"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com
Part 8 of 27: Table Setting
Apartment 304.
The a/c was running full blast: the apartment was like a freezer. Which would explain why
the neighbors hadn't called in the odor.
Mulder pulled his jacket tight as he stepped inside and Sauceda
followed hard after. The apartment was nice enough, pleasantly furnished: combination
living room/kitchenette with doors leading off left and right, but all this was absorbed
peripherally. The main attraction was on the table, splayed legs facing the front door for
maximum shock value.
As far as Sauceda was concerned, it was working. He was grateful that his partner had a
good seven inches over him: the pathologist could duck back behind for a minute's
reprieve. Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph, he'd never get used to looking at crap like this.
Not ever.
Behind him, Purdue was on the cell phone calling for Harris and whatever passed for an
investigative support team in this burg. He sent the super downstairs to direct them up.
The old man was more than eager to comply.
Mulder stepped through the apartment cautiously, his attention focused everywhere,
roaming, roaming. Always roaming back to the body of Ms. M-something Kelly. He spared a
questioning glance for Sauceda and the pathologist grimaced into action: found a place for
his bag, dug out the Polaroid. He was snapping away at the body when Mulder discovered the
stereo was on.
Purdue stepped over. "What've we got?"
"Turntable left running." Mulder fished a pen out of his coat and reset the
switch to automatic.
Purdue watched the needle set itself to the little forty-five disk. "Just forego any
drum solo's on this one, okay?" the ASAC suggested. "I think your partner's got
enough on his hands right now."
Mulder grinned and slipped off his shades, continuing his circuit of the rooms. He stopped
in mid-step as the song blasted from the speakers: a jazzy upbeat number with
get-back-Jack horns and a driving swing beat. Ella Fitzgerald does Rogers and Hart.
"This can't be love because I feel so well, no sobs, no sorrow, no sighs--"
Sauceda looked up at the two of them like they'd sprouted secondary heads.
"Evidence," Mulder quipped.
Sauceda noted the absence of the shades and warily resumed his initial inspection of the
body. The song was short and he sighed as Ella completed her little spin. And glanced up
sharply as the horns be-bopped again. Might have known the little punk would have set the
machine to automatic.
"This can't be love, Ella crooned again, "because I get no di-i-i-zzy spells. My
head is not in the sky. My heart does not stand still--"
"Wanna bet, sweetheart?" Sauceda whispered under his breath, regarding the
swollen corpse before him. "Jeezus, Marty turn that crap off. Like it's not bad
enough--"
Mulder not only ignored him, he began singing along as he approached the body. "But
still I love to look in your eyes," Mulder's soft tenor cut short and he nodded his
head to the instrumental interlude.
Sauceda's face was red and he was breathing hard, just staring at Mulder: those clear
eyes, that angelic face-- the Angel of Death with a devil-may-care grin. Sometimes, at
least once a day, Sauceda wondered if Mulder was even sane anymore. Sometimes, now
specifically, Sauceda didn't much give a damn.
Over Mulder's shoulder, Purdue was watching the two of them like he was anticipating a
fist fight. The pathologist kept his voice a low hiss as his partner made a circular,
hands-off inspection of Ms. Kelly.
"Now I know why you can catch these bastards, Marty. It's 'cause you're as twisted as
they are."
Mulder had moved from the feet to the torso and bent over slightly. He briefly lifted eyes
and brows at Sauceda without comment. Sauceda rolled up his tape measure with a
disapproving snap. He pushed past Purdue as the investigative team made their entrance and
quietly fanned out through the apartment.
Sauceda turned back at the door, though, watching Purdue watching the profiler alone with
the body in the kitchenette.
"This can't be love," Mulder sang softly along with Ella's sultry purr,
"because I love to look in your eyes." He carefully lifted the tablecloth draped
over the face and looked down into the empty gouges where the aforementioned eyes should
have been. Just as carefully replacing the checkered shroud, he moved to the lower torso,
lifting the skirt to expose the disembowelment. A wire coat hanger protruded from between
the legs. Mulder's expression never changed.
