The Whole Catastrophe
Chapter 6
By Diehard and Dryad

6:00 am---breakfast finished. They were both feeling 
sleep deprived, but neither one of them was 
complaining.

He was already in typical hotel-room-briefing
mode--siting up against the headboard, crime scene 
and autopsy reports strewn across the bed. 
With his black suit, white dress shirt and black tie, 
he was a well-tailored island in a sea of photos, 
Xeroxes of police files, handwritten notes in his 
semi-legible scrawl.  Nothing new there.  
She had her back to him, brushing her hair as she 
stood in front of the beveled mirror above the dresser. 
Watching his reflection as he scanned the papers, 
she'd always been amazed at the amount of data 
he absorbed, how quickly he'd make connections, 
take point on each case. 

Last night, he'd waited for her to bring up the interview
with Cardenas. This morning, as room service cleared 
their trays, he'd asked her how she wanted to proceed. 
He was deferring to her more, seeking her input. She 
could see the effort he was making to have things on a 
more balanced footing.  She liked it, although it'd taken 
her a minute to answer, to get her bearings.

"Something wrong, Scully?"

"Not wrong...just surprising. You usually
don't ask me my opinion at the outset."

He sheepishly shuffled through sheaves of paper, 
"It was long overdue. Let's just say I have a new found 
appreciation for where some of my strengths lie."

"That almost sounds like flattery, Mulder."

"Not flattery...just a statement of fact."

She stopped what she was doing and turned toward 
him. "Then I can't let you down, can I?"  
Her eyes held a glimmer of warmth that her
intent expression couldn't hide.  "Well... 
each of the deceased were also arrested for crimes 
like the ones resulting in their own deaths. It seems 
important to check those crime scene photos against 
the ones taken on this case to check for discrepancies."

He slid off the bed and strode to the
writing table where he'd set up his laptop, 
settling in as best he could into a chair that 
was clearly a tight squeeze for his lanky frame. 

"Agreed. I'm guessing you can get those from Det.
Jorgensen. I looked at Gonzales' case files
yesterday and again this morning, but I'm interested 
in what you'll see once you review them and check the 
autopsies of our unholy dead."

"I'll ask her to pull a set of photos from Gonzales'
files when she calls...which should be any time 
now. Apparently the CPD is sending a squad car
to pick me up this morning."

"Ah...the VIP treatment. Just make sure they don't
make you sit in the backseat. You know...if it 
looks bad..."

She finished it for him, "...it's bad for the FBI."
She chuffed after that one, and her eyes narrowed,
the scope of the day settling in.  "Well then, my day 
looks pretty mapped out...what's on your agenda, 
partner?"

"I'm looking over the most recent crime scene 
data one more time. And just to be sure, I'll set up a 
walkthrough with the someone from the evidence 
collection team. So far, there's no indication of anyone 
present at the these new murders, except the 
deceased."

You certainly won't win any popularity contests 
doing that."  She'd done enough of these consults 
and knew that the local PD always chafed at the idea 
that anyone would be looking for blind spots, mistakes.

"I think Lazarov and his people are already clear I'm
a pain in the ass." He shrugged off the knowledge that
that it could be problematic. Truth was, he didn't care.
Besides, there was one other thing, another approach
beginning to occupy his attention

"I...also want to locate a footnote in an old X-file."
He paused a second and went on.  "It refers to 
a Santera practice concerning retribution and 
untimely death. There may be similarities to certain 
Haitian voodoo rituals, and cross-referencing may 
give us a better handle at some possibilities. After 
that, I'm thinking I want to visit some botanicas to 
get some firsthand information." 

"Mulder...Isn't it a little soon for us to make that 
kind of leap?"

"But Scully...that's why we get the big bucks."

X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~

He memorized every move as she slipped on her jacket 
and shrugged on her trench coat. Coat, brown pantsuit, 
beige silk blouse---had all been smoothed into place 
with an efficiency and grace that fascinated him. 
It was that same fluidity of movement when she made 
a Y-incision, sutured his wounds, pulled the trigger. 
Leaning back from his laptop, he wanted to make sure 
he could fully appreciate the view---her daylight person 
in place, ready to take on the world, adjusting her holster 
as a finishing touch.

Jorgensen had called to say a car was on the way
and Scully'd arranged for the photos to be at 
the lab when she arrived. She also made sure 
the dieners pulled all the bodies from the cooler 
and set them up in an exam bay, and that all the 
tissue samples and test results were available. She'd 
already hit the ground running, and expected everyone 
else to keep up. 

Her drive was apparent on their first case. It took him a 
while to admit it to himself, but it spoke to him, made him 
willing to trust her, even though he knew she thought he 
was probably certifiable. Time and tragedy had given him 
many more reasons, not the least of which was somewhere 
along the way he'd fallen in love with her. 

She'd caught him red-handed.  "We're on the clock, Mulder."

"My nose is pressed to the grindstone."  He was smiling
despite his transgression.

"Grindstone, huh?   I don't think so."  She leaned back 
against the dresser and folded her arms across her chest.

"I could see how you might miss the level of intensity.
I tend to hide it...it can be intimidating."

"Uh huh." There was the barest hint of a smirk teasing
the corner of her mouth.

"Seriously, I'm deeply focused on uncovering new leads."

"You just won't stop, will you?" 

"I've got some momentum here, Scully.  Can't blame 
me for tryin' to run with it ."

