Chapter Text
They called it burnout, but in Mulder’s mind, it was boredom, plain and simple. He was bored of the VCU, bored of the monotony of profiling, bored of standing in front of a room lecturing on behavior patterns of UNSUBs to a room full of greenhorns too cocksure and trigger-happy to pay attention. His AD wanted him to take a leave of absence, but Mulder wasn’t itching for the kind of change of scenery a vacation could provide. He wanted different cases and a chance to do some real field work; the kind that got his hands dirty.
It took some persuasion, but Mulder was able to get himself temporarily loaned out on a few assignments no one seemed to want to touch. It wasn’t the shit detail that wiretapping was, but he understood right away the files he was given were meant to be a deterrent; a ticket straight back to VCU where he would be a good little profiler monkey until his pension kicked in. Some of the cases were older and had languished for some time, some a little fresher, but all had the stench of a cold case on them. And, so what? Mulder invited the challenge and found it invigorating. When he resolved six of the ten cases he was given, his temporary loan became permanent and he was transferred to the supervision of AD Walter Skinner.
Back when Mulder was fresh from the academy, furiously writing eerily spot-on monographs that would later become case studies for cadets, the joke around the VCU was ‘give it to the Golden Boy,’ whenever they encountered a tough nut to crack. After his transfer to Skinner, the joke around the bullpen was ‘give it to Spooky,’ whenever they encountered a case that was deemed too weird and difficult to give to anyone else.
The last thing Mulder was concerned with were nicknames and office gossip. He only wanted to do his job and do it well. He knew he could be aloof and difficult to work with, but only when he felt someone wasn’t taking an assignment as seriously as they should. In the VCU, he worked alone. In the year he’d been under AD Skinner, he’d gone through three partners, all of which he’d gotten along with, but none of whom felt like they were contributing to the partnership, that they were simply along for the ride and couldn’t keep up. All three were known to defend their ex-partner tooth and nail whenever they were asked what it was like working with Spooky Mulder. All three would declare beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mulder was the best agent in the bureau.
Mulder was currently in a partnerless state of flux when the latest file made it to his inbox. He read the assignment with a bit of initial disappointment to find it had been passed along at the request of Baltimore PD for assistance with profiling a serial killer, but as he dug into the details, it certainly piqued his interest. Three murders over a six week period, the victims varying in age, race, and gender, with no known connections to each other. The first victim was a college student, found in her dorm room with the windows locked and door bolted. The latest victim from two days ago was an executive in a highrise, high security building, killed in his locked office with nothing to show for it on any security footage.
But, the kicker was, all three victims were found with their livers extracted, no surgical tools detected. That’s why Mulder received the case, and that’s why he was out the door and on his way to Baltimore before he’d even finished his cup of morning coffee.
******
By now, Mulder had grown accustomed to his reputation preceding him, and there were two reactions: either he was treated like a celebrity or like a pariah. Today, it was less of the fan treatment and more disdain. The officer assigned to escort him to the crime scene, Detective Colton, made it pretty clear he was not one for having an FBI agent meddling in his case. Within thirty seconds, Mulder had the guy pegged as a novice looking for a break. He theorized that law enforcement was the family business and the only way Colton earned his shield was purely through nepotism. It was times like these, in dealing with hothead egomaniacs, that Mulder missed having a partner to run interference.
“We’ve already been over the scene with a fine tooth comb,” Colton complained, following Mulder around the victim’s office like an unwanted shadow.
“You have,” Mulder answered. “I haven’t.”
“Anything you want to know, you can read in my report.”
“Okay, how did the killer get in and out of a locked room undetected by surveillance?”
Colton glared at Mulder and put his hands on his hips, moving his suit jacket enough to expose his holstered weapon. It was all Mulder could do not to roll his eyes as he turned away and put his attention back on the crime scene. He scanned the windows and a closet door at the side of the desk. He put his hand on the wall and gave a knock every few paces as he circled the perimeter of the room.
“What the hell are you doing?” Colton asked.
Mulder ignored the detective and continued his perimeter check, his eyes traveling up and down from floor to ceiling so he wouldn’t miss a square inch. He stopped suddenly and backed up a step. A glint of something in the carpet caught his eye and he bent down to get a closer look. He took out a small kit from his interior breast pocket and used a small pair of tweezers to pick up what looked like a sliver of metal out of the fibers of the rug. Directly above where he was crouched was a ventilation shaft, the opening no bigger than a shoebox.
“You got a fingerprint kit on you, Colton?”
“We’ve already fingerprinted everywhere.”