An officer with a camera approached. Mulder stepping back to allow the photographer room
to work. He requested snapshots of the contents of the cabinet drawers, requested--
respectfully-- that the fingerprint team not overlook possible prints on the closet and
the stereo. Asked if the rape kit would be run on site or at the morgue.
| Sauceda knew what Purdue was watching for. But except
for that damned forty-five playing round and round, he would find nothing wild or weird
about Mulder's behavior. Nothing spooky. At crime scenes, Mulder was generally devoid of
overt reaction; emotionally, he was habitually-- and remarkably-- flat. He behaved like a
man who'd seen it before, right down to the last detail: read the book, seen the film,
bought the T-shirt. No surprises; he'd already gotten the overview, thank you-- in his
dreams. Sauceda's vision focused back on the body; he turned away with a jerk and stepped
down the hall. |
|
When Purdue pressed past the officers gathering in the door, he
found Sauceda in a corner of the hall, looking through his Polaroid's.
"Is there a problem, Hot Sauce?"
The pathologist shook his head. He knew the ASAC was fishing for clues on this little spat
with Marty but damned if he'd concede the point. Instead, Sauceda waved his photos
vaguely. "Sometimes it just helps to get a little perspective with the photos
first," he insisted. "Get passed the touchy-feely stuff, you know?"
The ASAC pocketed his hands. "So, you always take your own photos?"
Sauceda was caught off guard by the sincerity of the question; Marty was usually the focus
of attention these days. Sauceda squinted, wondering if Purdue actually cared or if he was
just being kind. The ASAC's face was bland as butter. Sauceda shook his head stubbornly.
*Hell, Len, you're getting as paranoid as the kid.*
"I've found others don't have the same outlook I do sometimes," he admitted.
"I know what I'm looking for. Besides, Marty likes it; I keep the copies for
him." He grimaced. "Not that's he's not in there collecting his own Kodak
moments."
Purdue nodded. "Eidetic memory."
Sauceda was squinting again. Purdue squinted back uncertainly and Sauceda dropped his
head, staring at the photographs without really seeing them. Mulder's memory was beyond
legend; it was verifiable fact. While most people saw the beauty of it, however, few
thought about it long enough to imagine the horror. Sauceda'd certainly thought about it,
though.
"Wonderful thing, that kind of talent, huh?" Sauceda noted quietly.
"Marty's memorized every book he's ever read. He can recall every conversation he's
ever had or heard. Recalls every event right down to the smell in the air and the
sensations of touch. And he never forgets. He can't forget." He lifted his chin to
find Purdue watching him patiently, like he was waiting for the other shoe to land.
Sauceda tossed it to him. "It's all in there, Reg, every crime, every corpse in
implicit detail. Imagine keeping that shit locked up in your brain for the rest of your
life."
Purdue looked away, point taken evident in the pained shift of those dark eyes. Sauceda
felt guilty suddenly. Sixty-four years of life behind him and he still too often just
didn't understand himself. Why was it he always seemed to be talking about Marty behind
his back? Why couldn't he ever manage more than preliminary chatter and tough talk to the
kid's face? Sauceda swore silently, consoling himself with the dubious fact that Marty'd
probably hand him his balls just for trying a more compassionate approach. He pushed the
thoughts aside as he moved back into the apartment.
Mulder was standing in the middle of the room again, just staring, slowly panning left.
Stopping, moving again. Moving to the window, lifting the shade. Looking out. Look back at
the room with the sunlight at his back, pulling the shade again. Humming softly all the
while. Sauceda felt a pressure on his back and stepped aside to let Purdue re-enter.
Mulder noted the movement and stopped humming, regarding his partner quietly. Sauceda
returned the deceptively vacant look.
"You done, Len?"
With Sauceda's nod, Mulder waved the pathologist over to join him back at the body. The
coroner had begun his own preliminary work; the forensic technician was busy repeating
Sauceda's measurements and temperature taking. The tablecloth shroud had been removed.
Mulder stood respectfully at the shoeless feet while Sauceda assumed a position near the
victim's head, arms folded, watching Mulder. He would be getting all too clear a look at
the remains in the autopsy bay.
