REPOST: Trace Evidence 3: Say Goodnight (02/10), Saundra Mitchell
Vampyres Incorporeal
Title: Trace Evidence III: Say Goodnight (02/10)
Author: Saundra Mitchell
E-Mail: v...@netdirect.net
Feedback: Please!
Rating:R
Morning
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Without knocking, Mulder walked
into the assistant director's office,
and stood forebodingly in front of his
desk.
"Agent Mulder," Skinner began,
leaning back in his chair. Dark circles
under his eyes betrayed his seemingly
relaxed and emotionless state.
"I want to attend the autopsy,"
Mulder interrupted. "Actually, I'm going
to attend the autopsy. I just wanted you
to know."
Standing up, Skinner shook his
head. "Go home, Agent Mulder. You're on
bereavement leave."
Facing one another, Mulder refused
to back down. "Sir, I'm going to be at
that autopsy. When it's over, you'll
see that I'm right. I hope you haven't
called her mother."
"Mrs. Scully should be arriving at
Dulles in a few hours," Skinner
announced. "I know you're in pain,
Mulder. Losing Agent Scully is a
terrible blow to all of us, but. . ."
Turning on his heel, Mulder walked
out of the office before his superior
could finish the sentence.
Mulder's Apartment
Tim stared at the telephone,
willing himself to dial the number. His
whole body ached, and he wanted to
sleep. He didn't want to say it out
loud. Finally gathering the courage, he
dialed Frank's home number. Mary picked
it up after two rings, exchanged
pleasantries with Bayliss, then called
her husband to the phone.
"What?" Pembleton's ever-charming
demeanor was in full force.
"Frank," he asked numbly, wanting
to hang up.
"What to you want, Tim?"
"Dana's dead," he blurted.
"Murdered."
"Don't play with me, Bayliss."
"Last night, Frank. She's dead. I .
. I know you don't read the paper
until after breakfast, and I wanted you
to find out from me, and . . . " Tim's
voice trailed off into a sob.
"How," Pembleton demanded. "What do
you mean murdered? Was she shot? Is this
job related?"
Bayliss shook his head, then
managed to produce a verbal answer. "In
her apartment, Frank. They tortured her.
I. . . I don't know all the details,
they're doing the autopsy right now. She
was strangled. . . and stabbed. She was
naked, Frank. She was. . . she was. . .
It had to be a stranger."
"I have to go," Frank croaked. "I.
. I have to tell Mary. I have to tell
Mary."
"I'm sorry," Bayliss whispered as
he hung up the phone. Leaning against
the wall, he kicked the floorboard
violently, cursing under his breath. He
had tried to convince Mulder to stay
home that morning, but he'd refused.
Even more determined than last night,
his lover insisted that the woman in
Scully's apartment was not Scully.
Confused, angry, and in pain, Bayliss
slumped on the arm of the couch. Digging
his nails into his palm, he allowed
himself to cry- when Mulder returned
from the autopsy with proof of his
partner's death, Tim knew he had to be
ready to support him in every way he
could.
Office of the Chief Medical Examiner
For the second time during the
autopsy, the medical examiner pushed
Mulder away from the table. Trying to
keep himself distracted, he examined the
man who'd been assigned the primary on
the case. In his late forties, his round
face and belly screamed of a man who'd
spent the better part of his time
sitting at a desk, filling out pointless
forms for another dead soul from the
streets of D.C. He looked every inch the
detective, from his questionably
matching suit and tie, to the tired
reflection of boredom in his eyes.
Murder police were probably the only
people on earth who could be bored
during an autopsy- the doctors were too
busy working the corpse to be bored with
it.
"No distinguishing marks or
features," the doctor said, speaking
into a microphone hung from the ceiling.
"None," Mulder asked, stepping
forward again.
"No, Agent Mulder, none," the M.E.
snapped. "Would you like to conduct this
examination?"
"Agent Scully has a tattoo," Mulder
said, motioning to the small of his
back. "An ourobouros, a snake biting its
own tail, right here."
The doctor rolled his eyes. "She
must have had it removed, because it
isn't there now."
Mulder spun around and stared at
the detective. "Scully had a tattoo. I
told you last night, it isn't her. I
told you."
The detective sighed, shaking his
head. "Agent Mulder, you gotta be upset.
I know I would be in your place. We know
that's Dana Scully, conclusively. We ran
her prints."
"And I'm telling you,
conclusively," he emphasized bitterly,
"That this is not my partner."
Much to the M.E. and detective's
relief, Mulder threw up his hands and
stormed out of the examination.
"He's gonna snap," the detective
offered.
"As long as he doesn't do it here,"
the doctor replied.
Baltimore, Maryland
John Munch's Apartment
Opening the door just wide enough
to retrieve the morning paper, Munch
inched a hand outside and grabbed it.
Looking around the living room, he
plucked his glasses from the coffee
table, and slid them onto his face. He
retied his robe, and went into the
kitchen for a glass of orange juice.
