Chapter Four
FBI Regional Office, New York, New York
April 7th, 2000, 5:18 p.m.
"You need somethin', lady?" a white haired man with a Brooklyn accent asked. His reading glasses drooped far from the bridge of his nose as he scooped up a stack of papers and threw them into the wastebasket beside his desk.
"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, of the Washington Bureau. I'm supposed to be meeting Special Agent Payton Ritter, uh, does he have an office?"
"Nope. His desk's right over there," the man motioned her attention five feet away. "I think he might be in with our SAC at the moment."
"Who is he, by the way?"
"Carter Boucheaux. He, by the way, does have his own office. You'll find it on the right down the hall just past the coffee machine," he instructed her and answered the chirping phone in front of him. "This is Agent John Whittaker." Whittaker signaled Scully to come through the gate as he opened it for her.
She waited patiently until she heard a period of silence outside Boucheaux's door and then knocked twice. "Come in," Boucheaux's rich tenor voice welcomed her.
"Oh, Dana, how ya doin'?" Ritter turned around and shoved his hand into hers for a very presumptuous shake. She accepted his hand graciously but withdrew it as hastily possible. "Sorry, sir, uh, this is Agent Dana Scully, from Headquarters. Dana, this is SAC Carter Boucheaux."
Boucheaux's finely trimmed blonde hair and soul patch accentuated his sapphire eyes. He was, by any woman's eyes, a perfect example of the ultimate feminine dream. He wore a well tailored black suit with a chartreuse colored shirt, and the tie was the exact same shade of his eyes. She found herself staring at him a bit too long as he arose and extended his hand to her. The smile he was giving her was very much like the one she had received two years ago from a certain sheriff in Texas. She had not felt that kind of sudden warmth reach down to her toes in weeks.
"Pleasure's all mine, Agent Scully."
Scully was immediately appreciative of the fact that Boucheaux saw the need for proper professional etiquette, even though Ritter had used her first name. That meant that she did not have to prove her equality to him like so many other boys in the club. "I understand you're here to prove the New York City coroner wrong. You are a pathologist, right? I was reading your file just now..."
Scully had begun to frown after his first sentence after his greeting, but then her mood lightened. He was reading her file? Why not Mulder's? Technically, he was the senior agent and head of the X-Files division. Maybe he had already skimmed over Mulder's and decided to read hers instead.
Dana, pull yourself together. Stop thinking about those intoxicating blue eyes and behave.
"Yes, that's true. But we're not here to prove anybody wrong, we just think that there's something that might have been overlooked in this case," she replied diplomatically. "And, perhaps, there might be a chance of the paranormal nature's existence in these deaths."
"We? Who's we?" Boucheaux inquired. "Agent Ritter only mentioned you, Agent Scully."
To that news, she blushed inwardly and pushed a stray strand of auburn hair aside. Just before she could say another word, Mulder strolled inside the office and closed the door behind himself. "Special Agent Fox Mulder. Scully's my partner. That's who we are." He pointed towards himself.
"All right, then. Interesting," Boucheaux commented and gave Ritter a brief but silent rebuke with his eyes.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know that Dana was working with anyone. The last time I partnered with her, she was alone," Ritter remarked.
"From now on, Ritter, please refer to her as Agent Scully, under the FBI's protocol," Boucheaux ordered his underling. "Agent Mulder, was it? That wouldn't be the 'Spooky Mulder' I've heard of, would it?"
Mulder's eyes began to roll, and Scully mouthed his name gently. He then sighed and nodded.
"Well, that puts things into a very different light, now that I know whom I'll be working with. Whatever you need, I'll be happy to supply if I can. I've heard about your reputation, Agent Mulder..."
Scully held her breath and waited for the explosion of laughter.
"You were a legend back at the Academy. And you still are, in my book. So what if you work with the weird stuff? It takes a special kind of person to have the balls to do that. Excuse me, the courage." He flashed another brilliant smile at Scully. "Now, I've lined up DiCostanzo and D'Angelo's bodies into the coroner's cold storage unit for you to examine at your leisure, Agent Scully. Ritter, I'll leave you to the task of escorting them downtown, please."
