"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com
Part 3 of 27: No Deposit. No Return.
Tuesday, May 10, 1988. 11:27 AM. Wheeling-Ohio County Airport, Wheeling, West
Virginia.
When the departure light hit green, Purdue barely restrained himself from skipping off the plane to kiss the ground. Three hours of Leonardo Sauceda praising the technological advances of oscillating tissue slicers was a new definition of hell as far as the ASAC was concerned. Mulder had been no help at all, sprawled in his window seat, practically unconscious, and shielded shrewdly beneath his headphones.
And now that they were blissfully grounded, Sauceda's luggage had gone AWOL. Purdue remained dutifully at the pathologist's side through this trauma, listlessly watching a leopard-spotted overnight bag make its way around the baggage carrousel for the third time. There was a thump behind the flaps to the loading area and Sauceda steeled himself to see what popped out next.
Purdue resisted the urge to let loose another sigh and stepped back to get a better view of the lobby, instead. Mulder, not feigning the slightest interest in his partner's little dilemma, had wandered off early on, leaving Purdue to play concerned friend. It was not one of the ASAC's better roles, to be certain-- he'd had far too little practice-- and Reg had a vaguely uneasy feeling about letting the young man out of his sight for long. He couldn't account for the sensation-- hell, Mulder was grown and packing a nine-millimeter handgun. Still, it was a gut reaction Purdue hadn't been able to shake since Fredricksburg, and the ASAC had spent too many years learning to trust his instincts to start turning the alarms off now.
Mulder had slept most of the flight, a string of catnaps, waking frequently and jerking violently as he did so. The profiler then sat with his arms tight across his chest, locked in anxious silence until sleep attacked him once more and the process would begin all over again. "I'm fine, really" was his answer each time Purdue asked, and the private wall was an almost visible companion between them. Purdue had wondered if he'd be calling Fredricksburg when they landed, but Mulder had remained practically mute and the ASAC didn't press it. Sauceda had made no comments about Mulder's behavior either, but Purdue doubted that was anything to rely on.
Mulder, of course, had a reputation for mercurial mood swings-- Patterson had always chalked it up as a by-product of what made him function so well as a profiler: the ability to view so many sides of events at once. The problem was, Mulder could apparently see each side so clearly he could even empathize with it; the resulting emotional confusion had to be tough-- something the young man would have to learn how to control as he matured. Baez had confirmed this assessment months ago when he'd presented his findings, commenting that Mulder would either learn to deal with it or go mad. The quack even had the gall to shrug when he said it. Never in his life had Reg come so close to flat out decking a man in anger.
Purdue turned back to the baggage carousel and found the pathologist leaning too far over the conveyor belt, trying to squint through the flaps into the loading area. He laid a steadying hand on the older man's shoulder. "Okay, Hot Sauce. What gives?"
"Huh?"
"Mulder, dammit. There something going on I should know about?"
"Ah," Sauceda shrugged, distracted. "Well, I don't know. I mean, since when does an ASAC go traipsing around the country working cases with his agents? Hum?" Sauceda nodded as the blush spread across Purdue's face. "Hell, Purdue, put yourself in Marty's shoes. If your CO suddenly took to following you across the country, wouldn't you get a little... "
"Paranoid?" Purdue sighed.
Sauceda chuckled and shook his head. "Marty was born paranoid. Patterson says the kid's a natural born sociopath that's just too damned smart to get caught. 'Course," Sauceda winked conspiratorially, "Marty's response to that was to remind Patterson he knew where he lived."
Purdue grunted, watching a matched set of American Tourister slide through the flaps. "Is Mulder hard to work with?" he asked. "Or is it just authority he has a problem with?"
"No more a problem than authority has with him." Sauceda sighed. "Look, Purdue, you've got a year of Patterson's crap to plow through with that kid. It's all he ever got out of that old man and it's all he expects out of you. And it doesn't do any good to tell him otherwise. I've tried."
Purdue blew air out from his cheeks. Great. Here he'd thought he'd made the big time only to find he had to prove himself to a damned rookie. He noted the gleam in Sauceda's eye and frowned. "Is this something Mulder's told you?"
"Shit," Sauceda grunted. "Marty wouldn't tell me the time of day if he thought I'd share it with someone." He shrugged again. "It's not your fault, Purdue. Marty's just not one to let people too close, you know?"
"No, I don't know. Why?"
"I dunno. He's never let me close enough to ask." Sauceda's grimace dissipated as a battered brown suitcase slid through the flaps. "Hey! What the hell--?"
Sauceda's bag looked like it had made the trip to Wheeling strapped to the outside of the plane. The old brown hard-shell had seen an awful lot of wear in its time and now, apparently, the antique latches had failed. Somewhere between the cargo hold and the baggage lane, some merciful soul had sealed the ratty case with nylon strapping. Newly adorned, the suitcase bumped forlornly down the conveyor belt, bright orange disclaimer tag flapping on the handle.
