TITLE: The Port Charles Files 2/8
by Kelso (kelso28@excite.com)
***********
Meanwhile, armed with the local map, Mulder made his way to the
police station without incident. There, he approached the
receptionist, who was chewing bubble gum and reading the "Bedside
Astrologer" column in "Cosmopolitan" while the phone at her
elbow rang unceasingly.
"Excuse me." Mulder waited until the woman looked up. "I'd like
to see Commissioner Scorpio."
"Sorry, he's not in."
"Do you know when he will be?" Mulder asked.
The receptionist blew a large bubble before responding. "It's
hard to say. He's in and out all the time. If he's not running
off to argue with his wife about the well-being of her children,
he's fighting with the FBI over who has jurisdiction in the
latest arrests."
"Who's in charge when he's not around? Does this place run
itself?" Mulder wondered.
The receptionist shrugged. "Yeah, more or less."
"Have you tried reaching the commissioner today?"
"No. He'll show up when he shows up."
"Thank you for your help," Mulder told the unconcerned
receptionist, who promptly returned to her horoscope as he left
the station.
He started back toward Kelly's, but changed his mind and made
for Commissioner Scorpio's home address. Arriving at 1020 North
Yale, he spotted a police car in the driveway and knew he had
guessed correctly; the commissioner was home. He parked in the
street and went to ring the front doorbell. Almost immediately, a
dark-haired man of about his age opened the door.
"Commissioner Mac Scorpio," Mulder greeted, recognizing him from
the photo printout provided by Byers. He showed his identification.
"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI."
Mac flinched.
"Is anything wrong, commissioner?" Mulder asked.
"Yeah, I hope you don't intend to overstep your jurisdiction the
way just about every other FBI agent except Hannah Scott does,"
Mac said in an extremely watered-down Australian accent. He took
a half-step backward. "You might as well come in."
Not giving the other man a chance to change his mind, Mulder
edged past him into the living room, and sat on the sofa.
Mac selected an easy chair and looked expectantly at his
visitor. "Well, what brings you to my home?"
"I'm looking into various patterns of strange occurrences that
have taken place in Port Charles over the years. For instance,
commissioner, I understand you were kidnapped a few years ago.
Can you explain your kidnappers' motive?"
"You want to know about my kidnapping?" Mac echoed. "That's an
odd request, but all right. I was taken by two people named Tess
and James, and it had to do with a plot to kill Jasper Jacks, or
to pretend to try to kill him, or something similar."
Mulder scrawled a few notes for Scully's benefit. "Can you be
more specific?"
Mac shrugged. "Not really. It didn't make much sense even at the
time."
"Isn't it true that James resembled you so strongly that he was
able to trick your friends and family into believing that he
*was* you? How do you explain that fact? Was he an alien
shapeshifter?"
"*What*?" Mac roared. "An alien shapeshifter? No, the guy just
happened to look like me. Where are you getting these crazy
ideas from?"
"Considering that your own niece, Robin, befriended an alien in
1990, I don't think my theories are so crazy. I'd like to talk to
Robin about that experience, as well as the times she was
kidnapped," Mulder suggested.
"Sorry," said Mac in a more gleeful than regretful tone, "but
Robin is away at school, in Paris."
"What about your wife, the Aztec princess?" Mulder said
optimistically.
"Thankfully, she and her daughters are out of town," Mac
reported with a frown. "Look, are you here to investigate any
recent, mainstream crimes? Because I don't care to discuss my
personal life with you."
'Time to back down,' Mulder realized. Recalling Skinner's
instructions, he said, "I am interested in the case of a missing
local police officer. Is there any news on him?"
"No," Mac said grimly. "Ted Wilson was working undercover, and
we suspect foul play, which would make it our second murder this
summer."
"What about the first?"
"It was of Stefan Cassadine, a local businessman. But we know who
killed him. We have an open-and-shut case against Luke Spencer."
"Commissioner, are you aware that Spencer has at least twice
previously been falsely accused of murder or attempted murder?"
Mac briefly looked taken aback before his expression hardened.
