to need to concentrate just to pick up his fork. He buried the instrument into the remains of his garlic bread, an action performed with such slow, murderous deliberation that Sauceda was certain they'd lost him again. Mulder gave him a sidelong glance, though, and shifted hesitantly in his chair until his shoulder just touched Sauceda's. Sauceda returned the contact with a reassuring nudge that said, "I've got your back, partner." Or at least, that's what he hoped it said. Marty could comprehend the motivations of any psycho on the planet; the rational mind, however, was sometimes a bit more unpredictable.
Mulder turned his head to regard Sauceda warily, blood red tablecloth reflecting in the highlights of his hair, light from the candles dancing over the translucent skin of cheekbones. Mulder's jaw was darkening with the hint of stubble, a whisper of graphite on vellum.
Sauceda maintained the eye contact but he had no answers for those oil-dark pupils. Mulder's face radiated the certainty that he was utterly alone, the unyielding conviction that all Sauceda's good intentions would not change that fact. At that moment, Sauceda would have killed to reassure him otherwise. The pathologist had no facial expression adequate to state the fact, however. Mulder resolutely laid down his fork and the jaw turned away, clinched tight.
Nilson was watching, enrapt, apparently, at the site of the profiler finally alive and breathing independently. The table was spared his witty repartee, however, as the waiters descended to remove the dinnerware and make room for the inevitable.
In the commotion of coffee orders, Mulder pushed his chair back a bit, favoring Sauceda's side. Sauceda crossed his legs and relaxed into his seat; the position put his shoulder lightly against his partner's. He gulped gratefully when Marty didn't shove him away.
Nilson rolled his eyes over the profiler, sizing him up as the agent quietly ordered a cappuccino. Mulder's position forced Nilson to turn his head back awkwardly to get a clear look at the young man. Nilson didn't dare reposition his chair without ramming into a patron at the next table. Mulder's maneuver made Sauceda smile. Marty could set up an interrogation like no other agent he knew-- even when he was the intended target.
Mulder returned Nilson's gaze, as cryptic as the Sphinx. The reporter twisted in his seat, vainly seeking a position that would alleviate his tactical disadvantage. Across the table, Purdue snorted.
Nilson stopped struggling and dredged up his wise-ass grin again. He leveled it on the ASAC, finally adopting that let's-get-down-to-business tone Sauceda had so dreaded.
"I'm curious, Mr. Purdue. Isn't it rather unusual for the Special Agent in Charge to be out in the field like this? I mean, this must be quite an important case if--"
"*Assistant* Special Agent in Charge." Purdue's smile and voice were flat. "And, no. To both questions."
Harris returned Nilson's questioning glance with a look of pure innocence. Nilson jerked his head in Mulder's direction.
"And I guess you're going to try to tell me it's standard procedure for a profiler to operate almost exclusively out in the field? And to be assigned a partner?"
Purdue's voice was patient enough, but the look he gave Nilson suggested he'd commit homicide with glee. "Sauceda is a pathologist, Mr. Nilson," he explained. "His medical expertise is invaluable. Agent Mulder is at his best in a hands-on situation--"
"Agent Mulder," Agent Mulder quipped quietly, "is here for the view."
Nilson gave Purdue a triumphant sneer and twisted around to view the young agent. "Of the city?" Nilson mocked, "Or the corpses?"
Mulder's eyes narrowed as he leveled them on his opponent. "The corpses, of course. And I hold the patent on the smart ass routine at this table, Mr. Nilson, try another."
Nilson's mouth opened, and abruptly closed as Harris sputtered delightedly. The detective wriggled his brows as Nilson glared at him.
"Give it up, Andy," Harris suggested amiably. "If that one tells you he's not talking, you're not gettin' get jack."
Nilson tried for an agreeable smile but only managed to grit his teeth. He fidgeted a minute, apparently trying to determine some way to redeem the situation. The perpetual stare Mulder was giving him didn't seem to be helping any. Sauceda chuckled just watching Nilson's wheels turn. The guy had probably offered to buy dinner when Harris brokered this deal and now he'd be trying to figure how he was going to take it off his expense account if he couldn't get enough information to produce a story with it.