Sauceda retrieved his treasure with a moan, hugging the oversized case like a mother in mourning. He carted the bag off to a counter to access the damage, remonstrating the powers that be in both English and Spanish.
Purdue decided it was probably best to let the man grieve in private and stepped to the door looking into the lobby.
He lost no time homing in on his profiler. Mulder was seated across the expansive room on a bench near the ticket counter. A little girl in a bright blue pinafore had also singled him out from the crowd. She stood before the agent, hugging a little plastic doll and staring as small children will. Mulder wriggled his eyebrows at her Groucho Marx fashion and was rewarded for his efforts with a huge, breathless smile. A few more elaborate faces had the girl in giggles. Purdue bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud himself: Mr. I-Don't-Give-a-Shit making a fool out of himself for a toddler...
Another thought, however and the smile on Purdue's face froze painfully: he was watching a man less than a decade out of his own childhood, a man who dreamed of children's corpses, delighting a three year old without saying a word.
Purdue cursed himself quietly. Morbid thinking was an occupational hazard in VCU, just part of the job. But like the rest of the job, it spilled its bloody mess into the facts of routine life. Reg frequently found himself comparing people's faces to the grimacing skulls his agents were called in to catalog. And kids were the worst. Purdue's last trip to the zoo had become an exercise in endurance: all those children, their faces full of promise-- His wife's barrenness had been a guilty comfort to him more than once.
And Mulder had worked nothing but child homicides for months now. Purdue wondered if he, too, was assessing the skull beneath that creamy skin. Something sad and distant behind the profiler's smile said he was. Purdue took no comfort in the thought. Mulder, his face as unlined as the child's before him, was far too young for such work. The fact that he was so damned good at it was surely one of God's inside jokes. And one punch line that would need a hell of a lot of explanation--
Purdue turned abruptly back to the luggage area. Sauceda was approaching dejectedly, the re-strapped suitcase, thumping against his leg.
"Anything missing, Lenny?"
"Nah. I don't think it can be fixed though. Damn. My Dad gave me this thing when I left for college." He gave the case one more loving pat and shuffled after the ASAC into the lobby.
The little girl with the doll had her foot stuck out, a picture of three-year old patience as Mulder, bent double, tied her shoe. Completing the job to her satisfaction, the agent gave the little foot a reassuring pat and she skipped away to rejoin her mother at the entrance of the terminal.
Midway to the outstretched hand of her parent, however, the child spun back. Her mother's calls were ignored as the little figure raced back to the young man on the bench. She dropped her doll and reached up on tiptoe to give him a hug, spun once more to catch up the toy and danced off, waving back to him so hard she stumbled.
Mulder's delighted smile vanished as Purdue and Sauceda's footsteps rang out beside him.
Purdue looked after the child trotting beside her mother, still waving. "You like kids, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder sprawled deeper into the bench and shrugged, promptly finding a blonde at the ticket counter to leer at. "They're okay, I guess."
Sauceda gave Purdue a grin and pointed out a poster on the wall advertising the local chamber of commerce: some little dog looking earnestly out and adjuring: "Wheeling: Get that Feeling." Sauceda patted Mulder on the shoulder and wriggled his eyebrows at the blonde. "Yep, someone's gettin' that Wheelin' Feelin', alright."
Mulder shook off the hand and scooted over on the bench without comment.
Sauceda, undeterred, plopped down beside him. "So, Marty, how come you're sleeping on the plane, huh? You got a girl? Maybe I need to call her up and tell her to let you get some sleep now and then." Sauceda gave Purdue a few "got-it?" winks.
Mulder didn't look over at either of them. "Go to hell, Len," he advised distractedly.
Sauceda leered, "Uh huh. Afraid I'll steal her away from you, aren't you?"
"It's been tried before," Mulder gave him a sidelong look too brief to be clearly translated.
Sauceda's face darkened. "I did not and you know it."
Mulder didn't answer one way or the other, crossing his long legs to slap a bit of invisible lint from his shoe. Sauceda had a reputation for knowing how to dish it without taking it too well; Mulder's silence had the pathologist quickly spewing.
"You little shit," he barked. "You're gonna forget and spout off like that in front of my wife one of these days and I'm gonna have your balls in a sling."
"Always knew you were hot to get your hands on them." Mulder turned back to his partner and, without a hint of a smile, fluttered his eyelashes provocatively.
Sauceda choked and swore, retreating to his corner of the bench to sulk. "Screw you, Marty."
"Not even on your best day, Hot Sauce," Mulder promised serenely.
"Well damn my bad luck-- it's Reggie Purdue!"
All three men turned to the booming voice approaching across the lobby.
The speaker was somewhere around Mulder's height with a good twenty pounds and a tough fifteen years over the agent. Obviously former military and probably all business when he didn't have Reggie Purdue pounding his back with joy.
"Nat!" Purdue's grin couldn't get much bigger and Nat's infections laugh wasn't helping any. The curiosity on the faces of the men on the bench got the ASAC settled quickly, though, and Purdue made introductions.