"Yes, sir," Ritter submissively agreed, and the trio left the office.
"So you didn't remember meeting me?" Mulder immediately became defensive as they passed through the field office's myriad of bureaus. "I'm glad that Scully made enough of an impression on you. Enough of one for you to shoot her," he spat.
"Mulder..." Scully verbalized his name this time.
"I didn't do it on purpose, Mulder. It was an accident. Besides, I did get put on probation for three months," Ritter thundered back.
"Not long enough for your little trigger happy finger."
"Let's not make a scene, Mulder," Scully mumbled and grasped his hand. Maybe the physical contact will cool him down.
"You're right. But this time, as I'm leaving her in your care, Ritter, don't...screw...things...up." He gave Ritter a frosty glare, and the younger agent nodded with understanding.
Scully ignored the fact that Mulder was again being overly possessive and squeezed his hand. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to warm up the old soup bone, here," he told her, made a motion as if he were pitching a baseball, and then released her. "Don't worry. I'll take the subway back home, and if you finish before me, let me know. I'll bring you back a treat."
"You're going undercover as a baseball player?" Ritter wondered.
"Not this time. See you later, Mulder Mantel," Scully mused and took off with him in an opposite direction.
Cafe Europa, New York, New York
April 7th, 2000, 5:17 p.m.
"Oh, my God," a man with a British accent declared to one of his servers as Mulder casually meandered through the door. "I think I'm going to go into the storeroom and piss on myself," he whispered.
"Why, what's the matter?" the girl shrugged.
"That man, that you see there, is the Randy Andy!" He took the twenty year old by the shoulder and pointed to the table where Mulder situated himself. He appeared to be squinting at the carefully hand scripted menu from a distance much too far for him to be able to read properly.
"I'm sorry, sir...?"
"Randy Andy Muldron, of Queens! He's the absolute diehard food critic in our metrop, and no one told me that he was in the area. Some little bitches are going to get fired..." the man muttered to himself and saw that Mulder was about to give up and walk over to read the menu. He immediately shoved the girl over with a large printed menu in her hands and waved a good luck to her with his fingers emphatically.
"Hello, Mr. Muldron. Would you care to see our wonderful delights of the day?" She put on the best plastic smile she could muster, and Mulder obliviously accepted the menu from her.
"Yeah, uh, thanks." When he finally realized that she was looming over him like a vulture, he glanced up patiently and grinned back nervously. "I'm...gonna need a minute. Okay?"
"Yes, Mr. Muldron, sir, of course."
The British proprietor gave her a worried gawk as she turned her back, but she calmly told him the situation. He listened for a moment and settled down. "Look, since this is a last minute situation, I'll handle him personally. Go wait on the others for now, Elizabeth." He sashayed over just as Mulder put the menu down and beamed impersonally. "It's such an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Muldron, to have you with us in our cafe. Tell me, why did you suddenly think to come to Manhattan today? Were you tired of the West End? Staten Island driving you off of your head?"
"It's actually Mul-" The FBI agent began to say but then realized that the Lone Gunmen must have already sent out those 'culinary newsletters' and chosen their own pseudonym for him. Oh shit. That means that Scully once again did not get to choose the undercover agent names. She's going to kill me.
He snapped himself out of his hellish daydream to concentrate on the present. "Uh, no, not exactly," he replied slowly.
"Oh, God, you don't hate Europa, do you?!"
"I've...not been here for a while, so, I don't really remember," Mulder chose his words gingerly. "And that being the case, I don't think I remember your name."
"Edward Longhard, owner and sole operator of Cafe Europa at your service, Mr. Muldron." Longhard made a petite bow. "What shall we start you off with?"
"Well...uh...I was thinking of some coffee."
"Absolutely smashing, love. What kind?" Longhard gushed.
"Uh...regular...with sugar, I think."
"Arabian, African, Jamaican, French, Colombian, Italian, Mexican...a blend, perhaps?"
"Oh, where's my Scully?" Mulder moaned to himself and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in chagrin.
"I'm sorry, love, what was that?" Longhard leaned in closer and invaded Mulder's personal space.