She walked over, put her hands on his shoulder and
whispered in his ear, "I can see it's up to me to keep you 
in line.  Go on.  Get to it, Mulder.  We've got our work cut 
out for us..."  She brushed her lips against his jaw.  
"I'll see you tonight, partner."  

He turned so that they were facing each other, and his 
hands snaked up and around to lace behind her neck,

"I'll be good.  See you tonight."

X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~

The ride to the Coroner's office and the County morgue
was brief. The complex was attached to the County public 
hospital just south and west of the downtown area. 
The building was a huge slab of dark cement and  
steel---ugly, utilitarian---harsh looking even from the 
outside. Scully felt her composure shift and slide. It was 
a cold, slate-colored day, typical for October in Chicago. 
As rain pelted the windows of the squad car, something 
coiled tight in her chest and she worked at drawing slow deep 
breaths. There was no room for a repeat of yesterday--
no room for hesitation, today had to go by the numbers. 

It'd never occurred to her to tell Mulder what had happened 
at the morgue yesterday.  It wasn't something for him to fix.

The patrolman let her off at the staff entrance,
and she tried without success to shake off the chill, making
her way down the dank, poorly lit halls to Bay #3,
where Kris Jorgensen was waiting. She strode to the 
doorway, paused to take a deep breath, to force down
a wave of dread that tasted like bile.

Scully walked quietly toward the other woman and 
saw a keen interest lighting the her features as she 
checked out the dressing on two of the corpses, bending 
close to examine the wrapping, the ties.

"Detective?"

Kris jerked away from the light touch above her elbow,
then immediately flushed with embarrassment. 
"Agent Scully, sorry. Didn't see you there."

"You seem absorbed, Det. Jorgensen.  Feeling less
put off by the dead in this setting, it would seem."
I wish I could say the same, she thought. 

"Actually, I should thank you for insisting I stick it
out yesterday." 

"Why is that?"

She looked away from Scully and focused on some of 
the linen dressing, fingering it as she spoke, "This is all so...
fascinating.  I feel like a new avenue of investigation's been 
opened up for me. This is work I'd like to be more familiar 
with, understand better."  She stopped to consider something 
for a moment,  "Who knows?  Maybe I'll ask for a 
transfer to the Forensic Unit."

Scully swallowed hard and nodded in response to 
what appeared to be her liaison's rapid-fire conversion 
from avoidance to affinity  "Great.  Are we ready to get 
started?"

"Well, actually...there's one thing. We've got all the bodies
here, except for Nat."  Jorgensen looked at he rows of 
corpses.  "When we tried to exhume, Nat's family told us that 
Alex Cardenas had power of attorney. She blocked it...
said it was too painful..."

"Nothing we can do about that."  Scully was sure Mulder
would jump on Cardenas' reluctance to cooperate. 
That woman was anything but the typical grieving lover.
They'd get to her later---right now, the dead were demanding 
her attention.  "What about the tissue samples?"

"They're in collection jars next to each body, just like
you asked."

She stared at the line of dead bodies. Vincent Coluko, 
Ashleen Wienhoft, Albert Breen, La Shawn Michaels,
Dakota Roberts.  A bitter lump started to form in her 
throat and she had to force down the urge to dry heave.
Taking another deep breath, "We've got plenty of work 
to do, so let's get started." 

As she walked to the display of photos laid out on the 
Assistant M.E.'s desk, her mind formed just three words,
a prayer.   'Please. Help me.'

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

Scully let Jorgensen pace up and down the rows between 
the exam tables, studying the bodies, while she looked at the
crime scene shots, the crimes these dead had committed.
Children, mothers, couples, old people--gutted, raped, 
sodomized, shot, stabbed, branded, garroted. She could 
feel a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades, even 
though it was almost as cold as storage in the bay.  
I have to do this, she told herself, I have to.

"Agent Scully," a voice from amidst the cadavers, "should
I suit up? I've got gowns, masks, and latex gloves."  She
was ready for action, and feeling a little restless.  It was time
for revelation, and she wasn't about to miss a thing.

"You do that."  Scully piled the pictures with care into
some kind of organized whole---Murderers on one side---
Victims on the other---first dead at the bottom, with the most 
recent staring at her from the top of the pile.  "I'll be there 
as soon as I'm done looking at these."  She took the new lab
results and checked the the drug screens against the write-ups 
of all the stomach contents.  No rum.   No rum in any 
of these victims.  Maybe the thing with Coluko was a fluke. 
There was only one way to find out.  She made her face 
into a mask of passivity--bland, unreadable.

"What about the tissue samples?"

"I plan on checking them after each autopsy, away from 
the bodies. We may have a repeat of what happened with
Coluko, where the scent is evident on exam. If so, then 
checking the samples separately is an additional safeguard.
If not, then it's a more discrete method to find if rum is present."

"You're very thorough." Jorgensen's admiration was evident.

"It's what the job requires..." Scully's voice trailed off.

"Agent Scu..." 

"I''m coming, Det. Jorgensen."

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

On the surface, it all appeared to go smoothly. First, 
checking and finishing the re-dressing of Coluko, then 
beginning the re-autopsy of Weinhoft. Only someone who 
knew her would sense that she was struggling, the set of her 
jaw was just a little too tight, her grip on the scalpel whitening 
her knuckles. Jorgensen was too enthralled with the 
proceedings to notice any of it, not even Scully choking back 
the nausea that would appear erratically. The sweating had 
stopped a while ago, and she felt drained and hollow, but she 
went on, providing a running commentary for Jorgensen's 
benefit. 