The old friend was Detective Nathan Harris, senior investigator for the West Wheeling PD. Harris had agreed to be their host for the next few days and said he had a few files for Mulder to review. Some older cases, a few recent ones he'd picked up off his desk. Stuff he'd been thinking about faxing the Feds and never gotten round to.
Purdue noted Mulder's impassive face and suddenly realized how all this must look to the young man. In Patterson's harem, Mulder had been the best thing since sliced toast and hauled out from his desk-- and out from under Patterson's thumb-- only for the unsolvable. And here Purdue had hauled him three hundred miles to work on the kind of cases Mulder routinely profiled in minutes on the phone. And the ASAC had accompanied him on the trip like Mulder couldn't be trusted to do the job unsupervised. Purdue bit his lip to keep from swearing aloud. It didn't help that Mulder didn't comment, merely nodding in all the appropriate pauses.
"Actually," the ASAC was looking at Harris but talking to Mulder, "Mulder here is a profiling genius. He's just out here humoring me while I get a feel for his methods. The Bureau is looking to expand his repertoire so to speak, expose him to a variety of case types."
Sauceda looked away innocently. Mulder was frowning; the expression was not so much a change in expression as an ominous darkening of the eyes.
Harris, oblivious to all this, took Mulder's reticence in stride. "Well, it's good to have you guys here," he assured, then eyed the youngest man. "I'll try not to bore you." He flashed Purdue a wicked grin and winked.
Purdue felt himself cringe reflexively. Harris was an honest cop and a good man, a reliable friend both in the field and off, but he didn't give his trust easily. Purdue had lauded Mulder, praising him for weeks to the detective. But it was obvious that in spite of everything Purdue had said, Harris was going to make the young agent prove himself. Purdue shrugged in resignation, wondering why this should come as such a shock to him. Hell, it wasn't anything personal, just Harris' nature and couldn't be helped.
Mulder watched the subtle emotional interplay without comment, meeting the ASAC's eyes, his face revealing nothing. Purdue was speechless within that solemn gaze. The profiler bent to collect his bag and Harris herded his guests out to find his car.
Purdue and Harris preceded the two less senior agents and Sauceda turned his volume up just enough to make certain he was overheard, but low enough to at least pretend he was talking to Mulder alone. Mulder, apparently too guileless for his own good, was the only one of the group who didn't immediately catch on to the tactic.
"You know, Marty, Purdue thinks you don't like him."
Purdue cringed. Leave it to Len Sauceda to make a bad situation worse. He rolled eyes at Harris' grin and made a mental note to refine his sadistic streak for Sauceda's sake.
They heard Mulder hiss, "Shit." Then in a quiet, suddenly unconcerned voice: "Where would he get that idea?"
"You."
Purdue could pictureSauceda's innocent face even without turning his head to look.
Mulder's grunt was untranslatable. "And I suppose one of us is supposed to be concerned about it?" he asked disinterestedly.
Purdue quickly tired of Harris' grin and mouthed a few expletives at him silently. Harris barely managed not to burst out laughing.
"Come on, Marty," Sauceda taunted. "You care and you know it."
Mulder's only answer was the rasp of his lighter as he lit a cigarette.
Harris kept his voice low. "So, that's you rookie, huh?"
"That's him," Purdue groaned. "Word of warning, Nat. Don't let him catch you trying to be nice to him. He'll slam your hood just for having the audacity."
"You're suggesting I get tough with him, then?" Harris grinned mischievously.
"Then he'll definitely slam it." Purdue found himself grinning at the thought of Harris getting his comeuppance. "It's a matter of principle with Mulder."
Harris shook his head. "And of all the gin joints in the world, you toss him into mine. Gee, thanks, Reg."
Purdue laughed, keeping his voice quiet. "But no kidding, Nat. The kid really is the genuine article. His profiling is downright-- well, spooky." Purdue choked on the hated word, shrugged. "And, like I said on the phone, I appreciate your help on this one."
The detective nodded solemnly "Well, I appreciated your call, and that you chose to come out here of all places. Hell, I know how tough burnout can get in this line of work. A man can get desperate and do himself a lot of damage. It's why I left LA. Like I said, I've got enough cases to keep you boys looking busy and keep the brass off your butts, but I won't be tossing the kid any of the pressure-cooker stuff." He glanced back at the man with the cigarette. "Still, I wasn't expecting him to be so young. If your bunch has burned him down that hard this fast, maybe you need to reassess some policy-- or some supervisors."
Purdue had more than he cared to say on that subject so he didn't bother, taking comfort in companionable silence. Harris knew better than to pressure for answers he didn't have.
They found Harris's blue Ford and the detective popped the trunk for their luggage while on his way to the driver's side. He swung an arm to the agents behind him, waving at the back seat.
"Get in the car, kids," he called playfully. He paused and pointed to Mulder. "Dump the weed, son, no smoking in the car. Policy."
