Chapter 2
15 February 1988
—Quantico, Virginia—
13:20
Agent Bill Patterson stood to his feet and glared at the man seated across from him. He didn't like it when the feds from higher up got involved, and he sure as hell didn't like it when they invaded his office. The man in black sitting in front of him flicked open a lighter and lit a fresh cigarette. Patterson clenched his fist and pointed at the cigarette smoking man as he let out a long drag of smoke.
"I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but this is my unit and I decide if and when my agents transfer between departments. So you go run off and tell your superiors that he's not moving and that's final."
The man sitting in front of him smiled and calmly snuffed out his Morley as he stood to his feet.
"I believe that wouldn't be a very wise career move on your part. See, my…superiors… as you so eloquently put it, would likely find that response rather inflammatory." He folded his hands and let out a short laugh, "We wouldn't want any…sensitive information about your ventures with the D.C. call-service to get out to the general public, would we?.."
Agent Patterson swallowed hard and steadied himself on the desk. The cigarette smoking man's mouth widened into a grin as he licked his lips.
"My my…that would be the end of a promising career…wouldn't it?"
Patterson was frozen. He felt sick. Immediately his thoughts rushed to the blonde he'd met a week ago at a hotel in the capital. He hadn't known…
no one could ever prove…
He straightened up his stance and walked around to the front of his desk to face the man invading his office. His voice was gravel and grit when he spoke,
"Who the fuck do you think you are coming in here threatening to blackmail me?" He tossed a file off his desk and across the room as his voice rose and his face reddened, "Who do you work for? You don't have the authority to come in here and tell me how to run my unit!"
The smoker chuckled, "I could have authority over any department in this building if the need were ever to arrive," he made a show of lighting another cigarette, "and for sensitive reasons you are not at liberty to understand, the need has arisen to have control over yours."
The man seated in front of Patterson inhaled deeply on the Morley in his hand and his face twisted into an expression close to that of anger, but not quite. It inspired a feeling more sinister and tremulous in the beholder—it was one of disdain.
Agent Patterson felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. His body was tense, and he stifled a gag as the man in front of him blew a cloud of smoke in his face before ashing his cigarette in Patterson's coffee mug. He wasn't going to let this man push him around, no matter how much of a pissing contest he tried to put on in the middle of his office.
"Now, in case you didn't hear me well enough the first time…" The smoking man rose to his feet and walked towards the back corner of Patterson's office,
"I said if you don't have Agent Mulder transferred out of the Behavioral Analysis Unit and into the Violent Crimes unit before the end of the day, you're going to be wondering how it is that your legs ended up in the mail room before the rest of you." The smoking man took a step forward as he lit a fresh cigarette, "Now, Agent Patterson, did I make myself clear, or do we have to go through this again?"
He calmly took a drag and smiled sickly at the agent in front of him.
Patterson could feel heat moving across his cheekbones as he flushed from anger. God dammit he hated power trips, and he wasn't about to let this no-name son of a bitch push him around with this one. He tried his best to collect himself.
"It's funny," Patterson began to inch his way towards the door of his office as he splayed his fingers over the gun resting snugly against his back, "you walk into my office and demand that I immediately relocate the best damn agent in my unit miles away to work an office gig, without even providing a reasonable lie to cover up whatever screw-brained reason you have for the transfer, and you expect me to go along with it? With no questions asked?" Agent Patterson laughed and shook his head incredulously as he patted his hand on the gun in his holster, "And all that after threatening to blackmail me?"
Patterson couldn't help but smile as he heard a knock and the familiar voice of his secretary at the door.
"Sir?.. Is everything okay?.."
Thank God… He felt the tension in his back release, Jennie's back from lunch.
Agent Patterson quickly stepped towards the door and opened it to the surprise of his secretary waiting on the other side. The cigarette smoking man took another long drag and stood back on his heels, shooting a cold glare at the man in front of him. Agent Patterson gestured towards the door,
"I think it's time you left my office. Jennie, make sure our guest finds his way out of the building."
13:25
The courtyard in front of the F.B.I.'s building in Quantico wasn't the most practical place for a man like Spender to review case files, but it was going to have to work. He lit a cigarette and focused his eyes on Bill Patterson's window—third floor, seventh pane from the left—he watched as the man settled himself in his office. Surely their meeting had riled him quite a bit, and Spender mused that not much work would likely be done in that office for the rest of the afternoon. He rolled the Morley between his fingers— the window was clear and allowed for a direct line of sight to Patterson's desk chair.