It was a perverse relief, having to focus on explaining 
the routine of slicing through skin and muscle, sawing through 
bone, weighing organs, instead of thinking about  what these 
people had done.  Jorgensen wrote down the specifics on 
the chart, inspected the straight line bruise across Weinhoft's 
back where her spine had been snapped, while Scully 
looked over her shoulder.

"So she fell, or was pushed against the sofa, that's how 
she broke her back?" asked Jorgensen, forehead creased in 
concentration. "It's obvious there was a fight in the living room, 
but who attacked who?"

She stretched her arms over her head, leaned to her left, 
then her right, rolled her shoulders and neck back and forth 
several times before answering. Don't, don't do it, she told 
herself, stay focused.  Scully looked over Wienhoft.  Despite 
pallor and rigor, she could make out that the twenty-five 
year old had been pretty,  but her youth and her beauty had 
begun to fade. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair showed 
traces of gray, her face etched with the legacy of life on 
the stroll--wrinkles at he corner of her eyes, bitten and broken 
nails tipping her slender fingers, her full breasts, narrow waist  
and long legs mottled with bruises, and the ragged cut 
in her pelvis, a horrible, bloody gash. 

For an instant, the image of the young couple Wienhoft and 
Coluko garroted for the fifty dollars in the man's wallet had 
flashed before her eyes.  Scully could feel herself blanch, 
her grip on the instruments slacken and tighten. Keep going, 
she urged herself.  Just keep going.

"Let's review the findings.  Although both of her fingerprints 
were on the beer bottle, I'd concur with the assessment he 
didn't hit himself in the back of the head with it. Aside from 
the implausibility of self-abuse, the angle and the amount force 
precludes any other option but a another party. His skull gets 
cracked and he bleeds all over the floor in front of the tv. 
Coluko manages to get up, somehow tries to stumble towards 
the kitchen when according to the ME, Wienhoft apparently slits 
his throat from ear to ear.  Despite his injuries, he manages 
to get up,drag her toward the living room where he's able 
to not only able to assault her, he get the knife away from her 
and guts her in a crude hysterectomy. Judging from the crime 
scene photos, it's assumed he shoves her, forcing her to trip 
over the coffee table and she just lands wrong on the edge of 
the couch. The ME postulates a double murder, with the lovers 
killing each other, which would make sense, except..."

The other woman's head bobbed up in curiosity, "Except 
for what?"  

"The amount of alcohol in their systems would have impaired 
both strength and motor skills...I don't think she could've done 
that kind of damage in a struggle."

"So the ME was wrong?...Maybe some drug use we didn't catch?"

"The screens were the most comprehensive available." Scully'd 
already catalogued this one as an X-File--unexplained dual murder.

"So what are you saying?" Jorgensen was feeling confused 
and a little pissed. This investigation was unraveling the loose 
ends, not tying them up in the neat resolution that Lazarov 
was expecting.

"I'm saying the ME made a reasonable assumption at some 
level, given that there was only evidence of two people in the 
apartment. The condition of the livers support a diagnosis 
of chronic alcoholism on both their parts. He assumed that 
chronicity was at the maintenance level, still affording them 
the capability to function. I disagree, even at the maintenance 
level, the savageness and the extent of the attacks suggest 
some other variable."

"Like a third party?  Agent Scully, did you find something?
Skin under the fingernails? Something the ME missed?"
Jorgensen was getting worked up. Maybe there was a lead,
something to point to a perp.  "I helped with the evidence
collection...there was no physical evidence present but the 
victim's. Not a single goddamn clue to be had. Not in Coluko 
and Wienhoft's apartment, not in any of the crimes scenes."  

"Sometimes one has to consider extreme possibilities." 
  
"Like what?  A killer who can murder at will and not leave a 
trace? That's not something I'm comfortable with." 

Scully had managed to push back the nausea yet again.  
"Welcome to my world, Detective."

She'd spoken slowly and deliberately as she leaned 
down, sniffing at the abdominal cavity. She wanted 
to wretch and the sweating had started again. But there 
was one thing she was sure of.

The faint odor of rum coming off Ashleen Weinhoft.

She beckoned Kris Jorgensen closer, grabbed the
sample jar and walked them about fifteen feet away.

"Here's some on-the-job training in forensics, Detective,"  
handing over lump of flesh floating in the jar.   "Open it."

Jorgensen did what she was told after only a second's 
hesitation. Closing her eyes,  she took a whiff of the 
contents.

"Rum. I smell rum."

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

They took a brief break in the afternoon, giving the dieners 
an opportunity to move away Weinhoft to the far side of 
the bay, and place Albert Breen in the central exam area. 
Over late lunch from the vending machines by the snack 
station, Scully barely finished half of a sandwich, relieved 
that she could keep it down. She hoped she might be 
leveling off, with whatever she was going through this 
morning, finally over.  Focusing all her attention on the 
repeat tox screens, she saw confirmation of the initial 
findings of PCP use in La Shawn Michaels'--vodka and 
sedatives in Breen's--heroin and cocaine in Dakota Roberts'.  
There was so far, no explanation of the anomalous odor--
both of them had smelled rum emanating from Coluko and 
Wienhoft.  If the same happened with Breen,  Scully honestly 
didn't know what she'd say to Kris Jorgensen.  She'd already 
decided Mulder would have to come up with one hell of an 
intuitive leap to piece together this puzzle. 