His voice had been friendly enough and Mulder dropped the offending cigarette and ground it under his shoe without comment. And a little too thoroughly. Purdue noted the overly solicitous hand Sauceda laid on Mulder's arm. Mulder shook it off and donned his shades: mirrored gold Ray Bans that made you look back at yourself when you looked at the wearer.
Mulder tossed his bag in the trunk and crawled into the backseat behind the ASAC. Sauceda settled his case in carefully, lingering a minute more before joining them.
Harris started the car and shuffled through some papers on the dash. "Heads up," he called, tossing a manila envelope over his shoulder to the only vaguely alerted profiler. Mulder just managed to catch the file and Purdue caught his expression in the mirror on his visor. Even through the shades, Mulder looked like he was trying to determine where he could aim a bullet and keep the blood from splattering on his suit.
Purdue kept his own expression neutral as Sauceda settled into the back seat. The ASAC was actually disappointed that Mulder hadn't responded to Harris' baiting. Instead, Purdue realized, Mulder was busy watching *him* in Purdue's vanity mirror, spying on Purdue spying on him-- The ASAC snapped the visor back up with a guilty thump.
The quartet sailed down Highway 5 toward downtown Wheeling, listening to the rustle of papers in the back seat. Purdue and Harris shared small talk and jokes with Sauceda. The slightest bit of interest from the pathologist set Harris into performance mode and the detective started in on his repertoire of gritty anecdotes, beginning with the one titled "The Last Time I Embarrassed the Hell out of Reggie Purdue." Harris told this same tired story to everybody, in pointless detail, and it never failed to make Purdue squirm-- which was, of course, just what Harris told it for. Purdue noted Sauceda was lapping it up like cream.
Midway through his sordid tale, with Purdue gritting his teeth audibly, Harris jerked into silence. Mulder's file, reassembled, had suddenly plopped down over the front seat, landing precariously across the gearshift.
Harris eyed the rearview mirror. "So," he mused, "done already?"
"This is the case we flew out to profile?" Mulder sounded sleepy.
"You have a problem with it, Agent?"
"Well, you did promise not to bore me."
Purdue twisted in his seat so Mulder could catch his grin. Maybe, finally, Harris wouldn't be the only one with an embarrassing story to tell. The ASAC helped himself to the file. "What is this, Nat?"
Harris shrugged. "The Reader's Digest version? A rape homicide. The victim was a young woman, bludgeoned to death, tossed in the River. Body washed up across the bridge in Bridgeport, Ohio. No prints, no nothing. Coroner thinks the murder weapon was some kind of bottle." Harris glanced back in the rearview at the shades. "Your boss here tells me you know your stuff, son. So what've we got?"
Mulder sat sideways to stretch his long legs and Sauceda, frowning, slid his feet over to accommodate.
"The rape was a crime of opportunity," the profiler stifled a yawn. "The killer is local, known to the victim but not a boyfriend. You'd have closed the case by now if it had been that obvious."
Harris nodded; Mulder continued. "The killing was the focus, the rape was an afterthought, but the plan itself was fairly spontaneous. The killer was improvising, getting a feel for the event. He was obviously panicked and overplayed it-- mostly due to adrenaline-- but he enjoyed it and performed the murder itself thoroughly. Very thoroughly--"
Purdue grimaced at the photos in his hand. Autopsy found forty-six separate blows to the body, more than half of them hard enough to fracture bone. He flipped his visor down quietly, watching as the profiler continued.
"He's young, late teens, early twenties, not much upper body strength--"
"She was beaten to death," Harris was watching for his exit. "You don't think that takes much upper body strength?"
Mulder shrugged, leaning back against his door. "She was already wounded, in shock. One well-placed or just plain lucky blow low along the base of the skull," he pointed out such a spot on his own skull, "she's history. The rest is just working out frustration. From the look of it, he wasn't too sure of what he was supposed to do when it came down to the actual rape; that probably frustrated him even more."
Mulder tapped his foot against Sauceda's shoe just for spite like some kid on a too-long car trip.
"I'd look through the local misfit file," Mulder winked at Sauceda's glare. "Punk wannabe's still living with Momma and walking because Dad won't let them borrow the station wagon. Psychopath in infancy. Right now he's biding his time and seeing how the police work their angle before he tries it again."
Harris frowned. "You can't be serious."
"Okay, official profile," Mulder sighed. "Perpetrator is an asocial offender with an average to below-average intelligence and a disorganized presentation. He's socially and sexually inadequate, and has probably revisited the crime scene to relive fond memories. Consistent with most of the Holmes Typology of obsessive-compulsives, he'll have a hiding place at his house, probably under his mattress where he keeps the Hustlers. He's kept something from the kill. Your file doesn't mention anything missing off the victim so he's probably saved an article of his own clothing. Maybe his shirt. The little shit'll pull it out late at night when Mom's asleep, bury his face in it, get an erection off the smell of his sweat and her blood. It's better in memory than reality. It always is."