"Those incidents reinforce my belief that Spencer is guilty.
Death seems to follow him around. And consider the evidence:
Spencer threatened Cassadine's life, Cassadine had scheduled an
appointment with Spencer on the night he disappeared, and
Cassadine hasn't been heard from in weeks. Besides which, Chloe
Morgan had a psychic vision in which Cassadine was aboard his
mother, Helena's, yacht, where he drank from a glass and
collapsed. Poison was found in Spencer's safe. When confronted
with the evidence and arrested, he seized the first opportunity
to escape, and remains on the run. Since then, we've learned
that the Cassadine yacht was not in its berth on the night of
Stefan's disappearance, and we've discovered a key to the yacht
among Spencer's belongings."
"You keep saying disappearance," Mulder noted. "You don't have a
body?"
"We believe Spencer carefully disposed of it."
Sensing a vulnerable spot, Mulder attacked. "Why are you so sure
you have the right man? Your department has a history of
charging innocent people with murder."
Mac bristled. "We work extremely hard to do a thorough job. Yes,
we make the occasional mistake, but overall, the Port Charles
Police Department's record compares favorably to that of any
other department in the country."
"Are we talking about the same country?" Mulder asked. "Commis-
sioner, can you explain why innocent people are repeatedly
accused of murder, and sometimes even convicted? Do they all use
the same incompetent lawyer, or does the police department frame
them each and every time? May I remind you of the 1996 Laura
Spencer case? The 1997 Brenda Barrett incident? The 1998 arrest
of Alan Quartermaine? The 1998 Stefan Cassadine--"
Red-faced, Mac interrupted. "All right, all right. So we aren't
perfect. We definitely have an airtight case this time, though.
I'd stake my reputation on it."
Mulder glanced at his notes. "So, how do you think the psychic-
vision part of the evidence will hold up in court?"
"Frankly, Chloe Morgan's insistence that she can see through the
eyes of Helena Cassadine is the most ridiculous scenario I've
ever heard," Mac admitted. "But she's serious. She even kept track
of these visions by writing them down in a dream book that she
gave to me. She's trying to convince me that Helena killed Stefan
and wants to murder her next."
"Have you read this dream book yet?"
Mac shook his head. "Who has time? I did skim it, but there's no
solid evidence of anything."
"Would you mind if I read it?"
"Be my guest." Mac crossed the room to his briefcase, snapped it
open, and pulled out a small, battered book. "Here you go." He
tossed it to Mulder and was about to resume his seat when the
phone rang. "Excuse me."
As Mac answered the phone, Mulder flipped open the book. Words
like "kill," "blind," "tumor," and "murder" met his eyes. At the
same time, he realized that at least one side of the low-voiced
conversation taking place just feet away sounded distressingly
similar to what he was reading. Stray phrases such as "mind-
altering," "nightmare," "insane," and "memories" drifted to his
ears before Mac hung up and turned back to him. "I'm sorry, but
an emergency has arisen. I have to go."
'Damn!' Mulder thought. 'And I had him completely on the
defensive.' Aloud, he said, "I hope we'll get a chance to
continue this conversation soon, when my partner can also be
present. Will you be at the police station tomorrow?"
Mac strode to the front door and held it open. "Your guess is as
good as mine. If I have some free time, I'll try to put in an
appearance."
Mulder took the hint and moved outside, but squeezed in one
final question. "How can I find out more about the Wilson and
Cassadine cases?"
Mac slammed the front door behind himself. "Try Lieutenant
Taggert for Wilson, and Detective Garcia for Cassadine."
"Thank you..." Mulder began, but Mac dashed to his car. He took
off like the proverbial bat out of hell, giving no further insight
as to what latest disaster had occurred in Port Charles. It was a
good time to check in with Scully. Mulder pulled out his cell
phone and dialed her number.
"Scully," she answered after the first ring.
"Scully, it's me. How's your day going?" he asked.
She sighed heavily. "Well, Hannah Scott is a complete basket
case, and she wants to be friends."
"That bad, huh?" he said sympathetically. "Would it make you
feel any better to know that it only took me about five minutes
to completely alienate -- no pun intended -- the police commis-
sioner?"
