Twisted
There was a neat square of open space on the impossibly
cluttered desk, scrubbed clean with the paper towel that lay, wadded
up, just beside it.
Scully allowed herself a languid smirk. When Mulder had
returned to work after his ordeal in Alaska, his first act had been
to buy her a chair. Still no desk, but then, he'd evidently cleared
her a spot on his own last night. These little betrayals of his
casual thoughtlessness never ceased to amuse her, even though later
she'd end up bothering him about the desk again—it had become
something of a running joke.
She was sitting in her chair—a sort of computer chair, plush
and ebony, with oddly shaped armrests and wheels that squeaked
obnoxiously when she shifted positions. The papers were in her lap;
she couldn't bring herself to disturb the pristine quality that had
overtaken her little corner of desk. It wasn't much of a surprise
when the fashionably late Mulder shut the door with a slight click,
just as she'd begun her reluctant review of the documents before her.
What did surprise her was the lack of a greeting. Mulder
might not have been the type to give her a hello every time they
met, but he always had something to say, some little quip or an
excited preface to the case he was about to thrust upon her. There
was only silence here, minus the shuffling of shoes against carpet as
he made his way to the back of the desk and took a seat.
She didn't fail to notice the infinitesimal wince that flashed
across his features, though he undoubtedly meant to hide it with
downturned eyes and a smile that didn't quite reach them. His mouth
was split, an angry red streak dividing the pouty lower lip into two
sections, and the high panes of his forehead bore a superficial slash
that was already beginning to scab. When he did glance up at his
partner, his bloodshot gaze and the dark, baggy circles that rimmed
it were revealed to her.
Unable to suppress a sigh, she wondered what had befallen him
now. There wasn't time for a case, she thought, but then Mulder
always had a knack for getting himself in trouble. He'd probably hit
his head on a drawer, tried to call her when she'd been out with her
mother, and then worried about it for the rest of the night. She had
to ask, though. "Mulder, what in the world happened to you?"
Again, he cringed as he wriggled in his seat, but it was gone
so quickly that she almost thought she'd imagined it. He paused
before he spoke, and then his voice was hoarse, "I went running."
Fiddling with his new alien-head paperweight, he refused to meet her
eyes. Such peculiar behavior alerted her investigative instincts and
they went into overdrive, cataloguing his every movement.
"And?" she prompted with an arched brow.
Guiltily, he admitted, "I fell." Then, not willing to stay on
the subject, he inquired, "Anything new?"
It was her game now, and she was permitted another discreet
smile as she answered, in a tone laden with mystery and intrigue,
"Oh, yes. Something you've never seen before in your lifelong study
of the paranormal, Mulder."
Surprisingly, he didn't perk up—the spark had dulled for the
day, apparently. But he did manage to appear interested enough that
she could deliver her response with dramatic flair. "Expense
reports," and she was grinning wickedly as she handed the documents
over to him. As he reluctantly accepted the sheaf of paper, she
noticed that his hands were bruised, ugly blue splotches tracing
the length of his fingers, and the cuffs of his shirt were rolled
down as far as possible—odd, such extensive injuries on a running
escapade. Who knew what Mulder could get into in his spare time,
though? He might've been lying, and she wasn't going to be the one
to nag him about it, not after having played mother and nurse to his
pitiful, frostbitten victim less than a week ago.
They worked on the expense reports for what seemed like ages,
though when she checked the clock, it'd only been two hours or so.
To make matters worse, they were far from complete; Mulder kept
fleeing to the bathroom every twenty minutes. Sure, avoiding
reports like this was his specialty, but in the past he'd thought
up more plausible, i.e. less blatant, excuses. Both agents were
relieved when the phone rang at 10:30—at first. When it turned
out to be Skinner's secretary informing them that they were, in no
uncertain terms, to speedily announce their presence in his office,
the relief was transformed into apprehension.
"He can't expect the reports yet," Mulder told Scully as they
ambled down the hall, ignoring the curious stares that followed
them. People were always watching them from a distance, gathering
more fuel for their Mr. and Mrs. Spooky theories.
"No," she agreed, "it must be a case, though I don't know why
he saw the need to call us to his office to present it."
The Assistant Director was an imposing fellow in spite of his
egglike head and the way that light seemed to gleam off of it—or
perhaps because of it. He was comfortable behind his desk, hands
clasped, all hard edges and sharp angles; all cool composure and
calm resignation to the task at hand, whatever it was. Walter
Skinner rarely smiled. Still, he seemed to bear some sort of
grudging respect for the agents who investigated the X-Files.
