The office area of the Dukes County Jail was starting to look
terrible, which was exactly what Mulder had in mind. At his
direction, the other officers had removed all personal items from
their desks and cleared a large space in the middle of the room.
Mulder jostled some of the overhead fluorescent bulbs until the
room's corners were enveloped in flickering dimness. When they
were done, the only bright light shone directly down on a bare
desk in the middle of the room.
Mulder stood back, admiring his handiwork. Sheriff Hawley walked
up to him and asked, "All right, Agent Mulder, what is this . . .
haunted house supposed to accomplish?" She gestured at the dimly
pulsing lights.
Mulder couldn't resist milking her annoyance for just a moment by
sitting down on the desk and polishing his glasses on the sleeve
of his shirt. "It's meant to put McBer off-balance. He's a
classic anti-social personality -- a born manipulator. He can't
take control of a situation if he can't figure out what's going
on."
"And sitting in the dark will keep him from taking control,"
Hawley said.
"He won't be in the dark. He'll be right here in the light with
me. You guys will be in the dark, able to see him a lot better
than he'll be able to see you. It'll drive him crazy," he
assured her.
She gave him a cold, hard look. "You'd better be right," she
said.
"I'm right." Mulder turned to Joe, who was looking uncomfortable
in his borrowed corrections officer uniform. "I want you to do
two things when you bring him down. Let him know the OUIL is a
misdemeanor. Treat it as a hassle between him and the judge that
set his bond. If he figures out how much trouble he's in he's
likely to clam up and call his lawyer. Then tell him how the
detectives called in this crazy FBI man to talk to him. Say I
chase aliens. Tell him I'm obsessed with serial killers and I
sleep with bloody crime scene photos pinned to the ceiling over
my bed. Whatever it takes to get him curious about me. He's
going to have to sit and talk to me to find out if I live up to
my reputation."
"Aliens and serial killers. Got it."
"Good luck, Igor," Mulder said. He thought Joe repressed a
smile. Joey had been an inspired Igor to Mulder's Dr.
Frankenstein, back in the days when their psychological
experiments were designed to run off their tagalong little
sisters.
As Joe left to get their suspect, Mulder stood and set his folded
his glasses down on the desk. Given the logistics of bringing a
disabled man down the stairs, it would likely be at least five
minutes before McBer arrived. Mulder was under enough pressure
without spending the time before the interview under the hostile
gaze of Hawley and her deputies. He excused himself to the
officer nearest the door and walked into the hall.
He had no particular destination in mind, but found he headed
instinctively for the front door and the jail's oddly inviting
front porch. The desk guard gave him a look of dull surprise as
he signed in and out at the same time. "I'll be right back,"
Mulder said.
When he stepped out onto the porch, a gust of icy wind whipped
his hair and flattened his clothes against his body. He had to
shade his eyes from the brilliant sunlight, but exposure to the
elements felt real and good. All around him lay Edgartown's
empty waterfront streets. Restaurants, inns, and boathouses
seemed well-kept but abandoned, waiting until the tourist season
to unbolt their doors. Down Dock Street he could see the bare
masts of boats moored at the public wharf, and beyond them,
Katama Bay shining almost too brightly to look at.
Home. He'd forgotten how much he loved this island, with its
summer crowds and its wintertime desolation. It made him feel a
fresh wave of remorse for Roche. He didn't remember much from
the three-hour reaming he'd gotten from OPR after that case, but
he did recall the general theme of betrayal. There was a long
list of things he was supposed to have betrayed, which he should
have paid more attention to since he'd been required to sign it.
At the time, what had hurt most was that he had betrayed the
trust of Caitlin and her mother. He had also betrayed the
Vineyard and the people who had once been like family to him.
Perhaps McBer was his chance to atone.
Mulder took a deep breath and released it, willing himself to
learn from the mistakes he'd made. Wanting something from men
like Roche and McBer was like arming them. He had to distance
himself from his desire to make good. //Don't think about what
you want. Think about what he wants,// he told himself. He had
to make McBer want to cooperate with him. //Just like selling
Perrier to a drowning man,// he thought. He glanced at his watch
and saw his grace time was nearly up. With regret, he turned and
went back into the jail.