“Not everywhere,” Mulder murmured, standing up straight to peer up at the screws fastening the cover to the shaft in place. A small carton of equipment sat on the floor next to a leather couch against the far wall. Mulder rummaged around amongst the packages of gloves and evidence bags for fingerprint dust.
“Not even a toddler could squeeze through that,” Colton sneered.
“Someone did,” Mulder answered, stepping back to study the thumbprint he’d revealed on the side of the cover of the shaft.
******
Mulder knew that Detective Colton was pissed about the fingerprint, but he really didn’t care. His motive was to solve the case and maybe prevent another murder. Colton’s was to move up the ladder. While he waited for the slides he’d ordered to be developed, he’d done some digging into Detective Colton. It turned out his was right; Colton’s father, grandfather, paternal uncle, and older brother were all cops. His father was decorated and served a ten year stint in the military. Colton barely passed the academy.
In addition to his diversion on Colton, he’d taken a deep dive into the MO of the killer and discovered a series of unsolved murders from the 1960s and 1930s, all with liver extractions. Five victims in 1933 and five victims in 1963 all in the greater Baltimore area, two in Powhatan Mill. If the pattern held, that would mean there would be two more victims now, in 1993. He pulled the files from archives, but he wanted an expert opinion on the results he had in hand. He knew of just the guy, but it required a trek out to Quantico.
Mulder had first come across Chuck Bates during his training at the academy. The forensic pathologist had a dry, gallows humor that most found distasteful, but Mulder took an instant liking to. He was shocked by nothing because he’d seen it all. Mulder had once asked him if there was ever an autopsy he wouldn’t do, and Chuck had simply said “my own” and fired up his skull saw, driving Mulder from the room. It had been a few months since he’d required Chuck’s assistance, but the senior agent was always willing.
Knocking his signature ‘shave and a haircut’ on Chuck’s office door, Mulder entered without waiting for a reply. He stopped short though when instead of Chuck behind the desk, there was a redheaded woman who glanced up at him with a disapproving frown.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’m sorry, I was looking for Chuck. I must not have been paying attention.”
“Agent Bates is on leave. I’m stepping in for him in the interim.”
“You?”
“Yes.” The woman stood and crossed her arms defensively. She was petite, but fierce. Her ire filled the room.
“Will he be back any time soon?”
“I’m afraid not. Is there something I can help you with?”
“It’s just that...I mean, I’m used to dealing with…”
“A man? I can assure you they do hand out medical degrees to women nowadays and I am equally as competent as every other forensic pathologist in this unit. If you have a problem with that, I suggest-”
“Woah,” Mulder said, putting his hands up in surrender and taking a step back. “Nothing like that. Chuck and I have a long-standing agreement is all. I bring him something he isn’t likely to have seen before and he makes sure the autopsy bay is well-stocked with smelling salts for when I pass out at the sight of blood.”
The woman blinked at him and then her shoulders relaxed and she let her arms drop to her sides. A faint hint of a blush stained the apples of her cheeks. “You must be Agent Mulder,” she said.
“Guilty.” He extended his hand out to her, but then took it back again as she came out from around the desk. “You don’t bite, do you?”
The blush across her cheeks deepened a little, but she stepped towards him with a little smile. “Not hard,” she answered, extending her hand. “Dana Scully. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“Rough day?” he asked, shaking her hand up and down more than necessary.
“Just another day battling the patriarchy.”
“Tell me about it.”
She quirked her eyebrow up at him and let go of his hand. Her eyes drifted to the file folder under his arm and then back up to his face.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to take a look at something for me, would you?” he asked.
“What have you got?”
“Thirteen dead bodies.”
Her left eyebrow rose up again and stayed arched. She put her hand out for the file and he gave it to her, but she waited until she’d walked back to the desk and was seated to open it. He watched her eyes dart across the pages and then she flipped through a series of black and white photos one at a time, lingering on each and then spreading them out across the desk with the snippets of autopsy reports and news clippings related to each.
“What is it you want to know?” she asked.
“What can you tell me about liver extraction?”
“Obviously with what you have here, liver extraction is the most significant detail of the crime. The liver possesses regenerative qualities, it cleanses the blood.”
“Maybe the killer is taking it as a trophy? Taking it as a symbolic way to cleanse himself of his own impurities.”
“You’ve got reports in here from 1933 and then 30 years later in 1963. That means you may have not one, but two copycats. What are they after?”
“Let me show you something else.” Mulder went over to the x-ray lightboard hanging on the wall by the desk and flipped it on. He pulled out a plastic bag from his pocket and shook out the six slides he’d ordered, checking their stamps before pinning one against the board with his thumb and forefinger.