Across the table, Nilson noted the pathologist's bliss and gave him an acrid look. Sauceda didn't mind, and widened his grin. Hanging out with Marty got him enough good press; he could afford a few sour grapes now and then.
"Okay, guys," Nilson tried his politician's grin once more, "we've obviously gotten off on the wrong foot here but, really, I'm just looking for a story, you know? Isn't there anything you can tell me about the case that I *can* print?"
Purdue answered. "No."
"What about the freedom of the press?" Nilson gave Mulder a crocodile smile, a last ditch effort. "Come on, Agent. Just one insight?"
Mulder shrugged. "We have five victims." He was back to swirling patterns in the sweat of his water glass but glanced up sharply as Nilson registered a protest. Sauceda cursed the fact that Marty's head was turned away from him and he was not privy to the look the young man gave the reporter. Whatever it was, it was effective; the words died in Nilson's throat. Mulder's face was tranquil as glass as he turned back to take a swig of his water.
"Look," Nilson wet his lips watching him. "I can understand you don't want to alert the killer to your understanding of any recent developments but... Hell, I've written the first victims' stories from every angle by now. Surely, there should be no problem discussing them."
"No problem," Mulder conceded. "And no point, ether."
Nilson swore. "Okay. So how about just discussing some non-specifics?"
"Non-specifics," Mulder mused, "that would be what? The weather? Last night's Knicks game?"
Nilson chuckled. "Harris is right. You're tough, son--"
"No, I'm not," Mulder's voice was suddenly bitter and Sauceda's panic button snapped into the red zone. "I stare at photos of body parts for hours on end and hand people's babies back to them dead. That doesn't mean I'm tough."
"What does it mean, then?" Nilson grimaced. "You're a nut case?"
"That, or I'm really hard up for the cash."
Nilson laughed. Sauceda joined him, grinning from relief, grateful for Mulder's continued composure, the momentary bitterness firmly squelched. Purdue even managed a tight chuckle. Harris, though, was breathless, watching the profiler. Mulder's face was unreadable, his eyes too bright.
"Okay, Agent." The reporter took his time lighting a cigarette, slid the package across the table with a nod and settled in his chair. "How about I just throw out some questions? You answer, or not. Up to you. No strings."
Mulder helped himself to a cigarette and allowed Nilson to light it for him before tossing the pack to Purdue. He took a deep drag and sat back, legs crossed, both arms resting comfortably on the chair arms, hands hanging loosely. He bearing was almost regal, like some monarch lounging on his throne, surrounded by his minions. He even smiled. There was no humor in it, but it was a generous effort nonetheless. He said, "There are always strings, Mr. Nilson."
"My friends call me Andrew, Fox."
"My friends call me Agent Mulder, *Mister* Nilson." Mulder exhaled another lungful of smoke and regarded the reporter through the haze.
Nilson tried twisting around to the profiler. "Okay," he shrugged. "There're strings."
"So ask," Mulder granted.
Nilson hiccuped on his smoke and took a minute to consider his sudden good fortune. "Okay, ah. I understand that most profilers put a lot of stock into what they call the killer's signature. That the signature isn't supposed to change through the course of the killings."
Mulder nodded and Nilson relaxed visibly.
"Okay. But all the other victims were homeless, more or less. So doesn't that make this a departure from the previous signature--"
Mulder smiled. It wasn't a particularly kind smile and Nilson hesitated.
"Define signature, Mr. Nilson."
The reporter glanced back at Harris. "Well, it's part of the MO, isn't it? How the killer does the crime, how he sets up the scene, the kinds of things he leaves behind--"
Mulder was shaking his head. "That's MO, alright. But it's primarily staging. In routine murder, staging's something the killer does to disavow his work. To throw off the investigation: making rape look like routine burglary. That kind of thing. It's a way of saying 'look for this person. This someone-not-me.'"