As expected, he was the epitome of a businesslike FBI Agent, a
fact reflected in his gruff monotone—it almost rivaled Mulder's
when he was in his prime. Wordlessly he gestured to the two chairs
facing his desk and waited for them to take their seats. "Agents, I
have a request for you." At their nods and expressions of unfeigned
interest, he continued, "I realize that this is not your current
venue, but Agent Mulder has extensive knowledge in this field, and
his training might save several lives." She glanced at Mulder and
was mildly shocked to note that his skin was flushed beneath the
mask of civility, his eyes a bit too wide. Venue, her foot—they
wanted him to profile someone, obviously.
Skinner hadn't deigned to comment on Mulder's physical state,
but presently he narrowed his eyes and raked them over the form of
his lanky inferior. "Are you well, Agent Mulder?"
"Fine, sir," Mulder murmured, his smile weak. "Just had a bit
of an accident the other day."
That answer seemed to be acceptable, from Skinner's bemused
grunt. "As you've probably figured out, the VCU is stumped on
another case and they have discreetly requested your assistance."
Blinking somewhat wearily, the first sign of weakness in his rigid
exterior, he handed the file over to the two Agents. Scully thought,
idly, that Assistant Directors probably got even less sleep than
Mulder did on his good days. She hadn't seen Skinner take a day off,
much less a vacation, since her first encounter with him.
A cursory overview of the case left Mulder with studiously
knitted eyebrows and a hand that clenched and unclenched at random
intervals, and it made her wonder—if his facade could show cracks
this easily, what must hers look like now? She knew that she had
yet to compartmentalize her emotions after returning from what
Mulder termed her "abduction," and what if others could read her
easily enough to see what raged beneath the surface of her icy
demeanor? It couldn't be, could it.. ?
That disturbing thought fled from her mind as soon as he
passed the folder to her. Peering inside with no small amount of
trepidation, she was rewarded by a full-length view of a grisly
crime scene, complete with a mutilated body and pools of blood. A
woman, though it would have been difficult to tell if not for the
length of her mahogany curls, now stained with red, and she'd been
stripped of her clothing and then systematically decorated. Another
picture, this one from a yearbook. She'd been drop dead gorgeous.
The initial report surmised that she'd been raped and tortured over
a period of three days—her family had reported her missing, not
that it had done any good—and then killed by a shot to the head,
execution style. There was no evidence of the unsub—no fluids,
hair samples, or anything that might lead to his apprehension.
Forensics reported that penetration had been accomplished with a
foreign object, perhaps a knife or some type of stick.
Melissa Waters, Scully read, a chill shooting down her spine.
20 years of age, in her third year of college at the University of
South Florida. Ruffling through the rest of the pages as her throat
grew dry, parched, and her stomach did tiny somersaults, she found a
catalogue of similar photos. All fairly young women, all of the same
general age group, all with the same hair color, but with differing
backgrounds. One girl had been a waitress. It was obviously the
work of a serial killer, and not the most creative one—God only
knew how many people had followed this M.O. before—but certainly
one of the most bloody. Sometimes a serial killer would mutilate
after the victim's demise, but in this case there was no such luck.
Mulder had barely skimmed the reports before giving the entire
folder to her, and she thought he should—no, it was his eidetic
memory at work. He knew exactly what had happened to those women.
The unsub's profile, as hypothesized by the Tampa PD and the
VCU, was included among the papers, but Skinner interrupted her
before she could study it. "By all accounts, given the specificity
of the profile, the unsub should have been identified, if not
brought into custody. But no one in the entire county matches the
profile, and no one even remotely matching the unsub's supposed
description has been seen near the crime scenes. It must be
assumed that the profile is somehow inaccurate." Skinner frowned,
and his mouth was drawn into a tight little line of disapproval. It
might have been for the profilers, the serial killer himself, or
even them; Scully couldn't be sure. But she wasn't confused about
that—it was the whole notion that made no sense.
"Sir," Scully piped up, "May I ask why we have been called in
so late in the investigation? There have been seven murders, if the
information here is correct, and the profile was written almost a
month ago. Violent Crimes must have realized that it was wrong
soon after that—why wait this long to approach Agent Mulder?"
Frown deepening, Skinner bowed his head slightly and
considered the now barren surface of his desk. Finally he said,
with a sigh, "Senator Gardner's daughter has been kindapped in a
manner that would suggest the unsub as the most conceivable
culprit. According to the killer's M.O., there are only 72 hours
left in which to locate her while she is still alive." If it weren't
for propriety, he'd probably have rolled his eyes in disgust. As it
was, Scully felt resentment welling up inside of her at the thought
of such "special" attention. One corpse was the same as another;
each deserved equal justice and protection under the law, especially
since they weren't there to see it. Fairness was so essential.