Scully got up from the desk and came around to stand next to him. She leaned close and studied the slide and then looked up at Mulder.
“This is a fingerprint I took from the crime scene this morning,” he said.
“Rather unusual for a fingerprint. It’s like the finger has been elongated somehow. If you go by this, you’d be looking for a killer with ten inch fingers.”
“Pretty unique, right?”
“Every fingerprint is unique to begin with.”
“True.” Mulder added another slide next to the first, holding them against the board with the tips of his fingers until he displayed all six slides in a row for Scully to see. “These other five fingerprints were taken from five of the ten prior crime scenes.”
“From 1933 and 1963?”
“Yep.”
“They certainly look similar.”
“Similar, or the same?”
Scully crossed her arms. “Agent Mulder, are you suggesting the killer you’re looking for is the same one from 60 years ago?”
“Actually, you missed the news clipping reporting on a liver extraction in 1903. There’s a fingerprint there as well, I just couldn’t get a slide off of it.”
“So, what you’re saying is that he-”
“Or she,” he interrupted.
“Or she , would have to be at least 100 years old. And have the ability to overpower a healthy, six foot two inch businessman. I don’t know, but that seems highly improbable.”
“Improbable, but not impossible.”
Scully merely lifted her eyebrow again and stared at Mulder incredulously.
“These fingerprints are a perfect match, by the way,” he added, taking the slides down from the lightboard.
“Maybe things aren’t what they seem.” Scully turned the lightboard off while Mulder dumped the slides back into the plastic bag.
“Maybe. Do you know of any genetic anomalies that would account for elongated fingers? Maybe even one that would allow for a man or woman to squeeze through a ventilation shaft approximately six by 18 inches?”
“I don’t know about squeezing through a ventilation shaft, but there’s Marfan Syndrome.”
Mulder removed the small notepad he kept in his breast pocket and flipped it open. He wrote down the name of the syndrome and a few other notes from what Scully relayed, but at a certain point, the cadence of her voice became distracting. He wondered how she made the symptoms of what sounded like a disfiguring disease become so melodious.
“It’s a genetic disorder that affects the body’s connective tissue caused by a mutation in the gene that directs the production of fibrillan-1. The result is an increase in a protein called transforming growth factor beta. Common physical features of Marfan’s are long limbs, curved spine, sunken chest, joint flexibility. Less obvious, but life threatening features are aortic enlargement or collapsed lungs. Eyesight is usually weak and they are susceptible to detached retinas, glaucoma, and cataracts.”
“Any problems with the liver?”
“None I’m aware of, but the liver contains connective tissue, so it’s possible.”
“I’ll look into it.” He tucked his notepad back into his pocket and began to put the file back together that was spread across the desk.
“What’s your next step?”
“Baltimore PD thinks they’re looking for a male, twenty-five to thirty, suffering from OCD, looking for an emotional high. They think he’ll return to the scene of one of his crimes if he doesn’t succeed in finding his next victim soon.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I think his thrill is derived from the challenge of seemingly impossible entry. He may need to lie in wait for some time to avoid detection in or…” Mulder stopped in a moment of realization.
“Or?”
“Scully, you’ve been a big help. Thanks for your time.” He hurriedly finished throwing the file back together to rush to the door.
“Agent Mulder!”
“Yeah?”
“Will you keep me posted? Let me know if you find your centenarian killer with the 10 inch fingers?”
He tried to detect a hint of malice or amusement in her voice, but she sounded genuine. “Sure,” he answered, lingering in the doorway for another few moments before taking off. He wondered for a moment if he should say goodbye, but it made him feel like he wouldn’t see her again if he did, so he didn’t.
******
It was early evening when Mulder arrived back at the crime scene in Baltimore. The parking garage was nearly deserted, only a few stragglers leaving their offices remained, and of course, the government issue Sedan that told him the planned stakeout was already in effect. Detective Colton was behind the wheel, reading a magazine, which he shook his head at, but didn’t have time to bother with. He crept through the garage undetected, staying behind pillars and in shadows, making his way towards a lone, grey van parked beside a caged off area of heating and air conditioning equipment. BALTIMORE MUNICIPAL ANIMAL CONTROL was painted in red on the side of the van.
Mulder heard a noise, faint at first, like a tapping from inside the walls of the shaft running across the ceiling of the garage and down into the cage. He looked up and saw a slight depression in the metal tube above him. Without thinking, he ran towards the Sedan across the lot. To his derision, Detective Colton got out of the car, drawing his weapon as he did so.