"Nothing. Uh...Italian sounds good."
"Espresso, frappuccino, cappuccino, mochaccino, carmelitto...-" As Mulder listened to Longhard rattle off the several choices, he picked the one that he had actually heard of and interrupted the man.
"Espresso, I think. Yeah, that sounds about right," Mulder nodded timidly.
"Of course, Mr. Muldron. White sugar, brown sugar, Splenda, Sweet n'Low, Equal...-"
"Just plain sugar, please. And uh, a big cup of it, huh? I'm getting kind of low on energy."
"Oh, Mr. Muldron, espresso only comes in a demitasse," Longhard mumbled lowly. "It's got plenty of caffeine in itself. But I tell you what? I'll bring you two." He continued on in a louder tone. "You've got to tell me, though, Mr. Muldron, which you prefer, and I'll bring them out to you. Our roasted portobello mushrooms with sweet peppers, provolone cheese and pesto on a baguette. Or, our peppercorn turkey with mozzarella, plum tomatoes, and garlic aioli in the bianca wrap."
"I think I'm just interested in the coffee right now," Mulder tried to dismiss him gently. He had already made enough faux pas for the day.
Unfortunately, Longhard made a terrified cry, clasped his hands together, and threw himself onto the floor before the bewildered FBI agent. "Oh, God, no! I've worked too hard and too long to be shut down! Please, please, please, don't write a bad review!"
"A bad review? What on earth makes you think that I would do that?" Mulder gulped as he saw the entire coffee house's population of customers and employees witness this dramatic scene.
"You're joking, right?" the owner inquired.
"I'm afraid not," Mulder admitted sheepishly.
"But I read that in one of your columns, if you refused any kind of dish at a culinary institute, that that was your kiss of death. Your black spot, your ill wishes, your stormy cloud...-"
Mulder patted him on the back. "It's okay. I'm just here for coffee today. No work."
Longhard gave him a long examination and arose with a sigh. "You really had me worried, there, Mr. Muldron. Well, no fear. Even if you're off the clock so to speak, I still insist upon giving you the crème de la crème, so that you may remember us in the future. I shall return with your espresso and condiments. Are you really sure that this will be all for you today?"
"I...think that'd be a wise idea." Mulder nodded and bit down hard on his lower lip. Those Three Stooges are gonna pay.
Medical Examiner's Office, New York City, New York
April 7th, 2000, 6:20 p.m.
"You handled that traffic...remarkably well, Agent Scully," Ritter complimented her as they walked down the hall to the examination room. "It's not an easy thing to be able to drive during New York City's rush hour. I'm impressed."
"You must forget what kind of jams we have over in D.C., then." Scully removed her winter coat and set it onto a nearby coat rack. "Ritter, would you mind getting me Dr. Vanderbeek's autopsy reports on both victims, please?"
"No problem."
By the time he returned with two thick manila files, Scully had changed into her scrubs. She opened the refrigerator door and slid DiCostanzo's cadaver out first. After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, she removed the sheet from the body and pressed 'record' on her tape machine. "This is Dr. Dana Scully, reviewing the autopsies of a Mr. George DiCostanzo, 42, of Brooklyn, New York, and a Ms Judy D'Angelo, 22, of Staten Island, New York. The original post mortem exams were done by Dr. Rudolf Vanderbeek, M.E., New York City. I hope to corroborate Dr. Vanderbeek's results and hopefully, find nothing more or less." She eyed Ritter for a moment, took the files, and set them down onto the instrument table. "Special Agent Payton Ritter of the New York FBI Field Office is here to witness me perform the...Ritter, are you with me here?"
He was off in his own world so far as she was concerned.
"Agent Ritter?" He suddenly turned around once he heard his name repeated and leaned against a counter with his left hand shielding his eyes.
"Yes, Agent Scully?"
"Are you going to come over here?"
"Uh, are you sawing the body in half yet?"
"I'm not a magician, Ritter." Scully pushed the cart closer to the body. "But, no, I haven't started my internal exam yet. Probably won't do that for another half an hour."