A fair marksman could make that shot in waning light with a headwind…
Spender shook the thought from his mind. He pulled a file from inside his coat and flipped to a report stapled to the back. It was a preliminary psych evaluation. Tremors, uncontrollable fits of rage, manic depressive episodes…
Apprehending the suspect, Rolf Hagen, took a serious toll on Agent Mulder due to the unprecedented methods he employed to profile, pursue, and capture the suspect…
Spender ashed his cigarette and took another pull, bracing himself as a gust of wind hit his back.
My professional opinion is that Agent Mulder be deemed unfit for duty for a period of one week pending further psychological evaluation and treatment. Furthermore, Agent Mulder will be under the supervision of a clinical therapist for the entirety of his medical probation for the next 4 to 6 mon-
Spender ripped the report from the back of the file and tossed it into the nearest trashcan. It wouldn't do to have someone monitoring the boy while he tried to work. Hell, what am I thinking? What with the master copy of the report being in his hands, and the director of the psychological department for the F.B.I. having a penchant for rather inappropriate, some would say illegal, sexual appetites, he found it very unlikely that the powers that be would be overly concerned with the absence of a psychological report on the leading agent on a case that successfully eliminated a notorious child serial killer. He flipped back a few pages in the file to read the final page of the lead investigator's report for what seemed like the thousandth time. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
Rolf Hagen was shot three times in the head and chest. Two blows were fired directly to the chest with a final third shot to the head, at 22:57 on February 10, 1988, by myself, Agent Mulder. The only other witness to the event was an eight-year-old girl , Samantha Miller, whom Rolf Hagen had kidnapped from her home on the night of February 7th, 1988, presumably to torture, kill, and embalm, in the same manner as his other victims. Upon inspection, Miller had suffered deep lacerations on her hands and feet from being bound, and three of her molars were missing. The missing teeth are consistent with the signature mutilation Hagen inflicted on all but one of his previous 24 victims. Hagen was pronounced dead on scene upon the arrival of the Emergency Response Team. No other injuries were reported.
The sky above Quantico began to turn dark as he stood leaning against the trashcan in the quickly cooling courtyard. He took a short drag on his cigarette before throwing it onto the walkway, tucking the file back into his pocket. For a moment, he felt lost. That boy can't stay in the BAU much longer… He sighed. It's going to kill him or worse, he thought, it's going to drive him mad.
The cigarette smoking man walked along the sidewalk towards his waiting car in the garage across the street. The air around him sparked and stirred with electricity as a winter thunderstorm rolled in, but Spender couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the weather. His thoughts were somewhere else…
7 April 1961
—A Cabin Somewhere in Massachusetts—
Thunder shook the frame of the house—if you could call it a house—and Teena Mulder jumped beneath the sheets with a sharp squeal.
"Jesus!" She collapsed back onto the pillow and draped a hand across her face, "Do you think this place can survive a storm like this?" She'd wrapped herself up in the sheets of the bed while her partner stirred the fire across the room. His eyes wandered over her silhouette in the firelight, and he felt a stirring in his chest when he saw the way she smiled at him from behind the pillow she'd clutched to her chest.
"Not that it isn't a beautiful little shack, Honey, but we're about to run out of buckets to catch the rain comin' in from all the leaks," she teased him as she giggled. He laughed as well and surveyed the damage that'd been done to the cottage during the past two hours of the storm. So far, three buckets had been placed around the house—two in the kitchen, and one in the sitting room—but there was a spot on the ceiling of the bedroom that looked like it was about to give way to a stream of drips at any minute. He ran and grabbed a bowl from the kitchen to place under it.
At least it wasn't over the bed…
It was a quaint little place—he thought—one he'd bought with his first paycheck from the Army after basic training. He'd always thought it needed a woman's touch, and he smiled at the thought as he surveyed the new additions to his collection of bedding for the cottage. Yellow throw pillows, a light green sham for the duvet, and a matching yellow dust ruffle for the edge of the bed. Nothing in this place looked the same as it had a week ago—a fact that pleased him. Up until he'd brought Teena here, it'd been a bit of a bachelor pad. It was where he'd come to unwind alone with a couple bottles of gin for days or weeks at a time after a mission went particularly badly…or well depending on the assignment. He'd sit on the back porch and finish the bottles while staring into the woods, drinking to his family's penance, to his own personal penance.
Now, the new throw pillows were tossed about, the duvet was crumpled against the wall, and the only thing on the bed was a very naked Teena Mulder wrapped in white cotton sheets, and God… he just couldn't stop looking at her.