Harris had slowed the car and was staring a bit too hard at the Mulder's reflection. Purdue knew what was going through his head, comparing the words to that milquetoast face. This was standard profiling but Mulder's voice was just too damned flat somehow. It was beyond professional distance; it was downright cold-blooded.
"How do you explain the bow?" Harris demanded.
Purdue consulted the photos again: a mess of flesh that was only just distinguishable as human, a big ribbon bow, torn from the victim's dress, tied up around the neck like the wrapping on a gift that wouldn't quite fit in a box.
"Staging," Mulder explained blandly, staring out at the passing billboards. "Little dweeb had a brain-storm and wanted to make you think you had some tight-ass killer on the loose in Whoville. He's managed to keep his mouth shut only because he hasn't got any friends to tell, but by now he's fancying himself a somebody. The next FBI's Most Wanted. Just dying to let everyone know how important he is. He's probably been calling your boys up, offering assistance. Wanting to be Mr. Helpful. Mr. Neighborhood Spy who may or may not have seen something significant on the night in question. That kind of crap."
Harris bit his lip. "Well, interestingly enough, Mr. G-man, we've got someone matching at least part of your profile. One Albert Graves. Neighborhood kid. Plagued with acne and a history of bad haircuts. Beyond that, he's got no criminal record."
"Hasn't had much time to build one at his age. Pick him up. Interrogate him."
"Hell, good old Al was sitting in the public hall when I left the precinct. He'd heard one of the uniforms mention the fibbies had called in and the kid just couldn't wait to see you guys. You know, just in case you boys couldn't find your butts without his assist."
"He's got you made to order then, doesn't he?"
"Shit," Harris was more than a little annoyed; the blank mirrored stare in the back seat looked suspiciously delighted. Purdue bit his lip and kept his face impassive.
"Look, son," Harris scanned the curb in front of the precinct for a parking space. "We've taken a statement from this kid every three days for two weeks. He's got nothing left to say."
"Sure he does," Mulder insisted. "He's guilty. But he's not stupid enough to just pop out with a confession until you confront him with some evidence."
"Evidence which we *don't* have." The detective slammed the vehicle into park.
Mulder sighed again, one hand working at the muscles at the base of his neck. "And on the eighth day God created search warrants. Look, Detective, its all a game to this kid now. You ignore him so he tweaks your nose with it. He's laughing at you. He's sitting out in your public hall laughing his ass off. And planning his next kill. Just so he can rub that one in your face, too."
Harris spared a quick glare for Purdue, and shifted in his seat to get a better look at those shades. "Okay, Mr. G-man," he purred, "how about we go in and *you* interview the kid. Eyeball to eyeball."
The shades betrayed nothing. "What's wrong, Harris, can't your department handle a punk-ass kid?"
Harris winked savagely at Purdue. "Well, I don't seem to be doing too well right now," he answered. Mulder opened his mouth and Harris waved him quiet. "You make a good sell, kid; all that psychobabble sounds real good. But you obviously have no idea what you're talking about in the real world. Trust me, it's a little different when you get out from behind a desk."
Mulder's face in the rearview flushed about as deep as Purdue felt his own doing. Neither reaction was lost on Harris and the look he gave his friend was a flat out challenge. He gave the same expression to Mulder. "I mean it, son. You look that kid in his beady little doe's eyes and accuse him of this shit. I want to see the cold son of a bitch that can do it."
Mulder grinned his delight. "Sounds like a plan."
Harris swore again. He looked like he wanted to spit. "Do you even hear what you're saying? We're not talking gangs and hardened criminals, here. You're saying some nineteen-year-old boy raped and beat a girl to death. Think about that. Think about what that takes. Have *you* ever hit a man hard enough to kill him? It's not that easy."
"No, I haven't," the profiler admitted. "But I've thought about it."
"Well, remind me to stay on your good side, son."
"I don't have a good side," Mulder growled. "And I'm not your goddam son."
Mulder leaned into the front seat and Harris flinched. The profiler ignored him, snatching the file from Purdue and bailing out of the car. Sauceda grinned broadly, popped his door open and trotted after him. Harris and Purdue were playing catch up, following the profiler's rapid stride into the precinct, donning badges out of habit.
Harris was hard on Mulder's heels when the young man swung through the doors. Mulder pocketed his shades and stepped toward the public hall. The room was full: yuppies in power suits rubbing elbows with janitors and working girls. There were even a few kids present. But Mulder obviously had no problem finding what he'd come for.
"You," he barked so roughly Purdue jerked along with most of the people in the room. The profiler pointed to a young pimple-faced man with eyes big as plums. Mulder spoke like the kid had been the only one to respond. "Yeah, you. Get your butt over here."
The boy hopped up, obviously pleased to have been singled out and impressed with his own sudden fame. The other occupants in the room shrank from him as he passed, wary of guilt by association.
Mulder swung on Harris. "You got a room we can work him over in?"
The detective's answer was a silent glare; he spared an apologetic smile for the kid as he came trotting up.