"Okay. Good. I...I'm not one for blood, guts, and gore, if you know what I mean."
"That's perfectly natural, I understand." With that comment, he joined her but remained across the body from the surgical equipment. "I will begin with an external visualization of George DiCostanzo. Victim shows signs of significant head trauma, due to the fact that he was thrown from the cab of a semi into a cement pole."
"Guess he should have worn a helmet," Ritter jibed.
Scully grasped DiCostanzo's jaw and slowly began to move it up and down. "As suspected, the mandibular heads have been separated from the maxillae and have been broken. Victim is also missing several teeth. Vanderbeek cites heavy damage to both the nasal cavity and the frontal sinus; oh, what a surprise, his nose is also broken." She read the file aloud and double checked the observations for herself.
"Hey, Agent Scully, the nose is made of cartilage, right?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"That's hard tissue, if I remember my anatomy class. Anyhow, how can you break something if it's made up of tissue?"
"I really don't have time to teach right now, Agent Ritter, excuse me. Further trauma to the cranium includes the temporal bone, metopic suture, the frontal crest, yadda, yadda, yadda; he pretty much devastated his skull in the crash. Cause of death is fairly transparent, but I will continue to list injuries and/or other aberrations as I go along."
"Why would you do that? Like you said, we already know what killed him."
"Just in case something was missed," Scully told him moderately, but it was apparent she was disliking his interruptions more and more. "The giant contusion running across the victim's chest and stomach has crushed and shattered his ribs, again due to contact with a very large cement obstruction, according to Vanderbeek. That's a very large bruise indeed," she agreed as she glanced over him. "And quite colorful. Hmm...no indentations or impressions are found on the left shoulder or the pelvic area."
"What's that mean?"
"He wasn't wearing his seat belt. It probably would have saved his life...well, if the semi had an airbag installed on the wheel. Ritter, would you mind helping me flip him?" Ritter nodded and together, they pushed DiCostanzo onto his right side first then onto his stomach. "Further afflictions to the vertebrae include whiplash and a possible crippling of the spinal cord." Her gloved fingers continued to probe her way down the back and anterior. "Okay. Let's put him onto his back again, please."
"Now for the fun part. Time to undo those stitches," she muttered to herself, but Ritter heard her.
"Um...do you need me here for that much longer?" he inquired.
"Well, maybe for the female victim." Scully put on a pair of safety goggles and reached onto the cart for some scissors and a pair of tweezers. She began the slow task of slicing open the original 'Y' incision Vanderbeek had made and sown up probably last night. Then after remembering Ritter's first squeamish winces, she shook her head. "I guess not, then. I'll get someone else to assist me if necessary."
"Well, after hearing what you two will be doing in the next few days, guess you won't be needing me for anything, will you?"
"Actually, I plan on having toxicology and blood work-ups done on both victims. So I'll be needing your forensic chemists and maybe your assistance with the delivery of the reports." You're not quite off of the hook, yet, Ritter.
"No problem. Have a good night, Agent Scully." By the timbre of his voice, it sounded like it was a huge inconvenience. But Scully didn't care; he owed it to her...especially because of how he treated her the first time they had worked together.
As she worked quietly to open up the truck driver's chest, she thought about her partnership with Mulder. She had to work fastidiously to gain Mulder's respect and trust just like anyone else male in the Bureau. Yet unlike any other male in the Bureau, he treated her as a pure counterpart. In fact, he had told her just as much two years ago how much of a difference she had actually made in his life. Work life. Hell, she had to be kidding herself if it could be anything more.
Scully turned to the next page in the file and studied it a bit more before parting the cut skin. "Hmmph. Looks like Vanderbeek's internal examination proved a bust on you, George. But, just in case..." It was nice not to have to crack open the ribcage as usual. Instead, she removed the tape and lifted the bones away to stare at the organs that were protected beneath it. She next took a syringe on the cart, extracted some blood, and emptied the needle into a container. "Memorandum: take both containers of blood to the regional office for a toxicology screening and classification for records. Vanderbeek lists the weights of all organs; I doubt that that's incorrect data. I will now re-open the stomach for yet another inspection."