"Honestly, no," she replied.
"Well, then, my afternoon's been a complete waste, too," Mulder
said.
"I didn't say mine was a waste," Scully demurred. "I've learned
quite a lot, and none of it's good. Meet me at Kelly's as soon as
you can."
***********
Mulder shifted position in the more comfortable armchair in
Scully's room as he attempted to make sense of the stunning
information she had related to him. "So let me get this straight.
The mobster and the informant blackmailed the Bureau into
agreeing to leave them alone in exchange for their silence about
Agent Larkin's many crimes. No wonder Skinner sent us here. It's
like the FBI that Hannah Scott interacts with bears no relation
to the *real* FBI."
Unable to disagree, Scully nodded. "Assuming Hannah was telling
the truth -- and who would make up a story that stupid -- I have
only one question: How did she get hired, and why hasn't she been
fired?"
"That's two questions," Mulder pointed out.
"No, it's really one: Who's Hannah been sleeping with? Besides
the mobster, that is. But enough about her. How did you make out
with the commissioner?"
Silently, Mulder extended his scribbled notes. Scully leaned
forward from her perch on the bed to grab them, then sat back and
scanned the lines. Within a couple of minutes, she had absorbed
the gist of the meeting. "The commissioner said to talk to
Lieutenant Taggert? Mulder, that's Hannah's boyfriend. That fact
does not exactly inspire my confidence in his abilities. We need
to talk to all of these people. Well, the ones we can find,
anyway."
Mulder jumped up. "No, I have something else in mind first. A
surprise. Just come with me."
***********
Twenty minutes later, Mulder guided Scully through the doorway of
a club. As they entered the dimly lit building, jazz music and
chattering voices assaulted their ears. Scully paused to survey
their surroundings. "Why are we here?"
"We are conducting research," Mulder replied. "This happens to be
a very important place. This is Luke's Nightclub."
He knew the exact moment the full impact of his statement struck
her, because her eyes widened slightly. "This is *the* nightclub,
isn't it?"
"The club where Felicia Jones gave birth under a table? Yes," he
confirmed. "There was also a nasty shootout here in December of
1997. All in all, this isn't the safest place to be. But then,
where in Port Charles *is*?"
They found seats in a vacant booth against the far wall and
checked out the scene. Almost immediately, Mulder spotted a
familiar-looking group standing near a stage: an older woman with
red hair, a blonde woman, a fair-haired teenage boy, and a dark-
haired little girl. "See there?" He pointed for Scully's benefit.
"Those are the Spencers, minus Luke, who is currently on the run.
They had their own section in 'The Sun,' complete with color
photos. Every member of that family has at one time or another
been presumed dead, except for the daughter. But she's only five;
her time will come."
As they watched, a man squeezed past the Spencers and mounted the
stage. He was followed by several musicians and Juan, the boy
they had heard Elizabeth talking to at Kelly's. The man adjusted
the microphone and addressed the crowd, calling, "Hi, everyone!"
A chorus of "Hey, Roy!" and "Hi, yourself!" greeted him.
Roy continued, "We have a special treat for you tonight. Now,
I know this is a blues club, but even though his music doesn't
fall under that umbrella, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to
promote one of Port Charles' own: Juan Santiago, accompanied by
The Idle Rich! Juan is performing his signature song, 'We Got The
Night.'"
Roy exited the stage, the crowd quieted, the music began, the
singer warbled the opening lines, and Mulder and Scully winced in
unison.
They listened to several bars before more or less recovering. Then,
shuddering, Mulder glanced at his partner, whose jaw had dropped.
"I haven't heard singing this bad since you did 'Joy to the World'
in Florida," he shouted, straining to be heard above the cacophony.
Seemingly not offended by his opinion of her vocal talents,
Scully yelled back, "It's a good thing the locals support him,
because I don't think anyone outside of this town would!"