Mulder was uncharacterically silent; he'd gotten a case of the
shakes, she thought, but then it was gone, just like the wincing, and
she toyed with the notion that she was projecting her emotions about
the case onto him. He'd been dealing with these sort of murders for
years, after all. He looked up, evidently realizing that both Scully
and Skinner were staring at him, awaiting a response. It seemed like
he was off in space for a moment, and then he murmured, "I'll do the
profile if Agent Scully assists me—and I will need to view the
crime scenes and the general area firsthand."
Surprisingly, the ghost of a smile appeared on the Assistant
Director's tanned face, grim as it was. "That was a given, Agent
Mulder," he said. "You and Agent Scully are booked on the noon
flight to the Tampa International Airport, where you will be greeted
by the head detective. Local officers have been instructed to comply
with your wishes, as long as they are within reason." He produced
the tickets from a folder that Scully hadn't noticed and offered
them to her. She had no choice but to take them, uneasily. There
was a feeling of wrongness in the pit of her stomach, but then,
Scully only trusted empirical evidence, not the workings of her
persnickety digestive system.
Blandly, she said, "Reason seems to be a relative term with
Agent Mulder, sir."
There was nothing in the way of a reply, just another bemused
half-smile, and soon they were being ushered out of the building and
onto a plane, the case file tucked carefully in Scully's briefcase.
Mulder made a beeline for the bathroom before the seat belt sign was
even close to being turned off, complaining of airsickness. He
certainly looked ill; green, almost, so Scully resigned herself to
the task of becoming familiar with the unsub in glorious profiler
detail. Joy to the world.
12:20 PM, February 18th, 1995 Bile was bubbling up in his throat, gorge ascending with rapid
certainty as he lunged sporadically from side to side, bruised torso
connecting with the airplane seats in brief jolts of agony that the
Maximum Strength Tylenol just couldn't control. He pawed his way
through the startled flight attendants, but it was no wonder that
they let him pass; he knew his face must have looked positively grey,
like the aliens he was so fond of pursuing. Despite his efforts, he
barely reached the lavatory in time.
dirty
Fuck, thought Mulder as he spewed vomit into the freshly
cleaned toilet in the claustrophobic little room that shook with the
force of the air pressure, I shouldn't have eaten breakfast.
But it wasn't the breakfast that caused his body to heave
violently and retrieve the contents of his stomach, nor was it the
air turbulence. It was the entirely unwelcome set of thoughts that
kept dancing through his mind like a slide show or a broken record
that someone had forgotten to take off of the spindle.
hurtpain no, stop please—no don't, give you money, no
The queasiness had been growing steadily—all morning, really,
ever since the meeting with Skinner, and then suddenly it vanished
unbelievably and left him kneeling on the cold floor, panting, his
energy spent, face splattered, with the familiar taste of vomit
coating the inside of his mouth. He was staring into the toilet,
considering with dread the idea that he'd have to actually use it for
its intended purpose sometime soon, and then thinking that if he kept
vomiting up everything he consumed, it wouldn't be a problem.
Mulder sat there for about five minutes, listening to the buzz
of the engines in the background and the murmurs in his mind.
shh, be quiet you'll like it—it's so painless if you shut
up and I won't have to hurt you—you want it, you know you do
There was someone banging on the door—not frantically, but
enough to let him know that other people had needs. It prompted him
to action. Systemically, thoughtlessly, he yanked paper towel after
paper towel out of the dispenser. The room had that peculiar rotten
smell; he was used to it, but he doubted that the other passengers
would appreciate the decor. Then again, he could barely smell
anything the way his nose was stuffed up, and soon he was splashing
water over his face liberally, surveying the damage. Too pale—dark circles, bloodshot eyes. Bruises, cuts. He looked like hell,
and it was being handed to him in a handbasket.
so loose, you've been selling out—whore—should have
saved yourself for me—gotta punish you now
Scully was undoubtedly wondering if he was okay, and she might
try to examine him if he kept this up. The people waiting in line
for the lavatory shot him odd, covert looks; his shirt was wet
where he'd had to scrub it clean. Scully's gaze was similar as he
took his seat beside her, stiffly, hoping his discomfort didn't
show on his face. He thought she'd seen it at the office that
morning—at the very least, she hadn't bought his running story.