The profiler flicked his ashes over the remains of his lasagna, and stared at his water glass. "Serial killers as a rule, are immensely proud of their work. Their MO is variable: whatever is necessary to accomplish the murder. It's the signature that's static. Whatever's necessary to gain satisfaction from the crime: the type of degradation they engage in, the types of victims they're attracted to, the fantasy life their behavior displays. When a serial gets into posing, it's usually part of the signature, not the MO. It's their way of saying, 'In case you haven't noticed, this is my work.'" He smiled without looking up. "'I made this.'"
Nilson frowned. "So... you see no change in the signature?"
"I see an artist becoming more confident in the skill necessary to accomplish the work. An artist ready to spend more time on the work itself, with less fear of interruption."
"Ah. So, he changes the MO. Moves indoors to avoid interruption. But shouldn't that have occurred to him before?"
"I assume you're an educated man, Mr. Nilson. College graduate?"
Nilson shrugged. "Sure."
"Greek and Roman mythology still required courses for journalism?"
Nilson squinted. "Yeah. The myths cover all the basic plotlines of humanity. From Shakespeare to Watergate. What's that got to do--"
Mulder nodded. "You'll recall, then, the story of the birth of Athena?"
Nilson smiled indulgently, "I'm... afraid that particular story escapes me just now."
"It's one of those trick questions they like to pull on Jeopardy," Mulder returned the flat smile. "According to myth, Pallas Athena wasn't born at all. She sprang fully formed from Zeus' head. In full body armor, no less." He gave his cigarette a cursory puff. "Bet that was the headache from hell."
"So...," Nilson's face was twisted in the effort to comprehend. "Your point is that none of us arrives fully formed? And the killer has evolved to this point? Okay. That makes sense."
Mulder's cigarette smoked itself in his hand, forgotten. He was lost once more, somewhere in the depths of that glass of water. "Goddess of wisdom and war. Goddess of discernment and death. Ever wonder about the connection, Mr. Nilson? What it was the ancient Greeks knew, what they understood that they would attribute such attitudes to the same personality?"
Nilson was silent, putting out his cigarette even as he watched Mulder's vacant stare.
Sweat was running down Sauceda's face and he was trying desperately to find something to say, a tow line to rescue Marty from whatever sea of thought he seemed intent on drowning in.
But Purdue was quicker to grab the line. "It's time to put this show to bed, gentlemen. We've got a considerable amount of information to sort through in the morning--"
"One last question?" Nilson apparently wasn't too proud to beg.
Purdue opened his mouth, closed it again; he turned to Sauceda but for the life of him, Sauceda could find no viable argument. "Sorry, but the kid needs his nap" just didn't apply when the kid was twenty-six with a reputation for being hell on wheels when he wanted to. Right now would have been a good time for him to want to, but everything Marty seemed to want was in the small confines of that damned glass of water.
Nilson took his opportunity. "For the record, Agent Mulder," he asked. "How do you see your role as a profiler?"
Mulder dropped the corpse of his cigarette into the glass and watched it drown. "If I'm ever given one last question, Mr. Nilson, I sincerely hope I do better than that."
Nilson grinned ruefully. "I don't know. I've always been told there are no stupid questions."
"Of course there are. Certainly not every question is legitimate. Ask the wrong question, you get the wrong answer." He glanced up. "Unless you're really listening."
The look in Mulder's eye was positively seductive.
"I'm listening."
"Maybe. Like I said, you're an educated man. And I've just sat here and told you our entire case. Now. You tell me what I've said and we'll both know." Mulder's brow furrowed. "Just don't let me read it in the newspapers."
Nilson stared, recovered. "That doesn't answer my question."
Mulder shook his head, obviously disappointed. "For the wrong question, you're awfully hot for an answer. Okay, how do I see my role?" He closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly pale, drained, decades older. "My mother's father's father was a tailor. I'm a tailor. I try to thread the clues together before someone puts out the eye of the needle. That quotable enough for you?"
"Positively poetic," Nilson grinned.
"Then I've probably plagiarized it from somewhere and you could be sued for using it." Mulder stood abruptly. "I need some air," he announced, voice husky, and turned on his heel, striding for the door.