As she walked back in Bay #3, Jorgensen in tow, Scully 
had a strong flash of intuition, one she couldn't ignore. 
She was getting more and more like her partner all the time.
Not knowing why, she grabbed one of the dieners by 
the elbow as he was leaving, "Take the tissue samples 
and put them back in storage."

Jorgensen shot her a surprised look. 

Ray Faneuil, the diener, started to protest,  "Jeez, Doc...
My shift's over...'

Scully cut him off,  "Just do it and do it now.  I don't think 
you want me calling the ME over this."

Faneuil gathered each jar, set them on a rolling cart and 
hustled his way to cold storage.  Not completely under his 
breath, he muttered,  "Fucking bitch."

Scully pretended she didn't hear a word. 

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

Scully glanced up from her examination of Albert Breen's 
bruised lung and blinked.  This was going well enough.  
They were a couple of hours in--no sweating, no urge to 
vomit--just the still, cold dead, formalin, scalpels, bone 
saws, body parts weighed in grams. She'd peppered her 
play-by-play of this exam with bits and pieces of forensic 
history. For example, the origin of the manner of wrapping 
cadavers. Jorgensen was enthralled when Scully revealed 
it had started with the ancient Greeks, with its current style 
having been developed in the Middle Ages. 

Now they were taking who's who in the field.

"My opinion as to who's the top forensic specialist? 
I'd have to say Dr. Henry Lee."

"Is he published?"

"Absolutely. His 'Crime Scene Handbook' is a text 
at Quantico."

Then the conversation took a turn for the worst. It went 
bad when Scully glanced up from re-closing the gaping 
abdominal wound. There was definitely an odor of rum 
emanating from the man, slight, subtle, buried underneath 
the stench of putrefaction and the slight sweetness of 
ethanol from the breakdown of bodily processes. Somehow, 
she could still smell it after working on bodies since early 
this morning.  It must be some kind of marker. Of what, 
she wasn't ready to say.

The detective had a dark look on her face  "How could 
he do it?"

It didn't register.  Somehow she'd capped what she'd 
been going through before. This autopsy was just her doing 
what she did. With Kris Jorgensen's remark, that terrible 
knowledge sprung forth again like tainted water from a 
polluted well.  Breen had been suffocated and shot, gutted 
like a fish, lower intestine removed, sodomized and there'd 
been traces of semen present in his mouth. Scully had 
managed to block and compartmentalize, and shut-down 
and soldier on and it'd gotten her this far. And then she was 
brutally shoved back to Ground Zero. She could feel a 
knife-sharp pain twisting her gut---pain so strong it made her 
stop suturing and grip the table.

Breen.  Albert Anthony Breen.  A man who raped and murdered 
a child in front of her parents, who eviscerated a ninety-year old 
woman, then sodomized her while she was dying, using her own 
intestines as a condom.  Scully's field of vision narrowed, she 
thought she might  faint.  She didn't.  Instead of the relief of 
blackness, she saw the ten year old, suffocated, her Winnie-the-Pooh 
pillow held tight over her small mouth, that same small mouth 
corrupted beyond all understanding, her parents screaming until 
Breen shot them dead, an old woman whose last sight in this life 
was a man slicing her open, her bloody entrails pulled like a 
bloody leash, while he took her from behind. Her punishment for 
opening a door to a man who said he was lost.

Scully's breath was shallow, and she could feel the sweat bead up 
on her forehead.

Jorgensen did notice that. She was about to ask what was wrong, 
when her cell phone trilled in her pocket. Hannah.  It was Hannah 
calling from Rachel's house. It was eight o'clock and her daughter 
had been waiting since three for a ride home. Jorgensen walked 
to the far end of the room, and stood near the doorway.

"Sweetie, I'm sorry...I'm really sorry...Yeah, I got caught up 
at work.  Again."  A pause.   "OK...I'll come get you...I know 
Rachel had class,that's why she couldn't drive you home...I know, 
it's my fault."  She needed to get her head out of her ass, go pick 
up her daughter, bring her home, and try acting act like a concerned 
mother. She could think about the Forensic Unit and these stiffs 
later. She did want to know if Agent Scully was all right, see if 
she should come back to the morgue once Hannah went to bed.   
"No...don't try to walk home, it's too far. Stay there, I'm on 
my way." 

Jorgensen strode back to the table, where Scully stood ramrod 
straight, lightly mopping her brow with a Kleenex from her pocket.

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine, really."

"You sure?"

 "Yes, Detective, I'm sure. Probably a combination of bad food 
and too little sleep."

"I guess you heard everything, huh?"  She hesitated. "I...need 
to go pick up Hannah, get her home, make sure she's settled in. 
But I can be back later, by about ten... "

"It won't be necessary, Detective. I've done this alone for almost 
a decade."

"Are you sure, Agent Scully?  You know, it wouldn't be a prob..."

"Just go.." She managed to paste a wan smile on her pale 
face.  "Like I said before, I'm fine."

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

Jorgensen had been gone about fifteen minutes, but Scully 
hadn't moved. She made herself pull deep, cleansing 
breaths, tried to find the center, tried to talk herself down. 
She almost made it, too.

