Bloomfield, Kansas
10:45 P.M.
It had been a long, boring night. No, it had been a long, boring week. It had been one of those weeks that made Cray Benedict long to get out of the small-time town, to be anywhere where there was something, anything, going on. Even when a call did come in, it was usually just a case of an old woman breaking her hip. Still, the phones had been quiet forever. That is why he jumped, knocking his coffee over in the process, when he heard the ring.
"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?" he asked, running a napkin over the brown liquid soaking through the carpet.
"My family…they're…they're…"
"Son, you're going to have to hold yourself together. What's your emergency?"
"My family…they're dead."
Oh jeeze, he thought, looks like I got my wish. He was fully alert now, and the numbers seemed to jump off the computer screen. "Okay, we have your address and I'm dispatching an ambulance. Please, calm down. Can you describe what happened?"
"My sister and my parents are dead."
"Are you sure? Are they still breathing?" he asked again. He was met by silence.
"Are you still there?" Cray repeated. "Are they still breathing? Hello? Hello?"
The next thing he heard was the click of the receiver and the whine of the dial tone.
Beeeeeep.
Washington D.C.
"What we have is three murders within the same household. The only survivor was the son, twelve-year-old David Anderson. From the reports, he was present at the time of the murders, and he made the original phone call to 911. His sister, Kristina Anderson, age ten, was found in the basement at the base of the stairs; her injuries show she died from a fall down them, and the authorities are confident it was no accident. The father, Carter Anderson age thirty-eight, died of a gunshot wound through his chest. The murder weapon was found outside, underneath David's bedroom window with his fingerprints on it."
"So we think the boy did it?"
"That's correct, Agent Scully."
"Excuse me, sir, but I don't see why you need us on this case; there's no unexplained activity here as far as I can tell."
"Agent Mulder, will you will allow me to finish?"
"Go right ahead, Assistant Director," Mulder replied smugly.
"In addition, the mother Patricia Anderson, age thirty-five, died under more mysterious circumstances. Her body suffered severe burns both outside and inside. Police don't know what to make of it. In addition, while the gun that police believe was used to murder the Carter Anderson has David's fingerprints on it, his prints are not on the trigger." Skinner paused, expecting his agents to respond. When neither did, he added, "We do not know for sure the boy committed any murders, and we do not know what happened to Patricia Anderson. Is that unexplained- or should I say paranormal- enough for you, Agent Mulder?"
"Well, sir, I would have preferred the involvement of metamorphic lawn gnomes, but I'll take what I can get."
"And what are we supposed to accomplish on this case, sir?" Scully asked, trying to force away the smirk that came from her partner's enjoyment in torturing their superior.
"Well, Agent Scully, David Anderson is the only witness to the events that happened on the night in question and the only suspect as well. That was a month ago, and no one has gotten a single word out of him about it. You two are going to go undercover in hopes of getting him to talk."
"Wait. We're going undercover? As what? Babysitters?"
"No, Agent Mulder, you and Agent Scully are going to be posing as foster parents for young David," Skinner said, trying to force his smirk away as he caught the resentful look on Mulder's face. He loved torturing him so…
"He's finally done it this time Scully. He's gone too far. Has our status in this bureau fallen so much that we're reduced to glorified babysitting on behalf of the state?"
"You sound as if you aren't looking forward to this case, Mulder," Scully said, walking beside him and thumbing through the police report.
"What could have given you that impression?" he replied, sarcastically.
"I don't know. It hit me somewhere around the third time you said 'this case sucks,'" The expression on his face changed to an embarrassed one. She grinned.
"Look, I just don't see why we have to go about it like this." They were rounding a corner, and he was starting up again. His tie bounced up and down as he moved his hands for effect. "Why can't we just tie him to a wall, stick a funnel in his mouth, and force feed him sauerkraut until he tells us the truth?"
"Bruce Springsteen?"
"Al Yankovic."
She paused awkwardly for a second. "Well, Mulder, while our status may not have fallen, your taste in music apparently has."
"Hey, if that guy isn't proof of extraterrestrial life, I don't know what is."
"Back on subject, Mulder, we don't know David did anything for sure. Looking at the pictures of the mother's body, I can verify something extremely out of the normal happened that night. What, exactly, I'm not sure."
She held out the picture for her partner to take. His face remained expressionless as he saw it. "Woah. It's like a giant, fat, hairy pizza. What do you suppose could have caused this, Scully?"
"Like I said, I'm not sure. The best I can come up with, off the top of my head, is the possibility of combustion caused by the buildup of gases associated with the digestive track in the body combined with a considerable amount of body hair. Put that with a lit cigarette and…" She frowned slightly when she saw he was smirking. "Are you laughing at me, Mulder?"
"Your skepticism is becoming more skewed every day." Her expression did not change. "You do realize you just, more or less, suggested spontaneous combustion as a plausible cause of this, right?" He chuckled, walking off.
"You know, Mulder," she called after him, "one of these days it's not going to be metamorphic lawn gnomes or government puppet masters! It's going to be science! We'll just see who's smirking then!" Her voice echoed through the hallway, and she realized there were people around her.