“Call for backup,” Mulder hissed. “And put that thing away.”
“What?”
“He’s here.”
Mulder didn’t wait to find out if Colton did as he was told, he simply turned tail and ran back to the cage of equipment where the shafts joined together in an exit. He drew his gun and pointed it at the grate over the end of the shaft and waited. There was bumping and clanging and then the grate fell forwards and a man slowly emerged, feet first, on hands and knees.
“Freeze!” Mulder yelled. “FBI!”
Colton came out of nowhere, flying past Mulder to yank open the cage door. He whipped out his handcuffs and snapped them on the suspect before pulling him roughly to his feet.
“Colton,” Mulder warned. “Easy.”
“You’re under arrest, you sonofabitch,” Colton hissed in the man’s ear, dragging him past Mulder towards his car. “You have the right to remain silent.”
Mulder holstered his weapon as Colton mirandized the suspect and dragged him away. He had a bad feeling about how Colton was going to handle things as he watched him shove the guy into the back of his Sedan. He hoped the rookie could keep his ego in check between the parking garage and the precinct, otherwise the case would be blown to pieces.
******
The suspect’s name was Eugene Victor Tooms according to his driver’s license. Colton had him in an interrogation room before Mulder even made it to the precinct, but apparently Tooms hadn’t said a word, just stared mutely at the wall in the face of Colton’s raving. Mulder observed and listened behind the two-way mirror for only a few minutes before he shut the speaker off. He thought about remanding Tooms to federal custody and removing Colton from the investigation, but he knew he didn’t have jurisdiction.
Instead, Mulder did a quick background search on Tooms and then sought out the chief on duty and requested a polygraph examiner for interrogation room 2. He asked for permission to lead the questioning and then interrupted the detective to take over. Colton fumed, but Mulder ignored him.
“Mr. Tooms,” Mulder said, taking a seat across from him and smoothing his tie down the front of his chest. “The woman that hooked you up to this polygraph machine is going to ask you some questions that we just want you to answer yes or no to, that’s all. Can you do that?”
Tooms nodded.
“We’re going to need a verbal response from you, Mr. Tooms,” Mulder said. “A yes or no.”
“Yes,” Tooms said.
“That’s all you have to do.” Mulder pushed a pad of paper towards the examiner, a list of questions he’d created while he’d done the background check.
They started off casually, verifying his name and residence. Mulder studied Tooms’ as he answered the questions. His skin and the whites of his eyes had a jaundiced, sickly pallor. His voice was slow and monotonous. His hands were thin, but looked average. There was something off about him.
“Did you kill George Usher?” the examiner asked.
“No,” Tooms answered.
Mulder glanced at the needle recording the results of the polygraph and watched it jump slightly.
“Are you over 100 years old?”
“No.”
The needle jumped again, spiking even higher than the previous question.
“Have you ever been to Powhatan Mill?”
“Yes.”
“Were you there in 1933?” Mulder asked.
“No.”
“Are you afraid you will fail this examination?” the examiner asked.
“Yes. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The examiner turned the polygraph machine off and unhooked Tooms from the monitors. Mulder followed her out of the room where they could review the results. Colton paced behind them.
“He passed, in my opinion,” the examiner said.
“But, he spiked here, here, and here,” Mulder pointed out. “His electrodermal and cardiograph responses are off the chart.”
“The stupid questions about his age?” Colton interjected. “My electrodermal and cardiograph responses would probably go off as well.”
“Why, were you at Powhatan Mill in 1933?” Mulder asked.
“I don’t need a polygraph to tell me that Tooms isn’t a 100 year old man. Besides, while you were in there asking stupid questions, we confirmed with the building that they’d called animal control in to investigate a bad smell. They found a dead cat in the ventilation ducts on the second floor.”
“It doesn’t explain what he was doing there after hours, crawling through air ducts without alerting security.”
“Neither does asking him if he was hanging around Powhatan Mill in 1933. You made me arrest the wrong guy, Spooky, and you made me look like an ass.”
“No, Colton, you did that all on your own.”
Colton’s pale, freckled face turned an angry shade of red. He left the room abruptly, slamming the door behind him. Mulder sighed and the examiner looked away. A few moments later, Tooms was escorted down the hallway by another officer. They were letting him go. Before he left the precinct, Mulder asked for a copy of Tooms’ arrest record and fingerprints.
******
In the morning, Mulder got the call that the killer had struck again and he couldn’t say he was surprised. They’d poked the hornet’s nest and Tooms was anxious for his next two victims. There was little doubt in Mulder’s mind that Tooms was their killer, he just didn’t know how he accomplished it. The fingerprints weren’t a match, and he had no evidence other than his gut, but his gut was usually right.