"Hey, Albert. Look, these gentlemen--"
"I'll handle the introductions," Mulder rumbled, putting a not too-friendly hand on the back of the boy's neck. "You handle the accommodations."
Harris raked a steely glance over profiler and punctuated it with a growl at Purdue. Mulder had the detective's self-righteous indignation working overtime; it fairly rolled off the man's shoulders as he led the way down the hall. Several passing officers gave them a wider berth. Harris slammed open the door of a standard police interrogation room: stained wooden table, three chairs, one-way mirror and bad linoleum.
Mulder smiled sweetly and thanked him. The detective sputtered, trying to form a reply but Mulder pushed past him, propelling Albert through the door. Inside, Mulder released the boy suddenly, like their suspect was suddenly of little consequence. The profiler stepped through the room instantly taking possession of it, tossing the file on the table, spilling victim photos onto the scratched and cigarette-burned wood. Harris perused the staging, chewing his cheek and eyeballing the ASAC. Purdue raised a noncommittal brow and kept his attention on his profiler.
Mulder moved deliberately, rapidly, with the attitude of a man who had a lifetime of plans and a short time to live. Grabbing a chair from the mirrored wall, he plopped it down at the table, glancing up as he did so. He froze suddenly, attention riveted on the wall across the table. Purdue felt Sauceda stop breathing beside him.
Purdue followed Mulder's line of sight and studied the bulletin boards that filled the wall. Harris had been complaining that the precinct was running low on space; the presence of the boards indicated this room was used for more than just interrogation. The cork was covered with diagrams and autopsy reports, crime scene photos and chemistry work-ups. The looser pages danced occasionally from the breeze of an oscillating fan. A Disney calendar fluttered quietly next to full color enlargements of dismemberments.
Purdue noted the reluctant fascination on Harris' face as the detective studied Mulder's profile.
"Something wrong, Agent Mulder?" Harris' voice was cold but the eyes he turned on Purdue were uncertain, questioning.
Mulder shook his head without turning. Another few seconds of this and Harris' mouth opened again. Mulder, however, spun abruptly to face Albert and introduced himself. *Special* Agent Fox Mulder. With the EFF-BE-EYE. Purdue smiled. Mulder had Harris read the kid his rights. Harris did so, out of courtesy to his training, but it was obvious he didn't like it much. Purdue was impressed; this Albert kid had must have done a real number on the detective to be afforded so much consideration. Right now, though, Albert was far from suave: his eyes were wide and he seemed to be having trouble collecting enough spit to even stutter.
Mulder planted himself in a chair, pushing it back and balancing himself nonchalantly on the rear legs.
"Sit." He commanded.
| Albert obeyed, taking the chair situated as far from
the profiler as possible. It put him facing the mirror and Mulder, his back to the
bulletin boards filled with photos. Mulder regarded the wall over the kid's shoulder like
he couldn't be bothered with the interview suddenly. Harris frowned. "You got a lawyer?" Mulder asked absently. "Sir?" "Are you deaf?" Mulder was looking at him now, but his voice remained disinterested. The kid didn't answer, turning to look at Harris. Mulder looked at Harris, too. "I think that's a yes," he quipped. |
 |
The kid blushed and turned back to the agent. "No. No, sir. I'm not deaf."
"Then do you have a law-yer." Mulder said it slower this time.
Albert squinted uneasily. "I don't need one."
"The hell you don't."
The boy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. Mulder leaned forward, allowing his chair to slam back down on all fours.
"Did you even listen to your rights when they were read to you, Albert? I'm not stupid. Detective Harris here's not stupid. Don't fucking act like we're stupid. You're going to sit there and tell me you don't watch *LA Law* or *Miami Vice*? Yeah? Then you know that when you make a confession you're entitled to the presence of legal counsel."
The boy's eyes swung wildly from the hostile agent to his old buddy Harris. Harris was too busy glaring at the interrogator. Mulder stood and indulged in a luxurious stretch, working his shoulders loosely as he removed his jacket and tossed it into the abandoned chair.
Albert surveyed the profiler, cautious as a cat. "Hey," he stuttered, his voice little more than a high-pitched whine. "You guys've got it all wrong." He managed a half laugh, trying to shrug away the contempt rolling off Mulder from across the table. "I got nothing to confess. I just came in 'cause I thought--"
"You thought you remembered something else," Mulder mocked. "Something that might be useful. Yeah. Been there, heard that. You little shit. Sitting here, wasting my goddam time." Albert recoiled into his chair as the agent came around to his side of the table. Harris shifted uneasily but kept his place as Mulder folded his arms and sat on the tabletop, settling himself just within reach of the kid.
Mulder didn't even look at Albert, though, busy staring at the bulletin boards again. "So, you're waving your right to legal counsel?" Mulder insisted on clarification of the point.
"I ain't done nothing," Albert mewled. "I don't need a lawyer." He risked a pleading look at Harris. Harris was watching Mulder carefully.