"Spend, come back to bed please?" Teena shot him a look, letting the sheets fall away from her breasts for a moment, and he felt himself harden and shift in his BVDs. They'd been in the cottage for about three days now, and no one had come looking for either of them yet—a fact that was beginning to cause him a fair amount of distress as well as comfort the more he thought about it. He didn't know how to feel about fucking his best friend's wife, falling in love with her, and running away with her to the forest. The only thing he really knew was that after years of not knowing where he fit in his country, his job, in every relationship he'd tried to have up until this one, he'd finally found a place he wanted to be. It just so happened that the only place he wanted to be was in the arms of Teena Mulder. Spender laid himself across the foot of the bed and traced the length of Teena's calf with his hand, letting his fingertips feather upwards and splay across the top of her thigh.
When he spoke, it was soft, low, nearly a growl, "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met, babe," he curled his fingers through the bush of hair at the top of her mound and paused—Teena's breath had quickened and her skin had begun to flush. Spender thought gods had never worshipped queens as beautiful as her. His breath caught as he buried his face against her inner thigh, "God you don't have a clue what you do to me." He felt himself straining against his briefs and quickly jumped up to remove them before he crawled forward on the bed to meet his love again. He let his lips trace up her leg, following the path his hand had taken only a moment before. Teena let out a gasp and dug her fingers into the bedding.
"Oh, you're tellin' me, love," Teena breathed as she moved beneath him and laid back on the bed, moving the sheets away and opening herself up to Spender as he snaked his arms up against her legs and pushed them open and down against the bed. He kept trailing kisses along the top of her leg, moving across and down towards her inner thigh. Teena shifted under his arms, letting out soft pants and moans as his kisses zoned in on her warmth and wetness. He slipped a finger inside of her and she gasped—loudly. Suddenly, Spender felt her fingers tangle in the little bit of hair he had left on the top of his crew cut as she pulled him upwards towards her face. He expected her to kiss him, but instead her eyes met his, and he could tell she wanted to say something. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why she looked so scared.
"Spender, I…" she paused, and her hands left his hair to press against his chest. She rolled him over until he was on his back and she laid her head on his shoulder, spooning against his side.
"What's wrong, baby, tell me what's up." Spender ran a hand through her hair as his mind raced to catch up with the turn the night had taken. Her fingers nervously picked at the hair that peppered his stomach. The longer she was quiet, Spender thought, the worse it was going to be. That'd at least been his experience standing on the sides of desks opposite that of generals, but after a moment, she spoke, "I need to tell you something, Spend." Her voice was shaking, and Spender resisted the urge to lift up her face to wipe away the tears he felt falling against his chest, "but I'm…" Teena choked back a tear, "I'm just not sure how to say it, and so I'm just going to ask you to hold me for a minute, okay?"
He could hear the tremble in her voice, and didn't know what to say. So, he held her, "Of course, my love. Take your time…" He felt her bury her face against his chest and he wrapped his arms tightly around her. He didn't know what he could do, but he knew he could give her what she needed.
Or can I?..
Spender's mind raced as he felt Teena sob against his chest. His distress grew, and his arms tightened around her.
She's leaving me… God dammit I knew it was too small of a house… Bill has all that family money, and that property in Rhode Island, and what do I have? A leaky shack in the woods. I've…I've got nothing to offer her, nothing to give.
"Teena, I know I don't…" he paused as he felt her breath catch and the shuddering of her body as she tried to regain composure. He ran his hand through her hair and gently pressed her head against his chest. "Baby, I know I'm not the best when it comes to talking about…my feelings," oh God dammit, are you gonna cry right now? Spender felt his breath catch as he rubbed his hand up and down Teena's back, trying his best to soothe her, "but, I hope you know that I—that I love you." Her sobs came back in full force, and Spender let his head drop back against the bed beneath him. He decided to let his words and tears flow. He pried her arms from around his waist, and pulled her up to face him—
"No, Spend, please!" She cried and tried to cover her reddened face. Spender couldn't help the tears that fell from the corners of his eyes.
"No, Teena, look at me," she kept her face covered and Spender pulled her arms away and held them out between her face and his. He didn't try to hide the tremor in his voice when he yelled, "Look at me!"
Teena froze. Tears streamed silently down her face, and Spender let go of her hands. He knew his tears were flowing well at this point, and instead of trying to remember the last time he'd let himself cry in front of another person, he reached out to wipe away the tears of his lover. His mouth felt dry, and he almost didn't realize that the person he heard speaking was actually himself,
"I have loved you since the first time Bill introduced us. Now, I know I'm not rich, and I know being with me would mean leaving behind the life you'd planned to build with him, but Teena goddammit we work. You and I work, and I've never felt—" Spender had to pause as a sob wracked his body. He realized Teena had placed her hands on his arms and was paying rapt attention to every word he said, "Baby I've never felt like I wanted to be apart of something until I met you. I've never wanted anything more than to make you happy, and I want to do that for the rest of my life Teena, not just for some crazy week in the woods."