He walked into the active crime scene less than an hour after he’d gotten the phone call. Detective Colton was already there and made an attempt to bar Mulder from entering.
“Only qualified members of the investigating team inside,” he said.
“I have authorized access to this crime scene,” Mulder answered, not in the least concerned about Colton’s sudden display of testosterone. “A report of you obstructing a federal agent’s investigation might stick out in your personnel file.”
As Mulder suspected he would, Colton backed off and stepped aside. He was all bark and no bite. As he crouched over the bloodstained carpet where the outline of the victim was, he overheard another officer making arrangements to run a check on liver transplant recipients for the next 24 hours to look into the possibility of a black market ring. Before he stood, he spotted black smudges on the fireplace mantel, which he went to investigate.
“He took something,” Mulder said to no one in particular, studying the elongated fingerprint that had been lifted from the front of the mantel and the ring of dust left behind by a missing object.
******
Instead of showing up at Quantico, Mulder looked up Scully’s number in the FBI directory and called ahead. He got her voicemail, so he left a message and continued the research he was doing and waited for her to call back. An hour later, his line rang and it was her, returning his call.
“Agent Mulder,” she said. “How can I help you today?”
“Scully, in your medical opinion, if you were to extract a liver for black market purposes, would you literally tear it out of the body?”
“Of course not, but I’m sure you already know that.”
“I do, I just wanted to hear you say it.”
“Have you found your killer yet?”
“Actually, I did.”
“You found a 100 year old man with ten inch fingers?”
“No, but I found one Eugene Victor Tooms, a 30 year old animal control officer hanging around the inside of a ventilation shaft at the crime scene.”
“Did he have any livers on him? Aside from his own, of course.”
Mulder chuckled. He liked this Dana Scully woman. Maybe a wicked sense of humor was a common trait amongst pathologists. “That would be too easy,” he answered. “No, but something was definitely off about the guy. His skin was yellow.”
“Yellow skin? Like jaundice?”
“Like jaundice.”
“Jaundice occurs when the liver is unable to metabolize the bilirubin in the blood the way it’s supposed to.”
“Kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Well, you can’t convict on coincidence.”
“I know. And we had to let him go, unfortunately.”
“Why?”
“Fingerprints weren’t a match. Not enough evidence. Yet.”
“Do you have him under surveillance now?”
“I would, but it’s actually not my case, I’m only an assist. Unfortunately the detective they’ve got as the lead is...well, he’s doing a rather splendid job representing the patriarchy, if you know what I mean.”
“What else have you got to go on?”
“There was another murder overnight. Same elongated fingerprint lifted, but it appears as though the liver isn’t the trophy. He took something else off the mantle.”
“What’d he take?”
“I don’t know yet, some sort of knick knack I would imagine. I had a guy at the Baltimore PD check out his address and it turns out it’s a cover, not even a real address. He hasn’t shown up for work since his arrest either. I’ve been doing other research this morning, making myself seasick running through birth, marriage, and death records for the last century.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Aside from the fact that he doesn’t seem to have been born, married, or died? One thing, Eugene Victor Tooms, resident of 66 Exeter Street, apartment 103 from the 1903 census. Ironically, the 1903 murder took place at the same address, one floor above.”
“Your guy’s great grandfather maybe?”
“I see where you’re going, and genetics might explain the patterns, but it doesn’t explain the fingerprints.”
“You said the fingerprints weren’t a match.”
“Yeah, I’m still trying to work that out.”
There was a short pause in the conversation and Mulder sat back in his chair and sighed.
“You’re afraid you’re running out of time, aren’t you?” Scully asked.
“If the pattern holds, he only needs one more victim before he goes back into hiding and the next chance to catch him won’t be until 2023.”
“You know what I would do?”
“What would you do, Scully?”
“I would check out 66 Exeter Street. And I would see if the investigator in the 1963 case is still with the force, or at the very least, still living. Not every observation ends up in a report and it sounds like a case like this would stick with someone.”
Mulder perked up at the suggestion and sat up straight in his chair. “Once again, your service has been invaluable. If I find anything…”
“Let me give you my cellular. I’m not always in the office.”
They traded cell phone numbers and Mulder hung up, his sense of growing frustration having ebbed since he was on the phone with Scully. He felt renewed and ready to keep going at the case even with the little he had.