The kid turned back to the profiler, pleading hopefully, "Look, I told you, man-- Hey, I'm as innocent as you are." Albert smiled, turning on as much charm as his tense facial muscles would allow. The profiler didn't seem too impressed.
"Hate to tell you this, Al," Mulder grimaced bitterly, "but that pretty much makes you guilty as hell." The agent sighed, rotating his shoulders wearily. "Okay, that's how you want to play it. I'll tell you how you did it. You interrupt me if I get something wrong." Mulder raised a quizzical brow. "Hell, screw that," he decided. "I'm not going to be wrong. I've solved more difficult cases in my sleep." Once more dropping the irritating Albert for the photos on the wall, Mulder's voice took on a flat quality like he was speculating aloud, simply talking to himself. Albert sat silent, apparently aware that he was no longer required, listening intently, eyes wide, shoulders progressively sinking. "It was her fault, of course," Mulder reflected. "That much is obvious. That short skirt, laughing at you when you stopped to stare at her. Teasing you, rolling that bottle of soda around all slick in her hands. Then ignoring you for the inconsequential little shit you are. Hell, she did everything but just come out and ask for it, right?"
Mulder was playing the interrogator's least favored role: projecting blame on the victim. It was a necessary tactic in investigative work and one that never failed to leave a bad taste in Purdue's mouth. The fact that Mulder made it look easy didn't sit too well in the ASAC's gut, but this was what the agent was trained for. And Mulder had never been faulted for his grasp of procedure. Purdue frowned, though, as Mulder leaned forward to peek at one of the more tantalizing photos fluttering on the board. The profiler's voice was increasingly distant as if he were functioning on automatic.
"You planned the assault," Mulder insisted blandly, "planned the killing, but only after she was already in reach and the opportunity was there. You just didn't plan the logistics too well." Albert fidgeted silently beside him. "Having shit for brains, you just hadn't thought things out and didn't know what else to do. So there goes a charge of Murder One right out the window, dammit."
Albert twisted his hands together painfully, squinting at the agent who seemed intent on both terrorizing him and ignoring him. He opened his mouth and anxiously snapped it shut again as Mulder straightened to scan another set of photos on the wall.
The agent's voice remained flat. "You think you had us all screwed with that bow business, don't you, Al? What? You stay up and watch reruns of *The Boston Strangler* on the late show or something?" Mulder looked back down at the squirming kid and the laugh that escaped him was genuine. Purdue resisted the chill that ran down his spine. "Albert DeSalvo and Albert the Screwup," Mulder grinned, "side by side in the annals of crime."
The agent shook his head and Albert went white. "You know what the problem with that is, Albert?" Mulder critiqued solicitously. "The problem is you don't have the balls it takes to actually kill someone by strangling them." Mulder, without turning, spoke over his shoulder. "How about you, Detective Harris? You ever strangle anybody?"
Purdue gulped air and cursed Sauceda's Cheshire cat grin.
Harris' voice was amiable enough though, it almost concealed the razor-edge of contempt as he moved to take a solid stand behind Albert. "About as many times as you've beat a man to death, Mr. G-man," Harris mocked. "How about it, Agent? Why don't you give us the benefit of your *vast* experience?"
Mulder smiled softly, eyes on Harris disarmingly agreeable. He held up his hands for inspection and Albert stared, caught up in that sure and steady voice.
"It's an amazing sensation, really," Mulder assured them. "The feel of that soft skin against your palms, the feel of tendons tightening against your fingertips." He leaned toward Albert slightly, his voice suddenly inviting and seductive. "The scent of perfume getting stronger from the heat of the friction as you start squeezing."
He sat back, flexing his hands slowly and Purdue felt his testicles draw up.
"And then the tendons start moving," Mulder intoned, beguiling, enticing, "and she's struggling, begging you for her life. Her body moving against yours. She's moving against you and moaning, pushing at you, tearing at you. Feels like you're having sex. Really intense sex. Not that you'd know, Al."
Harris glanced back at Purdue, his face twisted with confusion. Purdue's response was a half shrug. Damned if he knew where Mulder got all this crap. It was obviously having the desired effect on Harris, though. There was just the barest edge of fear in the man's eyes. Purdue hadn't seen Nat getting personal with that particular emotion in years.
Beside the ASAC, Sauceda's grin was positively wicked.
Mulder wasn't finished yet. His smile never wavered and the eyes he focused on Harris were deep green, unblinking as a cobra's. "Real world analysis, out from behind the desk, Detective: your boy Al is the 'blunt-force-trauma' type. Can't get it up enough to kill her clean, he's gotta beat her to death." He turned back to Albert and the kid cringed in his chair.
"What's the matter, Al, couldn't you make her enjoy it?" Mulder's smile was so sincere it hurt and the boy winced. "Of course you couldn't. And that's the beauty of putting some planning into these little ventures, Albert. You see, it's a simple fact: you can't kill someone by blunt-force-trauma without getting blood everywhere. Just... everywhere."
