Bloomfield, Kansas
10:27 A.M.
Mulder sipped at his cup of coffee, then slowly lowered it to the table, glancing at the people around him, not sure why he was looking over his shoulder in a café of all places. He reasoned it was force of habit. After all, how many times had he been told to "trust no one"?
Across from him, Scully was "visiting him at work". She had gotten up this morning as if the night before had never happened, as strong and collected as ever.
"Trust no one."
There was at least one exception to that rule, and she was sitting across from him, sipping coffee with a weak smile on her face. Looking at her now, Mulder started to think about how he could tell her anything, how much he could trust her-how much she could trust him- yet she always tried to keep him locked out behind a wall of self control. She would have him think nothing at all was wrong right now, that she was not tearing herself apart on the inside. It was a wall, a front, that Mulder saw right through. He admired her strength, her ability to carry on, no matter how much he questioned its purpose.
"You know, Scully, it's kind of funny," he said, taking another sip, "my posing as an attorney- someone who does everything he can to cover up the truth."
She said nothing but merely smiled in reply, looking up at him as she took a sip of her own coffee. Behind him, about three tables back, an elderly man was sweeping the floor where a woman and her daughter had been earlier. His hands were unwashed, and they left smudges each time he slid them up for a better grip. "Mulder," Scully started, still watching the sweeper, "did you by chance sweep yesterday?"
"No," he replied, thinking it was an odd question. "Am I in trouble? I started to, but David offered. Why?"
"No reason, it's just that," she said, "when I picked up the broom yesterday it was covered in a black, powder substance. I wouldn't have mentioned it, except it took forever to get off."
"Black powder? Like ash or soot?" he asked. He had that look on his face that she had seen at least a hundred times before.
"Yes. Why? Does it prove the existence of metamorphic lawn gnomes?"
"Possibly, but I can't back that up," he said, placing a brief case on the table. Every good attorney needs a brief case, however, undercover ones carry more than just legal documents. Mulder took out the picture of Patricia Anderson's mangled body, glancing over it quickly. "Right there," he said, showing the picture to Scully.
"It's a dead woman covered with severe burn wounds, Mulder. Not much has changed since I saw it in D.C."
"No, look closer. There, on her hand, what do you see?"
"I see a shadow."
"From that angle?"
"Mulder, I don't know what conditions this photograph was taken under. If you are suggesting that it's the same substance that was on the broom…"
"And on David's suitcase. Scully, it makes sense. I've read about instances where people with telekinetic capabilities, when they use these abilities, it leaves a residue. Kind of like ashes left by a fire. It would explain how his mother died, as well as how he was able to carry that suitcase."
"So, you're suggesting that David has some kind of telepathic-"
"Telekinetic."
"Telekinetic ability that he decimated his mother with?"
He nodded.
"Mulder, regardless of the absurdity of the existence of psychokinetic abilities, if using these abilities left a residue, why wasn't his mother's entire body covered with the black substance?"
"I don't know. Perhaps it only leaves a residue under certain circumstances, for instance, when moving objects. Or maybe the heat generated by the assault was more efficient and didn't leave a residue. I'm just speculating."
"You're right, Mulder, you are just speculating. Your inability to lift David's suitcase could have been brought on by a momentary muscle failure or an ego that keeps you from admitting you're not as strong as a twelve year old boy. As for the soot, David's a young male; I'm sorry, Mulder, but you're not the cleanliest of genders."
"I think my theory is just as reasonable as 'spontaneous combustion'."
"I did some research, Mulder, checked out her medical records, and did some reading. It's called the 'Candle Theory'. A person's clothes can be set on fire by something as small as a cigarette, and if the fire burns fast enough, the fat in the body liquefies and fuels the fire, burning the person inside and out. Mrs. Anderson had a history of lung problems, suggesting she was a smoker, and you can tell from the picture she had a considerable amount of fuel."
"They have never proven that theory; no one has witnessed it."
"Since when have proven theories mattered to you?"
"I'm just saying that it could have been something else, besides, most victims of the phenomenon are senior citizens; Mrs. Anderson was thirty-eight, middle aged, but hardly a senior citizen."
"I really don't think Patricia Anderson's age was a determining factor in this, Mulder," she replied, taking another sip of coffee.
"Excuse me," said a man, head turned to look at them, sitting in the booth behind Scully. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and had a cap on his head that said "Blue Construction". "I couldn't help overhearing you talking about Patricia Anderson."
"You knew her?" Mulder asked.
"Well, sort of. The family went to our church. Patricia and her husband Carter, they were something else."
Mulder made a motion for the man to sit next to him. When the man did, he extended his hand, "Name's Dan Smith."
Mulder shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Dan. I'm Fox Mulder, this is my par..er..wife, Dana Mulder."
"Hello," Scully said, sipping her coffee.
"So, Dan, what do you mean they were 'something else'?" Mulder asked.
"Well," Dan said, leaning in closer, like he did not want anybody to hear, "Carter and Patricia were very religious. Perhaps, too religious, if you know what I mean. They never missed a service, ever. And they took the whole thing so serious too. If one of their kids ever so much as coughed during church, they really let them have it. They seemed to take it out on the boy more than the girl. I always thought it was a shame; they seemed like such well-behaved children to me. Then again, I guess they had to be."
"Did you ever see either of them strike one of their children?" Scully asked.
"No, not with my own eyes. It was mostly the mother, mainly. She usually just took them into the back room and yelled at them, I think. One time, though, I remember them sitting in front of me. The boy had been drawing a picture during most of the service. She had scolded him a few times already for other things, like not paying attention; you know how kids are. Anyway, it was a real good picture too; I think was of a spaceship, like the kind from Star Wars. Well, Patricia saw it, and she tore it up all mad like. Then she jerked the kid up by the ear and drug him downstairs. They were gone for about ten minutes probably. When they came back, the boy's face was red, the way my kid's looked when she's been trying not to cry."
"What about the boy and the girl, did they get along?" Mulder asked.
"Oh, yeah, they got along real good from what I could tell. They got along a lot better than their parents did."
"What do you mean?" asked Scully.
"Well, and this is just some hearsay I picked up, but I heard that they were at each other's throats all the time at home. If they weren't yelling at one of the kids, they were yelling at each other. They say the only reason the two of them stayed together is because the good Lord looks down on divorce." Dan said and looked down at his watch, his face twisting in surprise. "Oh jeeze, I have to run. My break's over."
"Well, Mr. Smith, thanks for your time," Mulder said, shaking the man's hand again.
"Oh, don't mention it. You know," he added, before he walked off, "I also heard that that boy wound up killing his parents. To tell the truth, I don't see how I could blame him."