That concern was flashing in her eyes, veiled, the kind that told
him he should be several dozen miles away before she tried to broach
the subject. She didn't say anything, just tilted her head, looking
at him disconcertingly, and shoved the folder into his arms. Her
eyes were lighter than he'd remembered, more unfathomable against
the backdrop of her fiery hair, like frost in the summer. Maybe
the case disturbed her as well.
better hope you can handle what i got boy
Glancing down at the crime scene photos, he swallowed. Blood
was everywhere. It dripped, but not in the photos; it dripped onto
his bathroom floor. Clothes ruined, soaked in it. His best—his
only—leather jacket. Red and black now, a set of checkers. Jeans
torn and battered and useless.
what's your name—what do i call you—pretty boy
Blood coursed down his cheeks and mingled with tears.
foxy little thing—you don't like that? foxy it is
The girl in the yearbook photo was smiling, ear to ear, dark
tresses flowing around her face like a raven crown. Bold nose, full
lips. Samantha, or a close facsimile thereof.
do you know what i want, foxy—you got to do it
No—he looked again. A name. Melissa.
it'll be good for you too, baby
Melissa was Scully's sister. Fuck.
suck me off
It was hours before he mustered the strength of will to
discuss the case, and by then they were already disembarking.
7:21 PM, February 18th, 1995 Scully's primitive streak wanted to curse like a sailor.
Less than an hour after their arrival came the call—there
was another victim. An old one, this time; Mulder had told her
on the trip to the newest crime scene, in a hushed whisper, that
he thought this one had been the first kill ever.
It was certainly old enough, judging from the decay that
festered on the half-buried corpse. The nails had fallen off, and
very little remained of the black hair. Body tissues were gelling
as she watched, though it wasn't apparent to the naked eye. The
face was still recognizable. Elfin. Delicate, pretty.
"Who is it?" she breathed.
They were standing as close as possible to the corpse, which
was cordoned off along with the rest of the crime scene. The portly
Tampa PD officer who was hovering over them wouldn't allow her to
get anywhere near the body, despite her identification and tone of
voice. Bastard. The sun had set long ago, and even with the aid of
a flashlight, she couldn't get close enough to gather any information
about the deceased.
"There was no identification on the body," offered the man.
He sounded grainy, tired, and when she turned to look at him the
sweat was rolling off of his pudgy cheeks in waves. It was so
disgusting that she had to shift her eyes away from him. He could
help her, though, if he'd stop being such a rule-bound prick.
With a mighty effort, Scully called her powers of persuasion
into existence. She coated her words, sugary sweet. "Officer,
what is your name?" Odd that he hadn't introduced himself in the
beginning, but then it had been a hectic drive.
He blinked, confused, and his eyes narrowed a bit. "Gordon
Wells, Miss Scully," he said, but he sounded uncertain.
"Agent Scully," she corrected automatically and then wished
she hadn't. More gently, she asked, "Officer Wells, do you think you
could find me a bottle of water—at the gift shop, maybe, or the
camping grounds? I'm very," she sighed and closed her eyes briefly
for emphasis, "thirsty. I'm just not used to this much heat in the
middle of winter.."
Gordon Wells' beady eyes lit up—he was the old fashioned
type, she thought. Wouldn't deny a lady's request. "Of course,
ma'am," he burbled, and she resisted the urge to correct him as he
went into a tirade on the temperatures in Florida and the dangers of
heat exhaustion. Finally he waddled off into the distance and out
of the crime scene while Mulder and Scully averted their eyes. He
smelled of smoke and mayonnaise, she thought, her nose wrinkling up
involuntarily. Gordo meant fat in Spanish.
"Clever," was Mulder's comment as she rolled up her sleeves
and slipped the surgical gloves on, eliciting a vicious glare from
the coroner who stood to the side. He was only waiting out of
deference to the senator's missing daughter and the X-Files Agents'
status on the case, and he looked like he'd much rather be taking
over the investigation himself. Mulder sounded hoarse again.
She murmured, low enough not to attract the attention of the
forensic team that waited on the sidelines, "Are you sure you're not
coming down with something? If you'd let me take your—"
He interrupted her. "No, Scully, I'm fine. Just tell me what
you see, please. This is the important one." She wanted to memorize
the look on his face but the pallid, waxen cast of his complexion was
too ominous to contemplate without going against his wishes, so she
began to poke and prod the corpse instead.
"You want clinical jargon?" she asked, peering into the eye
sockets to find the eyes sunken in and disintegrating, filmy white.
There was a hole in her head.
"No. Just make it fast."