******
As luck would have it, Mulder was able to find the police officer assigned to the Powhatan Mill murder of 1933. Through pension records, he was able to find him at an assisted living home in Baltimore. The older man, Frank Briggs, was now wheelchair bound and didn’t have much use of his arms either, but he was still sharp as a tack, and had a clear memory. All Mulder had to do was flash his badge and the man nodded in understanding.
“I’ve been waiting for you for 25 years,” Briggs said.
“How’s that?” Mulder asked.
“I retired in ‘68 after 45 years on the force. You’re here about him aren’t you? It’s time for the monster to return. There’s a box in that trunk over there, would you get it, please?”
Mulder glanced behind him at a cedar chest underneath the window. He opened it up and took out an old shoebox, bound with string. He brought it to Briggs, who nodded at him and Mulder took out a swiss army knife from his pocket to cut the string. He took the top off the box and set it down on the bed.
“That’s all the evidence I collected,” Briggs said. “Both official and unofficial.”
“Unofficial?”
“I knew the murders in ‘63 were done by the same person as in ‘33, but no one would listen and by then, they had me at a desk pushing papers. Wouldn’t let me near the case.”
“Is this…” Mulder held up a small jar filled with a yellowish liquid and what looked like a tiny chunk of meat inside.
“A piece of liver,” Briggs answered. Mulder had to fight a wave of nausea as he placed the jar back in the box. “The only piece we found at any crime scenes. And you know about the trophies? Family members reported small items missing. A hairbrush in the Walters murder. A coffee mug in the Taylor murder.”
“Does the name Eugene Victor Tooms ring any bells for you.”
“When they wouldn’t bring me aboard in ‘63, I took it upon myself to do some legwork. That envelope has a few surveillance photos of Tooms. Course, those were 30 years ago.”
Mulder opened up a manilla envelope and went through a series of black and white photos of Tooms as he walked down a deserted street. His face was perfectly clear in one photo and more or less identical to the man Mulder had interrogated the night before. He wished the photos were in color to see if the Tooms of 1963 had the same sickly pallor to his skin. The last photo was of a squat, brick building about four stories high, on a corner lot.
“That last one is of his apartment,” Briggs said.
“66 Exeter Street?” Mulder asked.
“That’s right.”
******
Mulder held up the photo of 66 Exeter Street as he stood across the street. The building itself looked the same, if not worse for wear. Plywood covered most of the windows and graffiti marred the brick. He easily found entrance at the back of the building via a loose board and turned his flashlight on to walk the dim and narrow hall.
The numbers on the apartments were missing, but the outlines of the plates remained. He looked for 103 and then pushed the broken door open with the tip of his shoe. It was dusty and empty, save for an old mattress propped up against the wall. The floorboards creaked with every step he took like the wood threatened to break.
Mulder turned in a circle within the small studio apartment. It was a desolate, depressing place, that he couldn’t imagine anyone living in, even if the wallpaper wasn’t peeling and it didn’t smell like mold. He was about to leave, but just to make a thorough investigation, kicked the mattress over and stepped back in surprise when he revealed a large hole in the wall.
It was times like these, Mulder wished he had a partner. He shined his flashlight into the hole, but couldn’t see much. He could have called for backup, but with his luck, Detective Colton would probably show up and it wasn’t worth the hassle. Instead, he took out his phone and dialed Scully.
“Scully,” she answered.
“Scully, it’s me.”
“Agent Mulder?”
“I’m at 66 Exeter Street and I’ve found some sort of...I don’t know, there’s a hole in the wall in Tooms’ old apartment.”
“Don’t do anything rash.”
“Would you do me a favor and stay on the line with me while I see what’s down here?”
“Agent Mulder, I don’t think you-”
“I’m heading down a ladder.”
“What do you see?”
“Not much. Hang on.” He’d tucked his flashlight under his chin so he could descend the ladder and stay on the phone with Scully at the same time and he took it back into his hand to shine it around. “I think it’s an old coal cellar.”
“You need to get out of there and you need to call for backup.”
“Looks like someone’s having a yard sale.”
“Huh?”
Mulder approached a small table in the corner that was cluttered with objects. A hairbrush, a coffee mug, an ashtray, a crystal vase that judging by the shape of the base, would’ve fit perfectly on the mantle of the last crime scene. He shone his light in another direction and walked slowly around the room.
“I think this is where Tooms lives,” he said. “The walls...the walls are covered in newspaper. It’s almost like...he’s nesting.”
“Nesting?”
“Yeah, it’s...hang on.” Mulder tucked the phone between his shoulder and jaw and reached into a hole made of rags and newspaper until his hand dipped into something that felt like slime and he pulled it out. “Jesus, I just touched something gross and it…” He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he brought his hand closer to his face. “It smells like vomit.”