Then, stretching his back, he wandered
toward the bedroom. Glancing across the
front page of the paper, his jaw
dropped. "FBI AGENT FOUND SLAIN IN
WASHINGTON APARTMENT," a secondary
headline screamed. Scanning the article,
his eyes widened in surprise.
"John, are you okay?"
Looking up, he held the paper out,
a quirked smile reaching his lips. "I
should ask you. According to this,
you're dead."
Washington, D.C.
Mulder's Apartment
Slowly walking up the long flight
of stairs toward his apartment, Mulder
silently argued with himself. He was
absolutely convinced that Scully was
alive. He didn't know who was in that
apartment, or why her prints matched his
partner's, but he just knew she was an
impostor. The rational side of his mind
tried to reason with him, repeating the
lessons he'd learned about the stages of
grief. First comes denial.
His last three hours had been an
exercise in denial. After leaving the
autopsy, he returned to share his
'proof' with Skinner. Skinner wasn't
interested. He had the fingerprints, and
if the labs rushed it, he'd have DNA in
a few days. Ordering Mulder to go home,
the weary assistant director had
dismissed him.
Ignoring his forcible leave, Mulder
had traveled the well-worn path to their
basement office. Looking through her
desk drawers, he tried to find anything
that might lead him to her. After that
fruitless search, he finally gave up and
headed home.
Pulling his keys from his pocket,
he unlocked his door and swung it open,
hoping that Tim hadn't left for
Baltimore yet.
"Mulder."
He felt as though his breath had
been stolen. Sitting on his coffee
table, talking to Tim, was his partner.
Rushing over, he gathered her in his
arms and refused to let go. Suddenly, he
realized that Scully had brought a
guest. Munch. Slowly releasing her, he
examined her from head to toe.
"Let me see your tattoo."
Munch nodded his head sagely. "It's
still there."
"I'll tell you later," she said
through her teeth, acknowledging
Mulder's astonished expression.
"Munch," Tim said, less than subtle
in his intentions. "Why don't we go call
Frank, get some take-out. . ."
"No," Scully snapped,
unintentionally impolite. "You two can't
tell anyone I'm here. . . that I'm
alive."
Mulder looked surprised, but also a
little proud. After all these years in
the x files with him, some of his
justifiable paranoia had worn off. "We
have to find out who the woman was in
Scully's apartment. Then we have to find
out who killed her."
"But Frank thinks. . . and your
family, and. . ."
"What difference does it make if
they find out now or later that I'm
really alive? The hurt has already
happened. I want to find out who's
responsible."
Tim furrowed his eyebrows. "Forgive
me if I'm wrong. . . but isn't that
Washington homicide's job?"
Shaking her head, Scully half
smiled. "They never figured out who
tried and failed to kill me last time. I
have a personal interest in this case."
Munch regarded Scully and Mulder
incredulously. "Last time?"
"It's a long story," she shrugged.
"I'll explain it another time. I'm sorry
to cut the vacation short. . . Tim,
could you give John a ride back to. . ."
"No."
She raised an eyebrow. Bayliss
tapped his cane idly on the floor,
returning her gaze.
"I don't have time to take him back
myself, Tim. I'd really appreciate . .
"
"We're not going back," Tim said
seriously, looking over at Munch. "I
think we have a stake in this, isn't
that right, Munch?"
Munch nodded. "A personal interest
in the case."
"Forget it," Mulder said, shaking
his head. "You have no idea what you're
saying."
"I remember the day we met," Munch
started, as if ready to launch into the
full tale for everyone present. Mulder
shrank back- that was a little bit of
his history he'd never bothered to share
with Bayliss or Scully; not because they
didn't deserve the truth, but because it
was infinitely embarrassing to him.
"This is not a game," Mulder warned
them. "If you get involved now, you
can't ever get out."
"Do we want out," Munch asked
Bayliss, helping his colleague to his
feet.
"No, Munch, I don't want out," Tim
replied seriously. "Do you want out?"
"I absolutely do not," John smiled.
"See? We don't want out. Feed us danger
and conspiracy, we like it."
Scully opened and closed her mouth,
then grabbed Mulder by the shoulder.
Pulling him into the corner, she lowered
her voice. "John doesn't know anything.
He doesn't know what he's getting into."
Glancing over his shoulder, Mulder
nodded. "But Tim does. I don't think. .
I don't think he'd let Munch tiptoe
down the tulip trail to hell if he
thought Munch'd change his mind with all
the facts."
"We don't even know what we're
looking for."
"Four pairs of eyes are better than
two."
They both looked at Munch and
Bayliss surreptitiously. They stared
back at them with arms crossed. Scully
sighed.
"Hey, I thought you were in Maine,"
Mulder said, enjoying the brief flush
which colored her cheeks.
She smiled and changed the subject.
"How did you know it wasn't me?"
"Well, I could tell you that my
talented psychological analysis of the
situation formed subtle clues in my
subconscious. . . but the truth is, I
don't know how. I just knew."
"If something happens to them. . ."
"They're grown men," Mulder
answered softly. "They're homicide
detectives. We can't treat them like
they're children. Not even Munch."
(End Part Two)