Looking at Breen's lower abdomen, Scully saw something pushing 
up out of his pelvis.  It was tiny, wriggling furiously. Snagging 
the tweezers from the instrument table, she quickly and carefully
probed the spongy flesh for the larva.  She caught a glimpse of 
white and immediately went after it, holding up its soft body under 
the lamp. Depositing the maggot in an empty sample jar, she turned 
back to search the body further. Maybe she'd find another.

She didn't have to worry, Breen's body was now swarming 
with them,a seething, milky-white mass. Reflexively, her eyes 
darted to the adjoining tables that held the rest of the bodies. 
All of them, teeming with maggots, swarms of them working their 
way through the dressings, making steam rise from the heat thrown 
off by their feeding frenzy. She felt her hand drop to her side 
and the tweezers hit the floor.  "Good.  Let them eat your 
miserable flesh, you sonovabitches," she murmured.

Whatever thin strands of control she'd tried to hold had finally
shredded to nothing.

The room filled with obscenities she realized were coming from 
her own mouth. Her voice -- she was screaming at corpses, 
shaking and sweating like a pig. Bile scorched her throat, with 
one vicious epithet after another hurled like a molotov cocktail.  
"Fuck all of you!   Fuck you!   Rot in hell!"  "I only wish  I'd 
been the one to send you there!"  Reeling from the venom 
and the rage that coursed through her veins, the room spun, 
and her hand went instinctively to her throat, her fingers 
brushing against her cross.

It was her undoing.  

Who had she become?  All too quickly, the bitter knowledge 
washed over her.  Faithless.  Vengeful.  Someone without 
discipline, courage or strength.  Betraying everything 
she'd built her whole life upon. Scully felt the scalding, 
stinging tears stream down her face. She wanted to pray, 
but she could feel the spasms start. Running to the bathroom,  
she barely locked the stall before vomiting, wretching 
violently into the ancient toilet.

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

White as a sheet, weak, and still trembling, Scully put all her 
effort into pulling herself together. She had to get back in there,
get someone to help her clean off the bodies. With handfuls of 
rough paper towels, she bathed her face in the icy tap.  Reaching 
out for God and science---she desperately prayed out loud,    
"Please, give me the strength."  By the time she dried her face
and rinsed her mouth, she could feel herself start to calm.

As she made her way toward the bay, a litany ran through her
mind---she needed her other bedrock---science---and its
answers.  'Egg to larva to pupa to adult, and  then the cycle 
repeats until the optimal conditions for that particular species 
have passed.   What had she seen in there?  Calliphora vicina, 
Cynomyopsis cadaverina, Phormia regina, Sarcophiga carnaria.'  
Latin for the common bluebottle, the shiny blubottle, the black 
blow fly, and the family of flesh flies.  Sarcophiga carnaria---
Flesh flies.   Both pupa and adults can consume a fifty times 
their body weight in carrion.'   She could feel her heart race 
as she opened the door.

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

Breen's body was no more than a skeleton.  Scully ran and 
hastily undid all the wraps on the cadavers---only skeletal
remains. The maggots had slithered off the bodies, and 
were one swirling mess on the floor.  Scully walked over 
to the intercom the wall and paged the dieners. Pulling 
herself up, and squaring her shoulders, she wanted to appear 
in charge, able to minimize any possible resistance from 
staff in handling the clean up. It felt like posing after 
what'd just happened. 

After a wordlessly staring at the floor and the bodies,
Joe Gilliam, the 60 year-old second-shift guy, who'd seen it all, 
asked dryly,  "Why do I always get the weird-ass calls?"

Over her shoulder, as she passed him on her way to storage, 
Scully yelled, "Good to know you've got it covered." 

She could see wisps of her breath as she opened the jars 
containing Breen's, Michaels', and Roberts' samples. 
Taking a whiff of each---there it was---what she'd smelled all
day long.

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

Yesterday, his instincts told him Shinoda wouldn't be a 
viable lead. Today--so far, so good. Lazarov didn't dig 
in his heels when he'd called to ask to for the walk-throughs,
he'd been able to locate the necessary reference, and 
a combination of web surfing and the yellow pages 
narrowed down the list of locales friendly to Santeria. 
Something told him he should make his search based 
on Alex Cardenas' choices for veneration. 

Lucky for him, of all the dozens of botanicas in Chicago, 
there was only one connected with Oya, and one associated 
with Obatala.  Apparently, there were no cults of Ellegua, 
no botanicas dedicated to him, so he'd have to punt to come 
up with how to locate his devotees. Hopefully, he'd be able 
to get these walk-throughs done by mid-afternoon, 
and start interviewing members of houses after that. Right now 
he was on edge, his sixth sense tingling. He was going 
to find something important to the case. Something hidden, 
something no one was expecting. 

Pacing in front of the Burnham for about fifteen minutes, 
his trenchcoat flapping in counterpoint to his steps, 
he was close to wearing a groove in the rain-slicked  
pavement. Waving off the doorman's offer of an umbrella, 
the nervous energy came off him in waves. Mulder ran his 
hands through his hair and and shuddered off the excess 
dampness like a dog shaking water off its fur.  It'd been 
a little over two hours since Scully left. 

"Where the hell is the asshole from the ECU?," he spat out 
under his breath. 