No sooner had he settled himself at the office's newly-central
desk than he heard voices in the hall. Joe opened the door and
held it while a stocky, dark-haired man in a wheelchair pushed
himself in. McBer was still in his civilian clothes: cowboy
boots, black leather jacket, jeans, and a black T-shirt. His
long ponytail and droopy mustache gave him a sinister appearance,
but Mulder knew those would be gone at any future trial. Without
all the fashion statements, McBer would be a fairly handsome man
in his early 30's, sitting in a wheelchair. He might even manage
to look harmless. Mulder wondered if Jaws the attorney would
stoop to replacing the sleek-bodied chair McBer was using now
with a clunky hospital model. Davis had been right -- any
incriminating statements Mulder got out of this guy had better be
so clean they squeaked.
"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder from the FBI -- the guy I was
telling you about," Joe said.
McBer looked curious about him all right. Mulder wondered
exactly what Joe had told him. He held his hand out. "John," he
said. He'd decided that the false intimacy of calling McBer by
his first name would be more demoralizing.
The man took his hand and grimaced at the coldness of his skin.
"Jesus -- where'd they find you, the morgue?" McBer asked.
Mulder had put his glasses on after coming in, and they'd fogged
over very slightly -- on the inside. He had hoped McBer would
notice.
"Actually I'm from D.C.," he said. G-Men, especially spooky
ones, weren't supposed to have a sense of humor. "John, I want
to ask you some questions. I'm going to need to tape our
conversation, if that's all right with you."
"Fine with me, so long as nobody fools with the tape," McBer
said.
"You can have your lawyer ask for a copy of it if you're
worried," Mulder said. He turned the tape on and told McBer his
rights, then asked him if he understood. He did. If this case
went to hell, it would not be because Jaws made a successful bid
to suppress the tape on 5th amendment grounds.
"Could you state your full name please?" Mulder asked.
"John Edward McBer."
"Your address?"
"2700 Pebblestone, Boston, 02108."
The early questions were meant to set a rhythm, to get McBer
comfortable.
Mulder's dry voice and the regular ticks of the tape recorder
created a sense of hypnotic calm. Although the suspect remained
relaxed and cooperative, he stole occasional glances at the
officers in the dim corners of the room. Mulder was glad he
couldn't ignore them. They were present to suggest the weight
and power of the justice system that lay behind the crazy FBI man
with the tape recorder.
"Do you know why you're here, John?" Mulder asked. His tone was
almost gentle. People gave more interesting answers to a
psychologist than to a cop.
"He says you want to talk to me about some murder," McBer said,
gesturing toward Joe. "I guess you're supposed to be the FBI's
expert on sickos. Did you really catch a guy who put people's
organs in a blender?"
Mulder blinked in surprise. When had Joe heard of his
involvement in that case? "You mean James Sproule? I didn't
catch him personally; I profiled him. I studied his crimes until
I felt I understood him."
McBer looked somewhere between doubtful and disgusted. "You
understand a guy who puts organs in a blender?"
"As well as anybody sane can," Mulder said.
"Uh-huh." McBer didn't seem convinced about the "sane" part.
"So why'd he do it?"
"He thought he needed to drink bodily fluids in order to
survive," Mulder said.
"And you understand that?" McBer asked. Mulder shrugged slightly
as if he didn't see what the problem was.
"You're either a liar or a psycho," said McBer.
"I assure you that I'm neither," Mulder said. He looked intently
into McBer's eyes a little longer than a sane person generally
would. The other man appeared uncomfortable but did not look
away. Before McBer could figure out how to respond, Mulder
switched topics. "I have something I'd like you to look at,"
Mulder said. He opened a manila envelope and brought out a
picture of Kristie, clipped from her obituary in that morning's
paper. He pushed it across the desk. McBer glanced at it but
did not pick it up.
"Do you know who she is?" Mulder asked.
"No." He looked at the picture too long for that to be true.