The occupants of the neighboring booth then waved at them to be
quiet, and Mulder and Scully were forced to sit in miserable
noncommunication for the duration of the seemingly interminable
number. At the conclusion, the rest of the audience burst into
frenzied applause. Juan and his back-up left the stage, and the
sounds of soft jazz and conversation quickly filled the room.
"Somebody better tell that kid to get a day job," Mulder mused.
Following another train of thought, Scully asked, "Mulder, do you
remember the man who introduced him? I think that was Roy
DiLucca, Hannah's father."
"Maybe if we sit here long enough, the entire town will come to
us. Or maybe we should just call it a day and try again
tomorrow," Mulder suggested.
"A fresh start? Good idea," Scully agreed. "It has to be more
normal than today."
Not that he thought she was right, but Mulder wasn't about to
argue at that point. He was sure that once Scully got a better
look at Port Charles, she would have to go along with his
assessment of the town.
***********
On their first full day in Port Charles, Scully woke up at 7:21
a.m. and lay staring at the ceiling. Following their return from
Luke's last night, she had typed the case notes into her laptop
and argued with Mulder over whether Port Charles was truly as
unusual as he believed. The notes had gotten finished, but the
argument had ended in a draw. Their work today would be more
conclusive, she hoped as she pulled herself out of bed and got
ready.
When she finished, it was still too early to go out, so Scully
opted against seeing if Mulder was awake. She was about to
consult her notes to see who headed the list for the day's
interviews when she spotted a small book lying next to the case
file. It was Chloe Morgan's "dream book" that Mulder had
borrowed from the commissioner. He must have left it there
yesterday. The woman's story about being able to see through the
eyes of Helena Cassadine sounded ridiculous, but the diary might
make for some good reading. Scully curled up on the bed, flipped
the book open, and began with random entries.
"Afterwards, I fell asleep and had another dream. Jax was in
this one. He looked at me and said, at this point, it would be
his pleasure to murder me.
"Woke up around dawn feeling dizzy. The bed was spinning. I
can't admit this to anyone, but a part of me wonders if I'll
ever get well.
"The dream is silent. Stefan drinks wine, then drops his
glass. He falls to the floor and knocks over the music box. It
falls, too. The dream felt so real. What if Stefan is dead?"
Scully nearly laughed aloud at that last entry. The smooth,
flowing handwriting made the words easy to read, but not any more
believable. She scanned the pages for nearly another hour, before
being interrupted by a knock on the door. She laid aside the
book and answered.
As expected, Mulder stood outside. "Come on, Scully, I have
something to show you." He took hold of her arm and led her down
the hallway.
She went along unresistingly. "What would this something be?"
"Something that will prove to you that Port Charles isn't a
normal town."
That, she had to see. She allowed Mulder to usher her down the
stairs and out the front door of Kelly's. He proceeded to a side
street and stopped.
"Well, Mulder?" Scully asked in a tone that she hoped implied,
'Why did you drag me out here when I would much rather be inside
eating breakfast?'
He gestured around. "Examine the streets and sidewalks carefully.
What do you see?"
She surveyed the area. "Pavement. People. Cars, trucks, minivans.
Litter -- bits of paper, candy wrappers, soda cans. Nothing special.
What am I supposed to notice?"
"Nothing," he repeated. "That's precisely it. There's not a
Morley butt in sight. Or any other brand, for that matter. Isn't
that a thought-provoking, if welcome, change?"
"I've also noticed that nearly everyone is thin," Scully pointed
out. "Maybe the townspeople are just extremely health-conscious."
"The answer to that is an emphatic *no*. Although rarely stricken
with the flu or the common cold, an abnormal number of Port
Charles residents become drug addicts or alcoholics, and there's
a pretty high incidence of mysterious ailments unknown to the
rest of the world. And how do you explain some of these other
things, like the many, many, many people who have been falsely
presumed dead?"
"I'm thinking you fit right in around here. You've been presumed
dead a time or two yourself over the years." Scully shrugged.
"Okay, I give up. How do *you* explain it?"
"Maybe vampirism, like that one case in Texas where we met the
buck-toothed sheriff? Anyway, that's the best theory I've come
up with so far."