Grabbing his cel, he'd started punching in Lazarov's
number again, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Whipping
around, he almost fell on a woman wearing a CPD windbreaker 
over jeans, a Bears' sweatshirt and shoulder holster. She was 
almost his height, athletic build, her curly brown hair pulled 
into a ponytail and tucked under black a baseball cap. She'd 
jerked back to avoid a head-on collision, her brown eyes flashing.

The woman brushed herself off reflexively and adjusted
her cap,  "I'm Detective Patricia Garrett, Evidence Collection 
Unit.  I'm supposed to assist you."

Mulder just kept taking the woman in.  Fair skin, thin lipped, 
not smiling.   Definitely not smiling.   He decided to go for the 
obvious joke, which proved to be a very bad choice,  
"So you're Pat Garrett..." 

"Uh-huh. Before you say anything else, I've heard every 
half-assed Wild West, Billy the Kid, OK Corral remark on 
the planet, so let's not go there..."  She straightened her
jacket, muttering,  "I must've really fucked up to pull this 
assignment."

Mulder extended his hand, hoping to salvage the situation,
making his voice as placating as he could.  "Sorry.  I'm 
Special Agent..."

She didn't reciprocate. "I know who you are, why you're 
here, and for the record, I'd rather be doing anything else 
than giving you a guided tour so that you can try to hang 
us out to dry. We know how to do our job, Agent.  And just 
for your information, I'm fifteen years on the job, five 
as ECU Supervisor."

Mulder wanted her on his side, but his own frustration was 
eating at him by this point.  "Detective, I'm here to find the 
truth, I assume you are, too. I was invited here to do what 
I do and I'd appreciate you removing whatever's crawled up 
your ass so that we can get on with it.   You and me.  
Together."

That appeared to get through, some of the hostility subsiding,
"All right then, we'll get started. I'm parked around the corner... 
I'll wait for you...Get your car and follow me." She turned to go
and Mulder motioned one of the car hops to get his rental.

Garrett turned back, "Agent Mulder?"

His head snapped around, "Yeah?"

"Just remember, I didn't invite you here."

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Pulling into the parking space right across the street
from the last location, he could make out Garrett's glare 
even from inside his car. Her resentment hadn't lagged 
much since they'd started six hours ago, fed by the fact 
that he'd come up with nothing. He wasn't exactly a 
happy camper, either. The good news was that this woman 
was right, the Unit's work a textbook example. Print dusting, 
moulage castings, fiber, hair, and blood collection--laboriously 
done, virtually perfect. The bad news was he'd shot a good 
portion of the day on another dead end. He wasn't about to 
share that particular assessment with Garrett, however.

He clicked off the ignition and rolled his neck until 
he could hear the vertebrae pop. Slamming the car door
behind him, he jogged over to where she stood arms 
crossed over her chest, waiting. She was in front of the 
crack house where Dakota Roberts had dealt his last rock, 
a dilapidated graystone in the heart of Englewood, 
one of the poorest neighborhood's in Chicago.
According to the photos and write-up, Roberts had 
been killed in stages--brutally beaten with a truncheon, 
his ribs and right leg broken, larynx crushed, spleen 
ruptured. He was found face-down on the floor next
to piles of tens and twenties, shot in the back of the head 
execution-style.

"You ready, Agent?"  Garrett was curt, not even 
bothering to wait for his answer. She'd already turned 
and started waking up the stairs.

Mulder took the stairs two at a time, closing the 
distance until they were both standing in front of the
door. He was pissed now, and decided to sling some 
attitude. Pushing past her, he pulled up the yellow tape 
blocking their entry, and jimmied open the door.
Motioning her through,  "Ready as I'll ever be, Detective...
After you."  

Garrett went in, thinking she'd later fire off a complaint 
to Lazarov--report this Fibbie's unorthodox entry,
then decided against it. She had a feeling this piece 
of work was used to being called on the carpet.  
No sense in wasting my time, she told herself 
as she waited for him to follow her.

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Dust motes swirled around them as they made their
way through room after room, mattresses dotting the
filthy linoleum floor.  Geeking crack heads would
sit down, smoke up, sputter and stutter and buy more,
and be shoved out by Roberts' posse when the money 
ran out. Incongruent to the whole scene was the formerly 
barred room where Roberts and his boys counted and 
sorted the money--expensive furniture, empty bottles
of Cristal littering the floor, the black bloom on the floor,
remnant of Roberts' exit wound.

Mulder ran the scene like he had the others. To anyone
else but Scully, all someone would see was an intense,
highly focused review of the chain of evidence. He took in 
more, so much more. He was always hyper-sensitive,
absorbing, cataloging and analyzing the environment, the 
situation, the people. Striding through each room, blinking
like the shutter of a camera as he mentally recorded every 
aspect, thinking about every possible scenario. He'd noticed 
the traffic around the house, the music coming from the boom 
box the teen next-door had been playing, the fact that they 
were in a first floor apartment, and there were no footsteps 
coming from above, even though he'd seen a name on the 
second mailbox.  

Most of the time he'd find something in those those details,
those nuances--have a breakthrough, an insight that blew
the case open. It hadn't happened in the other places, it 
wasn't going to happen here. Strange thing, his premonition 
about today hadn't gone away. 

What he was looking for was somewhere else,
hidden in the world of The Seven Powers.