"Her name is Kristie Ann Herron. Sound familiar now?" Mulder
leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, moving a bit further
into the other man's space.
"Oh, her. She dated this guy I used to know. I heard he went to
prison. I haven't seen her in a couple of years."
The line sounded rehearsed. Out of the corner of his eye Mulder
thought he saw Davis writing something in a notebook. He made a
point of turning to look, and McBer looked too. Good.
"Kristie was scheduled to testify against you in a murder trial.
Did you know that?" Mulder asked.
McBer managed a rueful laugh that sounded almost natural. He
seemed to gain confidence as he spoke: "Unfortunately. Look,
Agent Mulder, that case was garbage. They've got a little bit of
circumstantial evidence and the testimony of a cokehead. I mean,
if she had all the information she said she had, why didn't she
go to the police with it three years ago, when this supposedly
happened? Why did she wait until she was facing time on
possession charges before she told anybody? She made it up. To
be honest, I'm surprised the prosecutor took the case -- unless
she was paying him in kind, if you know what I mean."
Cold fury made Mulder long to pick McBer up and punch his lights
out, wheelchair or no wheelchair. //Do not react. Don't give
him any emotional response at all.// He thought of Scully
sitting next to him during the Roche interview, sympathetic and
rock steady. The memory dissipated some of the rage and reminded
him how to behave. //Let McBer fling shit. It's not going to
stick.// His voice remained nearly neutral as he said, "If she
made it up, it's strange she knew so much about the crime scene."
"Maybe she shot this narc. Maybe she saw Brian do it and she's
protecting him. How would I know? All I know is it wasn't me."
There was a hostile look in his eyes that told Mulder they were
treading on dangerous ground. If he spooked McBer too much about
the '97 murder charge, he'd take the 5th and call Jaws.
Mulder backed off for the moment. "When was the last time you
saw Kristie?" he asked.
McBer shrugged. "I kind of distanced myself from that crowd
about two years ago. I had a little bit of trouble back in '93,
and some friends finally convinced me I had to watch what company
I was in. They'll take you down for just sitting in a car with a
guy who's dealing, you know?"
"So you saw her last in 1998," Mulder said.
"I guess. Maybe. I mean I didn't really know her that well.
It's possible there was a party or something and she was there
and I just didn't notice," McBer said.
"Did you come out to the Vineyard to see her?" Mulder asked.
"No. I came out to visit a friend, Chuck Penry in Vineyard
Haven. His number's 508-693-5767 if you want to call him."
Mulder wrote down the number, along with a shorthand note about
McBer's alternating vagueness and excessive helpfulness. That
was a classic sign that a suspect was on the defensive, seeking
to direct the interrogation. Whether or not McBer had sensed his
reaction to the comment about Kristie, Mulder had not lost
control of the interview.
Without looking up from his notepad, Mulder asked, "When did you
get here?" This was a critical question, and he didn't trust
himself not to telegraph his interest if he looked McBer in the
eye.
He heard McBer's clothing rustle as he shifted position.
"Yesterday."
"What time?"
"The afternoon -- I don't know. You could ask Chuck. Maybe he
could tell you." Mulder was pretty sure Chuck had been coached
to tell him something or other. He made a note to find out what
Chuck Penry did for a living.
Mulder opened his manila folder and removed two pages he'd
printed out on Hawley's computer. One was the web page of the
Three Sisters Market where Kristie had worked. The photo
included a partial image of the store's parking lot, for which
Mulder thanked any deity that might exist. He was pretty sure
McBer had approached Kristie there. The other page was a
calendar for April, 2000. He'd circled Tuesday the 11th in red
marker, and wrote "6:15 p.m." in the date box.
As soon as Mulder set the pages down on the desk, McBer became
very still. He looked steadily at the picture of the grocery
store, and Mulder could almost see the wheels of calculation
turning in his mind. "What's that about?" McBer asked, gesturing
at the papers.
"Do you remember what you were doing on this date?" Mulder asked,
tapping the calendar square with the red markings.
"I was home," McBer said.