The body was swelled to bursting, the skin blistered and green; fluids leaked from every
orifice, rigor mortis a distant memory. With a permissive nod from the technician, Mulder
resumed his scan of the horror from all angles, mentally cataloging everything. There were
times Sauceda envied the young man that steel-trap of a mind; this was not one of those
times. This... this was the stuff of nightmares. Hell, their being here was the result of
one of Marty's less intense ones.
Mulder had paused again at the eyes, empty beneath the softly curling hair matted with
crusted blood. His own eyes bled from cold green back to hazel and human, and he looked up
at Sauceda, swearing under his breath.
"She's got Imelda's hair. Len, I'm sorry--"
Sauceda nodded, shrugged, and looked away.
Mulder clamped his mask back down but it didn't fit as tightly this time. He retreated to
the wall, several feet from his partner, out of the way of the coroner with his endless
variety of kits and labeled baggies.
"So what're we looking at?" Mulder asked distantly after a minute's reflection.
"A good two weeks?"
"More like two and a half," Sauceda estimated.
"A woman that pretty, no friends calling, wondering where she is?"
"Back off it, Marty," Sauceda growled, "that's Harris' job. Remember what
Purdue--"
Mulder waved away the protest. "Just speculating, Len. Don't get yourself
excited."
Sauceda squinted at the damaged face as Mulder regarded the hanger. "Marty. How do
you know she was pretty? You dream--"
Mulder sighed, unpocketing a baggied driver's license for his partner's inspection.
"A woman looks that good in a mug shot, she's bound to be a knock-out in reality,
wouldn't you think?" he noted reasonably.
Sauceda shrugged, not looking at the photo.
Mulder re-examined the bit of plastic for himself before tossing it into a box of evidence
at his feet. "So *you* speculate, Lenny," he insisted, staring into the box
blankly, "how come she's here two weeks with no one noticing?"
"Two and a *half* weeks. How the hell should I know? Maybe she's a loner. Like
you."
Mulder grinned at him over the body. Made Sauceda's skin crawl. The younger man shrugged.
"If I'm laid out two weeks, my guts on my dining room table, you wouldn't come
looking for me, would you, Hot Sauce?"
"Two and a half weeks, dammit. And sure I would."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Damn you," Sauceda snarled, "I said I would-- And I would, too. What the
hell's wrong with you, anyway?"
Mulder shrugged. "I know people."
"You don't know shit, you little prick. You gonna pull that son-of-a-bitch routine,
put the damned shades back on. Half-ass punk," Sauceda hissed. "And turn that
stereo off. If you're done ogling her, I'd like get the hell outta Dodge. I'm gonna have a
full afternoon of this crap."
Mulder resumed his grin but obediently donned the shades. "I don't know, Len,"
he quipped, "I thought maybe we could hang out and hear how Purdue explains this to
Harris."
"Maybe he doesn't need to."
Harris' voice from the door made Sauceda jump. Purdue didn't look too amused, either.
Mulder, the little bastard, grinned like a Cheshire cat behind his gold lenses.
"Home invasion," Harris leaned against the doorframe, regarding the profiler.
"Just like you said."
Mulder's grin settled into a friendly smile; he had Harris hook, line and sinker and
obviously knew it. Harris seemed to be enjoying the taste of the bait, though. And why
not? "Assists" like Mulder was offering often wound up bringing promotions to
the ones still left in town with the Fibbies moved on.
Harris waved a hand at the room in general. "Watching you move around the scene here,
Mr. G-man, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were just slightly turned on by all
this."
"What makes you think you know better?" Mulder blinked over his shades.
Harris chuckled wisely and turned to Purdue. "Speak to you outside, sir?"
Purdue followed without so much as a glance for his dynamic duo and Sauceda gave Mulder a
shove that knocked him back against the wall.
"Hey!"
"Hey?" Sauceda demanded, "Hey? Look, Marty, it's one thing to go jerking
people from DC to Seattle when it's *your* butt on the line, but you're hanging Purdue out
to dry now--"
"Bullshit," Mulder spat the word, straightening his tie indignantly. "Like
Purdue gives a damn what someone else thinks. The last time that man knew what
intimidation was, Gerald Ford was in office."