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Mulder wasn't expecting any professional courtesy as they left 
the building and made their way to their prospective cars.

He didn't get any.   

He did get Garrett to yell the directions out her car window 
to his next two stops as she sped off---Botanica Santa Teresa, 
a likely place to find acolytes of Oya, and Jardin de Obatala, 
both located in a part of the city known as WestTown. 
She told him he was about twenty minutes away.
As he headed toward Division Street, his premonition 
grew stronger. 
 
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It was almost dark and the air was heavy and thick,
chilling him as he made his way along Division by foot, 
leaving the car in front of the Woods Street police station. 
A patrolman tried to wave him off, but he flashed his badge, 
got the fraternal thumbs-up as he walked the four blocks 
toward what he hoped was the beginning of enlightenment. 

Mulder stops next to a restaurant specializing in 
'comida criolla', 1947 W. Division--This is the place.  
But instead of going in, something pulls him across 
the street. He wasn't startled by this, it's happened before--
one of the most memorable times led him to ignore
a dusty crossroad and plunge headlong with Scully 
into the midst of Texas cornfields.

The urge keeps pushing him down the block until he 
finds a storefront wreathed with butter-yellow drapes. 
Statues of the The Virgin Mary in various sizes  
stand in the the window, surrounded by votives 
and bunches of roses, jasmine. The scent of the flowers
mix with orange and cinammon, the heady odor wafting 
through the open doorway. He sees dishes crowded with 
slices of pumpkin and mango, pieces of honeycomb---all 
spread on blue cloth shot with gold metalic thread.  
This is a House of Oshun, dedicated to matters of the heart. 
He knows there's no logical reason for him to be here, 
and that being here is absolutely right.

Entering quietly, he passes a couple talking to a young 
woman in a sunshine-colored robe, asking questions as 
to what herbs would best to protect them from lovers'
quarrels. The young woman reaches over to a near-by 
stalk of what looked and smelled like goldenrod. 
She dips the the dried plant  an uncovered dish 
of honey, wraps it in white tissue, and rings up the 
purchase on an old-style cash register. 

A tall, bronze-skinned man strides up to the visitor
and without a word, leads him to a seat in what appears 
to be a waiting area. He too, is dressed in yellow, and 
exudes an air of strength and control. There were five 
people ahead of Mulder, clutching talismans and small, 
folded pieces of paper. All of them, male and female wear 
coral bead necklaces, which he recognizes as elekes, 
marking them as devotees of. He guesses the young man
is a temple guard and that this is the antechamber.
The priestess must be in the rear, behind the velvet curtain
covering a small doorway. Listening to the conversation
swirling around him, he finds out her name.

The fact that the young man doesn't seem surprised to see
him is not lost on Mulder. The cult of Oshun, as well as
most of the other cults in Santeria, were known to have
many clairvoyants as members. The level of psychic ability
varied from person to person and from cult to cult. 
Either the guard, or the priestess---possibly both of them
had been waiting for him. He's grateful he knew enough
not to show his badge or ID. That would've been seen as an 
insult, an act of arrogance and disrespect. If he was going 
to get any information, he had to come as a seeker. 

He readies himself for whatever answer he's going 
to get.

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He rubs his eyes and when he looks up, there's
the same young man, beckoning him up and through the 
curtain. He gets up immediately, passing by the others who
are left waiting in their chairs. As he brushes past the velvet 
and enters the small dimly lit room, he can hear the guard 
speaking firmly to one of the waiting supplicants. "Iya asked 
for him. Do you questions her choices?"  

Iyalosha Adisanya, swathed in a golden robe, sat at a small 
table, smoothing the cloth that covered it. The only light 
in the room came from candles that were perched on shelves 
and small, wooden stands. Iya herself was fiftyish, Mulder 
thought, but he wouldn't swear to it. The flickering lights 
dance across her face, revealing and obscuring. She is 
beautiful--dark eyes, smooth, brown skin barely etched by
the passing of time, high cheekbones, and a long, graceful 
neck.  Tapered fingers play with a locket that holds a photo 
of someone he recognizes as he draws close, someone
whose face he is not surprised to see.

Mulder approaches the woman, bows and holds his position 
until he feels her touch the crown of his head. 
It is taboo to touch the hands of a priest or priestess 
in greeting--their hands are consecrated for sacred tasks, 
for blessings, for the work of the gods. Bowing is the way 
a humble person approached a Keeper of the Temple. 
He raises his head to find her with eyes closed, one hand
clutching the locket.

"Iya...I'm here about Alex."

"I know. Oshun told me you were coming...that you would 
help my Alejandra."

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She's motions to Omi, telling him to bring them 
tea made from flor de tilo. While they wait, Iyalosha tells 
him her story, her other name, Florinda Zavala.  How
she came with the Cardenas family from Cuba as their maid,
how she became Alex's nanny.  She glows with pride as
she recounts how she became Alex's nanny, how much she 
loved that baby, what a wise and kind child Alex Cardenas 
had been. What a beautiful woman she'd become.

Mulder sees the love in her eyes, mixed with fear and 
something like expectancy.

He listens thoughtfully, and wondered in Iya ever
saw the arrogance, the insincerity. Perhaps she did, 
and chose to ignore it, seeing with a mother's eye instead.

Two china cups are placed on the table, each with 
a piece of honeycomb to sweet it and strengthen the drinker. 