"Oh, give me a break. First, Sheriff Hartwell did not have buck
teeth. Second, I don't for a minute think there are any vampires
within flying distance of here."
"Fine, you come up with a better theory," Mulder challenged. "It
would really help if you pitched in and gave me your opinion, you
know."
"I can give you my opinion right now," Scully offered.
He shook his head. "No, thanks. You have to put in some effort
first."
"What sort of effort?" she asked suspiciously.
He held up a piece of paper with two long, neatly penciled lists,
and indicated the left-hand column. "See this tally of local
abductees?" Gesturing to the other, longer, column, he continued,
"And this one of presumed deaths, in which the subjects turned
out to be alive? I suspect that these people were all victims of
alien abductions. After all, we know an alien landed here at one
point."
"No, we do *not*--" Scully began.
"Just go with me here," Mulder interrupted. "We need to get to
Spoon Island and find any possible traces of extra-terrestrial
life."
"You mean, we need to wrap up the A.J. Quartermaine matter
first," Scully stated. "No arguments. That's why Skinner sent us
here, and that's what we're going to do."
Mulder hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. The sooner we get
him out of the way, the sooner we can look into more interesting
matters, like the alien."
"Great. You can go look up his phone number and make the call.
I'll wait for you in Kelly's. If you can't reach him, we'll go to
the police station instead." Together, they entered the diner.
Mulder went upstairs to look up the phone number, while Scully
sat at the nearest empty table to wait for him. Looking around
the room, she saw the waitress, Elizabeth Webber, taking an order
from a large group of customers. Elizabeth's strange comments
from the previous day came to mind; it seemed like a good idea
to talk to her about them as soon as she was free.
Elizabeth was still writing on her pad when Mulder came down-
stairs and took the other chair at Scully's table. "No need to
go anywhere. A.J. Quartermaine wants to meet us here. He's on his
way."
"He's probably hoping to run into Hannah," Scully guessed. "That
works out well for us." She turned as the waitress approached
with her order pad ready. "Elizabeth," Scully greeted her. "I
was hoping to talk to you. Yesterday, we overheard you mention
your boyfriend, Lucky, and his odd behavior after he returned
from being held prisoner for nearly a year."
Elizabeth looked hesitant. "That's all you want to ask me
about?"
"Is there anything else you want to discuss?" Mulder asked.
"No, not at all," Elizabeth said quickly. She pulled an extra
chair next to Scully and sat down. "No one else has been able to
help with this problem, so maybe the FBI can. Lucky's been
blowing hot and cold with me. I can't figure out his behavior.
Last year, there was a fire in the building where he lived, and
we all thought that the body that was found was Lucky's. But
earlier this year, Cesar Faison told Lucky's father, Luke, that
Lucky was alive. Less than a minute after that, Faison died in a
boat explosion, so Luke couldn't get any more information. Then
Lucky showed up in Canada, but he ran away when his parents found
him. He finally came back to Port Charles and said that Faison
had kidnapped him and Helena Cassadine rescued him. Lucky's so
different now, though. He keeps telling me I should be with his
brother Nikolas, but I don't understand why. Before the fire,
Lucky and I were in love and were planning to move to New York
together."
"How do you think we can help?" Scully asked.
"Well, kidnapping is a federal offense, right?" Elizabeth waited
for Scully's nod, then continued. "If you can prove that Helena
was involved in Lucky's kidnapping, she'd go to prison."
"There's one problem," Scully pointed out. "According to what you
said, Lucky claims that Helena rescued him."
"That's exactly it!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "He might not remember
everything that happened. He's been having memory lapses ever
since he came back. I think Helena is somehow responsible."
"One more medical mystery to look into," Mulder muttered.
Elizabeth glanced toward the doorway. "If you want to talk to a
doctor, Lucky's grandmother, Lesley Webber, just walked in. I
have to get back to work. If you can do anything to help Lucky,
please try." She jumped up and hurried into the kitchen.
Mulder studied the new arrival, a red-haired woman approximately
60 years old. "What do you say we squeeze Lesley Webber into our
schedule, Scully?"
end 2/8