The kid looked green. Mulder propped a foot against the wall under the photo collection and leaned his elbow on his knee. "Blood on her," he mused. "Blood on the ground. Blood on you. Can't take that home to mommy to wash, huh? Only you can't walk home naked. Somebody might laugh. And that's where we got you. Your semen matches and you can claim consensual sex. That the killer came along after you left. But her blood on your clothes-- that pretty much nails it, doesn't it?"
In lieu of any response from his suspect, Mulder nodded to himself. "Here's how it works, Al. My profile gets Detective Harris here a search warrant, we find your dirty laundry, and you go to prison. No confession necessary. Its just that simple."
Mulder reached a hand out and pulled up the kid's chin. Albert flinched as Mulder eyed him critically. "Still, you know, you're not *that* bad looking." The profiler dropped his hand, wiped it on his knee. "You'll get that ass of yours raped the first shower you take. The rest of the inmates will figure you're into that kind of thing, anyway. Not that it'd matter. And all because some little split tail wiggled it at you and said you couldn't have it. See what women are, Albert? All the trouble they cause?"
Harris had finally had enough. "Goddam," he exploded and the hands he slammed on the back of Albert's chair had the kid cringing from both men.
"Goddam," Harris repeated, almost howling the word at Mulder, "look at him! He's just a kid. Just a few years younger than you, you little bastard!"
Mulder's smile was surprised but genuine. "Why Detective Harris. I do admire the intensity of your good-cop/bad-cop routine," the smile disappeared abruptly, "but this is *my* interrogation, as I recall."
Harris stepped back, speechless and Purdue advanced to lay a steadying hand on his friend's arm.
Mulder ignored them, reptile eyes back on his suspect. "Sure, Al's just a baby. The apple of your momma's eye, aren't you Al? Well, Albert, I think Detective Harris needs to take another look at his photo album, don't you?" Mulder nodded his head at the collection littering the table and his eyes dropped to hard slits. "Because, Albert, your momma's stone fucking blind. You're good, Al. You got a police detective patting you on the head and thinking the worst thing he could charge you with is truancy. But we know the truth, don't we, Al? You and I, we know what kind of hate it takes to do that to a woman." Mulder stood, leaning over the kid and Purdue got a better grip on Harris' swinging arm.
Mulder slammed his fist into to the table and watched as Albert bounced in his chair. "Tell him, Al," Mulder demanded. "Tell him what it's like in the real world. In your world. You *want* him to know, don't you? Aren't you just dying to tell the world how wrong they are about poor pathetic little Al?" Albert had stopped shaking, lost somewhere in Mulder's cold eyes. Mulder smiled. "Better yet, don't tell us. Then your lawyer can't get your confession thrown out of evidence because you were obviously too damned stupid to understand your rights to counsel."
Albert shifted in his seat and worked his jaw. Mulder raised an admonishing finger and the boy locked his lips down tight, eyes wide like the agent had pulled a weapon on him or something.
"Not a word, Al," Mulder warned softly. "Let me explain it. Let me invite you're badge-toting pal here into your universe." Mulder didn't break his gaze from Albert's tense face. Purdue could feel the muscles straining in Harris' arm.
"Real world," Mulder's face darkened, "you hit a man that hard you feel it. You feel the concussion of the blow clean up your arm. You feel like your goddam teeth are shattering in your head. Forty-six blows. At least twenty of them enough to rattle your own teeth and you just kept hitting her. She was dead by the fourth swing, you little bastard. You had to have noticed by the tenth. And you didn't stop. You just kept at it until you couldn't lift your arm anymore. That's not just evidence of murder, Al. That's evidence of a murderer's soul. A hateful heart." He slapped one of the victim's photos at the kid's chest. Albert caught it on instinct. "Here, Al," Mulder growled. "Have a good look. It's your self-portrait."
Albert complied, grimacing down at the photo in his hands. Mulder glared up at Harris, trembling in anger beside Purdue. "Now, Detective, you get that warrant, get this little shit in a cell and let's get on to some real work. And quit wasting my time."
Harris swung his enraged gaze from Mulder to Purdue, back again. And then gasped when he looked down at Albert. The kid was watching him, grinning maniacally, dry-eyed in the chair. It was everything Al could do to keep from laughing.
The detective stood as though frozen in place, jaw working silently. Words just didn't seem to want to form. It hurt to watch the man as he put it all together, standing there staring into that vapid, acne-plagued face.
Purdue gave Mulder a sour look but the young man didn't notice, intent once more on his bulletin boards. The ASAC felt Sauceda shift beside him and glanced over. Sauceda slipped both hands in his back pockets and sighed contentedly; his grin was so wide he looked like he was in pain.
Harris took a deep breath and shrugged off Purdue's grasp. Vision focused warily on Mulder's face, Harris nodded slowly at the bulletin boards.
"So, Mr. Mulder," he asked carefully, "you ever knife anybody?"
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Photo courtesy of TexxasRose's Fox Mulder Gallery