“Is it bile?”
“Oh my god, is there any way I can get it off my fingers quickly without betraying my cool exterior?”
“That can’t be where he lives.”
Mulder flicked his wrist to send the sticky goo flying off his hand and then he wiped it on the newspaper covered wall. “I think this is where he hibernates.”
“People don’t hibernate.”
“No, listen, what if there’s a genetic mutation that allows for a man to awaken every 30 years?”
“Agent Mulder.”
“And what if five livers provided the sustenance to allow him to do it? What if he’s some kind of mutant?”
“Mutants are in comic books, Agent Mulder.”
“And sometimes reality is stranger than fiction, Scully.”
“Would you please get out of that cellar now before I need to call the police?”
“He isn’t here anyway.” Mulder wiped his hand off one more time and then headed for the ladder. “I need to put a surveillance team on the building.”
“Good luck with the patriarchy.”
“You too.”
******
Mulder called AD Skinner after making his way out of 66 Exeter Street and got authority to order round the clock surveillance, at least for the next 48 hours. He took the first shift and was relieved at midnight by a plainclothes detective. It was after one in the morning when he got home and collapsed on his couch for as much shut eye as he could catch.
At 7:30 on the dot, Mulder’s cell phone rang, muffled under the heap of his suit jacket and tie. He searched the floor with a blind hand, face still pressed to the couch cushions, and managed to find the source of the obnoxious ring before it went to voicemail.
“Mulder,” he mumbled.
“What the hell do you mean tying up valuable assets of the Baltimore PD on a futile surveillance op?”
“Good morning to you too, Detective Colton.”
“I just wanted to be the one to break it to you that I called off surveillance a half hour ago.”
“You can’t do that.”
“You bet your ass I can. And your assistance is no longer wanted.”
“Is this what it takes to climb the ladder, Colton?”
“All the way to the top.”
“I can’t wait to see you fall on your ass.”
“Nice working with you Spooky. Oh, and if you took my pen, I’d like it back.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It was a gift from my grandfather. I’ve taken all my statements with it and I’ll be taking statements with it when I’m the chief and you’re a washed up has-been.”
“You’re crazy, Colton.” Annoyed, Mulder disconnected the call.
At this time of morning, Mulder estimated it would take him at least two hours to make it back to 66 Exeter Street. By then, over three hours would have passed without eyes on the building. He was livid. Colton was an ass and now he was impeding an investigation. On his way to Baltimore, he would call Skinner and figure out how to remand the case to the feds. And what was the deal with the petty nonsense about stealing the guy’s pen? Ludicrous.
Mulder didn’t bother to shower or shave, he simply threw a new suit on and headed for the door. His cell phone rang again as he was getting into his car and his initial reaction was to be annoyed again, thinking it was Colton, but he saw Scully’s number on the display and picked up right away.
“Mulder,” he said.
“Agent Mulder, it’s me.”
“It’s not even eight a.m., Scully, and I’m already fighting the patriarchy. How do you stand it?”
“Agent Mulder, listen to me. Tooms is your guy.”
“What?”
“I logged into your casefile last night to take another look at what you had. Something about the fingerprints bothered me and I didn’t put it together before, but when I woke up this morning, it occured to me. What if Tooms does have some sort of genetic anomaly? Something similar to Marfan’s, but something he has control over. Like being double-jointed somehow.”
“Or, like a human Stretch Armstrong?”
“Something like that, yes. I pulled up the fingerprints from your previous crime scenes and the ones from Tooms’ arrest. And if you elongate Tooms’ prints, they’re a perfect match.”
“Dammit,” Mulder groaned, banging his fist against his steering wheel.
“You need to warn whoever’s on duty right now that he has the ability to...to...I don’t know what, but that he should be considered dangerous. We have no idea what he’s capable of.”
“Colton called off the surveillance this morning.”
“He did what?”
“Called me to gloat about it to. And to accuse me of stealing his pen.”
“His pen?”
“The guy’s a maniac. I’ve got better things to do with my time than steal a pen. It’s not like I’m…” Tooms, Mulder thought, and then a feeling of dread came over him about a half second later.
“Agent Mulder, Colton’s in trouble.”
“You read my mind. Scully, I have to let you go.”
“Keep me posted.”
Mulder tried calling Colton’s cell phone as he peeled out of his parking spot. There was no answer. He called Colton’s precinct and told them to send a car over to wherever Colton lived and then he called AD Skinner and appraised him of the situation. Skinner hung up after assuring Mulder he’d also have an agent sent over from the Baltimore field office ot check in on Colton. Not knowing what else to do, Mulder merged into traffic and headed for 66 Exeter Street.