She reached out and gently cradled the side of his face in her hand. His chest felt tight, and the world was spinning when he opened his eyes to see her in front of him, studying his face with tears still streaming down her own. My God, there's a whole world in this woman's eyes. He lifted his hands and held her face, looking deep within those eyes, searching for an answer to what brought on the tears that had begun it all, "Teena if you don't love me, if you can't live this life with me, then please tell me. Because…" Spender leaned forward to press his forehead against hers, "Because I want to marry you, T. I—," his voice cracked and he forced himself to lift up his head and look her in the eye as he let out a deep shuddering breath as he forced himself to regain his composure, "I want you to be my wife."
She shook her head and let out a sigh as she grabbed Spender's hand and squeezed it, "You know I can't Spend... it just... it just wouldn't work."
That's it then... He'd messed everything up. This was it, the last time he'd be able to hold her. He squeezed her hand as he looked away and tore himself from her arms. He jumped out of the bed and grabbed his briefs, putting them on as he rushed out of the cabin and onto the covered porch at the back of the house.
Goddammit… He needed some air. The night was cool despite the storm, and he wished he'd have grabbed his leather jacket before he'd stepped outside. He pressed his eyes shut hard, trying to stop the tears from coming. You had to go and fuck it up, and ask her to marry you didn't you Spender? He bit down on his bottom lip and sucked in the cold night air as he felt the spray of the rain pelt against his exposed skin. You just had to ask her to commit to leaving him… The sound of thunder filled the night around him as he paced on the porch, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Everything had been fine… For the love of god we were about to have sex, and then suddenly she just started sobbing?!
Spender picked up an empty bottle of gin and hurled it into the trees, letting out a half garbled scream as the glass shattered against the trunk of a pine at the tree line. The sky flashed just in time for him to see it break into a thousand pieces. He twirled around to face the back of the house and spotted a half empty bottle of gin. He hadn't had a drop to drink around her since she'd told him that she didn't like being reminded of Bill's bad habits, but tonight seemed like the night to break an unspoken rule. He grabbed it and twisted the top off, closed his eyes, and took a huge gulp before he ducked back inside to grab his jacket off the hook next to the backdoor. He felt the gin burn all the way down to his stomach, hitting his heart on the way. He let the backdoor fly open as he jumped down the back steps and ran into the backyard, pulling the coat onto his body as he went. He barely noticed the sound of the door creaking open behind him as he tilted the bottle back for another taste of burning numbness as the rain drenched him and hid his tears from anyone who could see.
Spender was startled by a noise behind him and he slipped in the mud, landing hard on his back with a grunt. He'd managed to save the gin, and he took another swig before rolling over to see what had startled him. Teena stood at the edge of the porch clutching her nightgown to her body as the rain dampened her hair and clothes.
Fuck I must be a sight…
And he was… He was covered in mud from the waist down, and he was soaked to the bone while wallowing on the ground in his backyard with a bottle of gin hoisted over his head. He couldn't help it—he started to laugh. Another swig and he stood up, pushed past her, and then he was in the house. She followed him inside, trying to get his attention but he'd already tuned out the world.
She doesn't want to do this with me? Fine. I don't have to be apart of anything. I can be alone—I do alone just fine.
He took another drink as he dropped himself down on the sofa in the sitting room. Water drip, drip, dripped from the ceiling into the bucket sitting on top of the coffee table in front of him. Spender sat and watched it for a moment until a memory flashed before his eyes… the smell of shit, urine, blood…Men screaming, crying, praying in the cells around him…the drip, drip, drip of water falling onto his forehead… He snapped awake from his reverie to realize the ceiling had sprung another leak, this time right over his head. He took a long drink from the bottle and then another before he shakily placed it back on the coffee table.
"Goddammit did you hear a single fucking word I've been saying to you, Spender?" Suddenly he found himself in his sitting room again with Teena staring at him from the doorway. He looked down at the state he was in and was ashamed—he was soaked, covered in mud, and worse, drunk. He let his face turn to stone before he ventured a look into Teena's eyes. They were wide, scared, and full of pain.
"Spend…" she turned her face away as tears began to fall, "Sweetheart… I'm pregnant," he thought the room had started spinning faster, "It's yours, Spender, and I'm going to keep it."