Sauceda snapped to in a delayed reflex and jumped up to follow. He was obviously tailing his partner but dammit, he didn't care one way or the other right now. Let Purdue make some kind of cover story if he wanted to. This kind of crap was supposed to only happen to Marty when he was dreaming. Or when the case was really bad. If Marty thought things were this bad already....
"Christ," he whispered, resisting the impulse to cross himself.
Mulder slammed through the door of the restaurant and didn't even pause. Sauceda was right at his heels, praying all the way, pleading for the tension in the young man's shoulders to loosen, praying for the storm to pass them quickly. Mulder headed straight for the Chevy, crawled into the backseat and slammed the door.
Sauceda peered through the glass a moment, seeing nothing but shadows of shadows. Voices raised in anger echoed across the parking lot. Harris and Nilson were having it out at the door of the restaurant with Purdue standing near to keep apprised of the situation. His dark eyes were watching Sauceda.
The pathologist tried leaning nonchalantly against the side of the car. Tried the pose with his hands in his pockets. Tried it again with only one hand in his pocket, the other serving as a prop for his head. He wasn't tall enough to make the pose look comfortable, though and he was grateful when Harris finally got Nilson packed off in his car. Nilson had to pass the Chevy on his way out of the parking lot and Sauceda feigned interest in a billboard, blinking painfully as the headlights of Nilson's Chrysler grazed his eyes. The reporter lost no time in peeling off down Market Street.
Now it was Purdue and Harris' turn to have some words. They kept the volume down though, and Harris looked like he was offering an apology. Within the confines of the Chevy, Mulder hadn't so much as twitched.
Unable to remain still any longer, Sauceda paced the length of the vehicle, watching for some hint of motion behind the glass. The profiler sat perfectly still, the darkest shadow of all, eyes glinting now and again as Sauceda moved back and forth, casting shadows of his own in the lights of the parking lot.
After an impossibly long minute and a half, the pathologist deemed Mulder'd had enough time to sort through all the insanity of the world and he carefully popped the door handle. He paused, waiting for a barrage of profanity to tell him he wasn't welcome. There was none and he frowned, opening the door cautiously.
The interior lights must have burned out in the too-old two-door; the car remained dark even with the door open. In the dim light filtering through the glass, Mulder was pale, glistening with sweat, unruly wisps of hair plastered ink black against the parchment white forehead. His head lolled back listlessly against the seat, his lips moving, producing no sound.
Sauceda turned at the sound of shoe leather on gravel and swore. Purdue was approaching, Harris following behind.
The pathologist closed the door protectively, careful to prevent the latch from catching, and moved to the fender nearest the two advancing men. He didn't speak and pointedly avoided Harris' eye.
The detective was only heading for his own vehicle, however. He gave Sauceda a cursory nod, wishing them both a quick goodnight.
Purdue waited for Harris to get his engine started before turning to Sauceda. "He keep the lasagna down?" he demanded.
"So far," Sauceda grimaced. "But, I don't think Toto's in Kansas anymore. At least not much of him, anyway."
The ASAC eased the door open and knelt. Sauceda stayed at his shoulder, trying not to block the light as Purdue took stock of the situation.
Purdue turned to glance up at him warily. "We going to have another body in the morning?"
The pathologist frowned. "Wouldn't that put her a little ahead of schedule?"
"Now wait just one damned minute," Purdue hissed. "I thought he only did this kind of crap when the crime was going on. You know, real time."
Sauceda shook his head patiently. "That'd be way too easy, wouldn't it? Marty's not really into easy."
"So I've noticed."
Sauceda snorted. "You ain't seen jack. Sir. He's just gotten better at hiding it, that's all." He reached over Purdue's shoulder and laid a gentle hand on Mulder's arm. The nerves trembled in the muscles beneath his hand. "Marty?" he asked softly, "who's car you sittin' in, kid?"