She shrugged. "Okay. Subject is young, under 30, maybe. I
would estimate time of death—oh—a little over three weeks ago,
from the state of the nails and tissues. Can't be sure. White
female. No clothing, no identification. What appears to be random
designs and X's carved on the skin. Injuries and tearing of the,
ah," she had to pause as her throat caught, "genital area which are
indicative of sexual assault. Gunshot wound to the head presumably
the cause of death." She peered at the head cautiously, drawing the
strands of leaf-infested hair away. "Shot from a distance. Subject
was probably dragged here after death. Wasn't discovered until now
because this is a relatively unpopular trail and the body was dumped
several dozen feet away from it, in the underbrush—Mulder? Where
are you going?"
He was stalking away on unsteady feet, barely avoiding the
evidence canisters and bushes, ignoring the concerned or perhaps
annoyed onlookers. She doubted they'd ever seen an FBI Agent in
such a condition. "Getting Tylenol," he called over his shoulder,
"from the car. Be right back." Gravelly voice, and she thought he
might have been coughing, but he was vanishing into the darkness of
the trail and she only caught one more glimpse of him as he signed
out of the crime scene.
If he had a headache, thought Scully, exasperated, the least he
could do was tell me. I've got better medication.
7:50 PM, February 18th, 1995 He thought he was going to keel over and die before he got
to the parking lot, and he wasn't even sick to his stomach this
time. It was—oh, god, the stench. He could see how she'd been
violated, could hear the killer's voice in his mind telling her that
she'd enjoy it. The eyes were sunken, but he could see them staring
out at him, lifeless, accusing.
sweet jesus, i knew you were good—now it's time
The car was a welcome sight, dark blue, outlined in the dim
lamplight. A beacon.
don't struggle, make it easy—i've got—
The keys were whipped out of Mulder's pocket and he fumbled
with the door, finally forcing it open and collapsing bonelessly into
the driver's seat with a moan as agony lanced through his ass.
if that's the way you want it foxy—i can do you bare
The Tylenol was in his briefcase, but as he reached for it
there was a pervasive darkness swirling about him, teasing the edges
of his vision. Bleakness beckoned to him; nothingness called with
its enticingly open arms. He succumbed to its embrace.
It didn't even register that the car had started.
8:05 PM, February 18th, 1995 She'd just completed her cursory examination of the body and
disposed of the dirt-caked medical gloves when Officer Wells arrived,
bearing a bottle of Zephyrhills Spring Water. His paunch jiggled
with each movement and his jowls wiggled in a groteque parody of
speech—she couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but she
noticed that he was running. The blue uniform was soaked with sweat
and something that was reminiscent of grease, she saw as he came
closer. Something in his expression made her shiver.
"Miss Scully!" he shouted unnecessarily, skidding to a rather
awkward halt. The bottle was shoved at her without ceremony. "Have
you seen Agent Mulder?" Damn it, why was it always Agent Mulder and
Miss Scully, or Agent Mulder and ma'am? And what about Agent Mulder
and his lovely lady friend..
Scully ran her eyes along the absence of a horizon, scanning
the silhouettes of the pine trees against the moon. Stars in the
sky and a lazily running river; it seemed too absurdly peaceful a
spot to contain a brutalized corpse. Nature was cruel. "He went
to get some aspirin," she replied, without alacrity. Come to think
of it, Mulder had been gone for quite a while.
"He's gone," Wells told her, panic tinging his voice as it
shot up in pitch, "and so is the car."
Dead calm, for a moment, and then Scully was smoothing her
damp hair back and rearranging her suit, trenchcoat long discarded
in order to avoid roasting in the humidity. Ditching was one of
Mulder's less than favorable character traits. "Did he say anything
to anyone—anything at all?"
Gordon Wells blanched; he'd probably figured that she would
know Mulder's whereabouts. "Not that I know of, ma'am."
"Agent Scully," she informed him, ice and sharpness, "or
Doctor Scully, whichever you prefer. You and I are going up to the
entrance to question the warden." She snatched her purse from the
wary guard at the edge of the evidence tape and began punching in
the speed-dial on her cell phone. If Mulder's had run out of
batteries again, there was going to be hell to pay.
"Agent Scully," the nervous officer blubbered dutifully, "I
noticed that Agent Mulder looked real sick—do you think he—maybe
he's delirious or something.."
"I certainly hope not," replied Scully, cool as a cucumber.
"It would be your county's car that Agent Mulder wrecked."
Agent Mulder was not answering his cell phone.
Tell me what you think of it so far...
Barrel of a Gun I
by Meri Lomelindi
8:30 AM, February 18th, 1995
Hoover Building, X-Files Office
Airplane en route to Tampa
Hillsborough River State Park
Hillsborough River State Parking Lot
Hillsborough River State Park