"You're wrong, Marty--"
"Since when? He's fine. You'll see. Besides, what do you care?"
Sauceda knew only that he *did* care for some reason. Purdue was a decent man who tried to
be fair, who seemed content to simply step out of the way and let his agent do their jobs.
After Patterson, it was a refreshing change of pace. Still, Sauceda surrendered the
argument. He was unaccountably angry right now; bodies like this had a way of doing that
to him. And Marty always seemed to be the one standing by to take the heat, like it was
his just due or something.
"What's with this sudden happy rush of yours, anyway?" Sauceda's tone was that
of a cross-examination. "Harris is right. You're prancing around here to that damned
music, smirking like a kid with his hand in the candy jar--"
"I do *not* smirk--" Mulder looked scandalized.
"And there's a dead woman on the table, if you hadn't noticed."
"I've been paying attention, Len."
"So what gives?"
Mulder shrugged. "It's not kids. God, I'm so sick of working kids..." He sighed,
running hands through his hair and his focus fell back on the body. "Damnation,"
he whispered.
Sauceda's voice was softer in spite of his best efforts. "Ah, hell. Come on, Marty.
Let's get out of the way."
Mulder followed him meekly enough, down the stairs past the super's verbal barrage as some
poor officer took his statement, out into the mid-morning air. Sauceda blinked, dazzled in
the onslaught of sun and temporarily envied his partner his shades.
Purdue and Harris were standing by their borrowed Chevy. Harris glanced up as the men
approached, stepping back with a deferential nod as he moved off to intercept the evidence
van.
Sauceda raised his brows at the ASAC. "How're we doing?"
Purdue took a hard look at Mulder. "We're doing just dandy. Seems Harris called up
the NCIC as soon as we left his office yesterday. Then spent half the night on the phone
with damn near every detective you boys have worked with from Baytown to Seattle. And most
of the homicide division in Shreveport."
Mulder grinned. "We're screwed."
Sauceda face was incredulous. "Jeezus, Reg, I thought you said this Harris was your
pal. He's got a hell of a lot of nerve checking us out. You piss him off and now he's
taking it out on the rest of us or something?"
Purdue shrugged. "No. Harris just isn't the trusting type. We're here under his
invite: we screw up, we make him look bad. Nothing personal, gentleman. He warned me
beforehand--"
Sauceda choked. "He warned *you*--"
"Christ, Len," Mulder was grinning mischievously. "You got a few skeletons
hiding in your closet? So the man likes to keep his bases covered. Lighten up."
The ASAC folded his arms. "Apparently you cover *your* bases pretty good, too,
Mulder. Harris seems to think you can't take a bath without walking on the water. Problem
with that is, I've worked with him before. He's not that easily impressed."
Sauceda frowned. "And that's a problem?"
"Sure," Mulder mused. "Now he expects miracles. And PDQ."
Purdue shook his head. "No. But, among other things, he's got some other cases he
wants you to look at."
"Okay."
"Not okay."
Mulder looked bewildered. "Sorry?"
"Not 'til this one's profiled. One serial at a time."
"Since when? Every profiler in the bureau does multiple cases--"
"This one's kids."
Mulder paused, pale in the sun behind the shades. His voice was quiet. "All the more
reason to get started--"
"Most recent kill was fifteen years ago. One of Harris' pet projects. UNSUB's
probably dead by now, it'll keep. That's an order."
Mulder glanced at Purdue then looked abruptly off up the street. He shrugged. "You're
the boss."
Purdue's eyebrows did a quick hop. "So they keep telling me. Sauceda, they want to
get you set up with the autopsy before the body, ah--"
"Pops? Thanks."
"Harris is making arrangements with the coroner now. I'll be following up at the
precinct--"
"Gee, Dad," Mulder quipped, "guess that leaves me with the car."
"Guess again, smart ass. When we hand you the evidence all neatly typed and
cross-referenced, Harris is going to get the finest profile he's ever held in two hands.