Mulder blinked slowly against the headlights of a passing truck, his profile blue-white then deep gray again. In the flash of the high beams, the pathologist noted Mulder's pupils: they were dilated, restricting only sluggishly in the glare, unfocused or just too deeply focused for the confines of the car. Mulder's lips moved again, still with no sound.
Sauceda squeezed Mulder's arm cautiously. "Marty."
Mulder's volume came up obediently to a hoarse whisper. His eyes scanned as though reading a far distant script.
"There were two babies," he murmured. "Years back. Before it was too late for babies." Mulder licked his lips, concentrating on the scene playing for his perception alone. "The first was a fetus... swam away in the toilet of the Enron station outside Belaire, Ohio. The second--" He gasped in the gleam of headlights as a second car passed. Sauceda's jaw trembled with the realization that it was no longer just sweat shimmering on the profiler's cheeks.
"I don't want to see, Lenny," Mulder begged, voice pitifully small, strained with grief. "I don't want to know these thing--" Sauceda pushed the ASAC aside; Purdue surrendered the ground without struggle, allowing the older man to squeeze a hip onto the floorboard. Sauceda grasped Mulder's arms, offering too little support-- but it was everything he had.
"It's okay, Marty. All this crap's just gone on too long, kid. That's all. You just need a rest--"
| Mulder moaned-- a despairing, keening wail cut short
almost as soon as it began. He leaned forward, every muscle trembling with the effort to
contain the outburst. Sauceda watched, powerless to offer any more than the comfort of his presence. Purdue's face in the door beside him was pinched. "The more I see," Mulder moaned, voice distorted with pain, "the more I see, the more comes for me to see-- Oh, God, I just want them to go away and leave me alonegoawaygoaway--" |
 |
Even as he pleaded, Mulder pulled away from Sauceda's steadying hands. Sauceda relented and Mulder pressed back against the seat, rolling his head hopelessly, lost once more in his invisible far off world.
"The second baby was twenty-six weeks before it cast itself out." Mulder grimaced, one hand fluttering fretfully to his chest. He left it lying there as though the pain was continuous, but inconsequential. "He never mentioned them," he insisted. "Her own husband, her savior, her knight in shining armor and he never mentioned them. Not even in passing. No what-if wistful look... like they never existed. She hates him for it. In his grave, she hates him for it."
Mulder's voice wavered, began fading, whispering and fading as he cringed away from the visions in his tormented brain: "He sleeps in a ditch of fire, and cannot hear; and where, in earth or hell's unholy peace, men's suicides will stop, God knows, not I."
Mulder gasped again. "Not I," he insisted, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Not I--"
Purdue jerked up, pulling Sauceda to his feet. The action sent them both lurching free of the car and Purdue held onto Sauceda's arm, roughly protecting him from stumbling as he shoved the keys into his hand. No explanation was necessary and Purdue ran for the opposite side of the vehicle and wrenched the door open. Sauceda, clamoring dutifully in behind the wheel, fought to pull the driver's seat forward, his attention tightly focused on the image in the rearview mirror.
All the movement seemed to snap Mulder's spell and he looked around warily to find Purdue seated next to him. He spent a moment simply blinking, apparently trying to identify which reality he'd landed in this time.
"You look tired, Mulder," Purdue noted calmly. "Ready to get back to the motel?"
Mulder silently scanned around him. He caught Sauceda's stare in the rearview and Sauceda gave him a smile he apparently didn't register. The profiler's focus moved on and Sauceda followed the track of his eyes: the oddly empty bucket seat beside Sauceda, the not quite empty parking lot, and again the ASAC. Purdue exuded a confidence and calm that had no place here.
Sauceda knew from experience that Mulder wouldn't recall how he'd gotten here; he watched the young man glance quickly at Purdue's quiet face, quickly away again.
Mulder ran a hand through his hair then fumbled in his jacket pocket. His hands were trembling but he managed to slip the shades on. Sauceda held his breath, vision weaving from Mulder to Purdue back to Mulder: a pale man in a dark car on a dark parking lot, wearing shades.
Purdue made no comment, allowing the young man this small defense. Sauceda breathed a prayer of blessing on the ASAC as he started the engine.
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