In the hour and a half it took Mulder to get to Tooms’ nest, Mulder received two calls, one from the officer who relieved him from his stakeout and another from a fed that had gone to Colton’s apartment. No one had any information on the whereabouts of Colton or Tooms.
The street was eerily quiet and deserted, not a bird was chirping or a dog barking. Staying light on his feet, Mulder pulled his weapon out of his holster, held it with both hands, kept it pointed down and away from his body, and sprinted to the back of the building. He entered as he had the day before, only this time headed straight to apartment 103 and with his gun leading the way.
Outside the door of the apartment, Mulder heard a muffled moan and he paused, counted to five to regulate his heart rate, and then kicked the door in. Tooms was bent over the prone body of detective Colton. He looked up at Mulder, golden eyes bright and blazing.
“Move away from detective Colton,” Mulder ordered.
Tooms pulled his shoulders in and moved into a crouch. His long, tapered fingers flexed over Colton’s abdomen and the detective moaned again, blood oozing through his white dress shirt.
“I’m warning you, Tooms,” Mulder said. “You move away now, or I will shoot.”
Tooms suddenly lunged forward and hissed. Mulder fired three times, hitting Tooms twice in the chest and once in the head. As he went down, the liver thief let out a banshee-like scream and his body curled in on itself. Keeping his gun trained on Tooms, Mulder moved sideways towards Colton and bent to feel his pulse. It was weak, but still there. His eyes and his weapon never left Tooms as he called for an ambulance to report an officer down.
******
Mulder knocked on Scully’s door, ‘shave and a haircut,’ and instead of barging in, waited outside.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Steven Spielberg,” he answered.
“Come in.”
He flashed a smile as he entered her office and she lifted her brows as she gave him a once-over from her desk. He glanced down at his jeans and maroon t-shirt, knowing he was underdressed.
“I’m on mandatory leave,” he explained. “Two weeks for firing my weapon.”
“You could’ve just called for the results, you didn’t have to come all the way down.”
He shrugged. He could tell her he was bored out of his mind at home alone with his fish, but that would only be half the truth. What really brought him to her office was that he wanted to see her again, not just hear her voice. He sat down across from her in the single chair on the other side of her desk. She was wearing glasses and her hair was pulled back into a clip.
“Well, you’re in luck because I finished the autopsy on Tooms about an hour ago,” she said. “The preliminary medical exam revealed quite abnormal development in the muscular and skeletal systems.”
“Marfan’s?”
“I don’t really know, if I’m being completely honest. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’ve taken samples to order further genetic testing.”
“You’ll let me know if you find something?”
“ If I find something? There’s always something to be found.”
“In my experience, not everything can be explained.”
“Of course it can. The answers are there, you just need to know where to look.”
“Well...I’m looking at you.”
Scully’s lips pursed into a small smile and she dropped her eyes for a moment. “Then, I’ll try to do my best, Agent Mulder.”
“You can just call me Mulder. The Agent is so formal.”
“You could call me Dana.”
“I like Scully.”
She blinked at him a few times. There was tension in the room and he knew she must feel it too. He was flirting with her somewhat shamelessly. He hadn’t intended to, but it was suddenly hard not to. She wasn’t his really his type. He preferred brunettes over redheads or even blondes. He liked a tall woman and Scully had to be at least a foot shorter than him. But, she was whip smart, had a quick wit, and she was beautiful in her own way with her pale skin, dusting of freckles across her patrician nose, and her intensely blue eyes.
“How is Detective Colton faring?” she asked, breaking the tension and sudden silence that had descended like a cloud over the room.
“He’ll live,” Mulder answered. “Needed minor surgery. They’re more worried about possible infection than anything else.”
“Did he corroborate your report at least?”
“For the most part. He admitted to calling off the surveillance, or at least, telling me he had. In reality he took it over himself and then got bored and went exploring. Tooms knocked him out after he entered the apartment, which must not have been too long before I got there. He doesn’t remember much after that, but said he vaguely heard me identifying myself and ordering Tooms to back off.”
“Hopefully he’s learned his lesson.”
“Time will tell.”
Another silence fell, and that time, it was Mulder that became uncomfortable. He gripped the arms of his chair and stood up before shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he said.
“Feel free to call if you run across anything interesting in the future.”
“I will.” He paused on the verge of asking her out, but something held him back. “Later, Scully.”
“Until next time, Mulder.”
*****