Therefore," Purdue smiled sadistically, "I'm having an officer drive you back to
the hotel so you can get started studying up on all those statistics you learned in serial
killer school."
Sauceda rolled his eyes. "Studying up. Yeah, right. Enjoy your nap, Marty."
"Thanks, Hot Sauce. I will."
Purdue studied them both but kept his mouth shut. His face said he really didn't want to
know if they were serious. Sauceda grinned. Purdue was right: some things in life you were
just better off not knowing too much about. Marty Mulder was one of them.
Sauceda laid a hand on Mulder's arm, directing a smile to cover the vice-like grip.
"Just do us all a favor, Marty. This time, hold off the full profile until we give
you some evidence to actually base it on. Okay?"
Mulder shrugged. "Whatever."
Sauceda thought he looked a little sad, though.
XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Mulder's chauffeur was a first year rookie cop still green enough to be impressed with the
initials on the agent's badge. That could have made the ride fairly interesting if Purdue
hadn't given him strict orders not to mess with the boy's head. Still, Mulder couldn't
help but feel they were making this whole thing entirely too easy on him. And somewhere in
the back of his genetically predisposed-for-paranoia mind he couldn't help wondering when
the other shoe was going to hit.
So he sat meekly in the car and occupied himself by writing out his profile in his head.
Like he usually did.
Mulder was well versed in all the Bureau's stats and indicators: the killer does this and
so, because of this and that-- so he's so tall and has a limp and he wet his bed till he
was twelve and his father beat him every third Saturday. Mulder hadn't slept through the
training; he knew all the formulas and he could give them back in spades-- along with
enough of the terminology to make it all sound good.
Mulder's insights however had little to do with psychological surveys. His profiles were
worked off the bits and flashes in his head, images disjointed, randomly ordered, wildly
skewed perspectives like Polaroid's slipped from the Twilight Zone. He was red/green color
blind-- something Personnel was told to conveniently forget when he'd been accepted at the
Academy-- but the images in his head were in full color. And developed to nerve-shattering
clarity.
Mulder's profiles were simply the critical interpretation of such visions, instinct and
training merging to create a unique whole. The beauty of it was: no one had ever proved
him wrong, or cite why he should be wrong. Because he had the same facts they did, twisted
and expertly knotted, ends tucked neatly away. And the fact that he was usually not wrong
was lost on no one.
Dazzle them with bullshit and frightening accuracy: perfect combination as long as he
didn't get too cocky, didn't get too free on the particulars.
There was a limit after all, to the number of things you were supposed to know. Get too
desperate to stop the killing, get past the line, spout off one too many details and they
pumped you full of Haldol and call the shrinks in. Didn't matter that the details were
faultless, didn't matter that meanwhile, some kid somewhere was being tortured to death--
Post Traumatic Stress, they labeled it. Only no one seemed to notice he was never out of
the stress long enough for it to really qualify as 'post' anything.
Motel. Key in the lock. Mulder saw the figure on the bed and caught himself just before he
hit the light switch. Closing the door quietly, he leaned against it, just watching Kay
breathe in the muted light of the drawn shades: a white sheet draped over glorious curves.
He glanced at his watch. High noon. Well, he hadn't really given her much opportunity to
sleep...
He slid off his jacket in the silence, shed his shoes and tie. Her face was peaceful and
calm, untouched by the horror that was apartment 304.
Mulder slipped onto the bed beside her and Kay rolled over into him sleepily, sliding her
hand down his chest and sighing back into dreams that left her face soft and smiling.
His shades were off and SOB mode on temporary hold. His chest hurt suddenly and there was
a pain in the back of his throat trying to choke him. Mulder gathered her against him,
gathered her against that Polaroid reality in his head, reveled in the sensation her
breath steady on his chest, her heartbeat rhythmic and real, the smell of her hair filling
his head with what was truth in everyone else's world.
This must be what it feels like to be alive, he thought. His tears were a surprise, but
silent by long practice.
XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Photo courtesy of TexxasRose's Fox
Mulder Gallery