"Please have something.  Refresh yourself, you've spent 
too much time at the gate today."

"The gate?"  He settles back in the chair directly 
across from her.

"Yes, warrior. The gate, the place where someone
leaves this world and enters the next. You seek out
the places where that entry happens through violence, 
through the evil that men do..."

"Not just men, Iyalosha."

She closes her eyes again, bites down hard on her lip.
"Tell me what's happened to mi hija, my Alex."

"You call me warrior..."

Iyalosha answers,  "Because that's what you are. 
Oshun told me in a dream you that you've fought darkness 
for a long time with a strong heart. That you bear your scars well. 
She told me there's another one who fights with you...a woman 
whose story is like yours." 

"You honor both of us."

"You bring honor to yourselves...Please...why did the 
gods send you here, what darkness touches my Alejandra?"  
Her voice trembles a little more with each word.

Mulder tells his story now, his given name, why he's here,
why he met with Alex. She blanches when Mulder says 
the words 'los muertos que no muere.'

"We never speak of it, it is the greatest taboo for us.
Only Oya can move from one world to the next.  
Those who practice it are outlaws, close to Ellegua. 
They could never be of our house...and they pay for 
their insolence, believe me."  Her hands grip the  
edge of the table.

"What do you mean?"  Mulder felt an urgency--this was
it---he needed to know more

"Whoever would dare to raise the dead must suffer a 
terrible punishment in the Other World. When they die,  
they are never reunited with their  ancestors. We believe 
there is nothing worse--to be severed from family. There 
is no honor, no peace, nothing but floating between 
this world and the next.  Only someone desperate..."

Mulder stops her, "...someone like Alex."

She wants to end this and tell him to leave, tell him she 
knows nothing. Drinking the last of her tea, Iyalosha tries
to brace herself for what must come next. She is sworn 
to serve righteousness above all else, and so she reveals 
what happened the night Alex came to her with keening grief, 
how the woman she calls daughter begged her to do the 
very thing he asks about. Her refusal and Alex's bitter 
recriminations.  Oshun had taught her the deepest love 
sometimes forces you to deny those who mean everything 
to you.  

She is crying now, " My Alejandra didn't do this...she 
couldn't do this."

"But it's possible she could've found someone who 
would..."

Mulder feels there's someone else in the room. 
He looks over his shoulder and sees Omi standing by 
the curtain. 

Iya looks up, startled to see him.  "It's all right.  
Go help Osunrete.  Go on."  The young man moves away. 

Iya stills for a moment, then brushes away the tears
running along the length of her elegant cheekbones.  
"Yes...She met the families of many houses...
and there are ways to find the followers of Ellegua." 

"How can I find someone who'd do this?"

She looked at the man for what seemed like a long time 
before she spoke again,  "There's no one in this house 
who would do such a thing. But let me ask the people who 
might know, babalaos of other houses. You stand a better 
chance if I help you this way...I'll have something to tell
you in the morning.  The gods will reveal what you need to 
know, I feel it."  She took Mulder's hands in hers, 
"If it's true, promise me you'll stop it.  If my...daughter 
is part of it, promise me you'll help her."

Mulder's eyes burns into hers, "You have my word."

Iyalosha squeezes his hands then lets go,  "Oshun told 
me that would be enough."

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his card, circles 
his cel number and writes down the number at the hotel. 
She takes it and nods.

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He's walking through the store, almost at the door, 
when Iyalosha stops him.  "I have something for you...
to protect you...and your lover."  She opens his 
hand places two red cords in the center of his palm. 
Thin strips of leather, wound with gold threads.  
"Wear them on your left wrist, the one closest to your 
heart. This talisman will keep the two of you from 
harm."  She closes his hand around them,  "There is 
much danger surrounding both of you."

Mulder doesn't hide his curiosity very well,  "You 
mentioned a woman who fights the same enemies I do...
you never mentioned a lover."

That last sentence makes Iyalosha Adisanya smile.
"They're one and the same... You're a man with much 
to protect."

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It is later now, and the remaining temple members help
Iya close the store, secure the temple. One by one, they 
leave, until there is only Omi. He stands next to the
entrance of the antechamber, stroking the velvet
curtain, watching Iyalosha preparing to leave. Her 
back is to him, and for a second he tries to turn and walk
away. 

As she throws a long, dark cloak over her shoulders, 
something make her stop and walk over to him. Omi
is troubled, his face knotted with guilt.  Iya knows
he's done many bad things in his life, things that ended 
when he came to her to begin a new life in Oshun. 

She waits for what he has to say.

"I was the one...I told her, Iya."

She motions him closer, and he goes knowing
punishment must be meted out. Remorse pours out 
of him, but it is too late. There is only what will come next. 

"I'm  sorry...She was hurting...I thought...I thought
I was helping...Please believe me, Iya."  Tears run down his 
proud face, and he sees Iyalosha looking at him with infinite
sadness.  

"I swear I'll never tell anyone else."

"I know." 

She has to do this, if she doesn't, Oshun will do 
something far worse to him, her familiar is the vulture for
a reason.  Iyalosha will save his life, but she doubts he will 
thank her for it later. She closes the distance between them, 
places her hand over his mouth. Whispering in the language 
of the gods, she holds her hand in place, feeling his breath 
shudder into her palm. 

Omi feel his throat constrict, he tries to cry out, but there
is only silence.  

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