"Alone?"
"No, I was fucking every member of the Dallas Cowgirls
cheerleading squad. Yes, I was alone," McBer said.
Mulder sat back, taking some of the pressure off McBer by moving
away. His goal was to wear the man down slowly, not drive him
into a panic that would make him refuse to cooperate. "You
understand you're not accused of anything but the drunk driving
charge and the other charge in Suffolk County," Mulder said. He
consciously avoided the word "murder."
"Yes." McBer seemed to relax a little.
"Your cooperation is purely voluntary -- this guy let you know
that, right?" Mulder asked, gesturing at Joe.
"Yes," McBer said.
"If you can help us rule you out, then we can just drop this and
it won't go any further," Mulder said.
"Fine. I've had nothing to do with her," McBer said looking at
Kristie's picture. Significantly, he didn't ask what Mulder was
going to rule him out as.
Mulder returned to safe questions for a while, asking how long
McBer had known Chuck Penry, what the two had planned to do on
the Island, and so on. He pushed the printout sheets to a corner
of the desk where McBer would have to turn slightly to see them.
Even though they were out of his direct line of sight, the man
clearly found them distracting.
After a time, McBer stopped giving long answers to anything. The
scare of seeing the circled date was starting to work on him.
Mulder decided it was time to close in. "Do you know what
happened to her, John?" he asked, pushing Kristie's picture more
squarely in front of her suspected killer.
"She's dead," McBer said.
"When did you find out?"
"Friday."
"Did somebody tell you?" Mulder got no immediate answer. He
prompted, "Was it in the newspaper . . .?"
"It was in the paper."
Mulder wrote that down. "Which one?"
"I don't know."
"They run this picture with it?" Mulder asked, pointing to the
obituary photo.
"No."
"A different one?"
"It might have been a different one." Only a local paper would
bother to run a victim's picture. If Kristie's death had been in
the Boston papers at all, the article would have been buried on a
back page. McBer hadn't quite admitted he'd been on the Vineyard
before Saturday afternoon, but it was a start. Davis was
scribbling something again.
"Do you remember how she died?" Mulder asked.
McBer shook his head slightly. "She fell over a cliff or
something. I don't know." His failure to mention the knife
wounds was the first indication of his innocence so far.
Mulder leaned forward on the desk again, placing his folded hands
at the top edge of Kristie's picture. He spoke very gently, "Did
you kill her, John?"
McBer didn't meet his eyes. "No."
"Did you plan to kill her?"
"No."
"Did you threaten her?"
"I never even saw her." McBer spoke through his clenched teeth,
looking away at the printed calendar with its red ink markings.
"You want to hear a theory of mine?" McBer looked up at him. His
expression probably mirrored that of the murdered narcotics agent
as he'd watched the specially modified van roll slowly to a stop.
"I think you came here from Woods Hole at 10:45 a.m. on Tuesday
the 11th. You saw your friend Chuck and you made some
'arrangements' with him. About 5:30 you got in the van, drove
out to the Three Sisters Market in Aquinnah and waited for
Kristie to get off work. You parked behind her car and sat with
the engine running." Mulder said. He wasn't sure McBer was
breathing. The look of horrified fascination on his face told
Mulder he hadn't missed yet. He continued, "She came out at
around a quarter after six, and you rolled down the window and
called her name. To soften her up you reminded her you knew her
secret -- that she'd lost a baby last year in Boston. Did it
make her cry, John?"
It seemed to take McBer a moment to realize he'd been asked a
question. "I don't know what you're--" he began, but Mulder cut
him off.
"While you had her there, trapped and scared, you leaned close to
her and said, 'You'd better call the D.A. and tell him the deal's
off. Otherwise you'll end up just like that narc.'" Mulder
leaned in and pronounced the words in a menacing whisper, as
McBer probably had. McBer's jaw dropped. He looked as if he
half expected Mulder to stick out a forked tongue at him. "The
threat involved being shot in an alley, didn't it, John? Or was
the place you shot the narcotics officer more like an access road
between warehouses?"
"I didn't shoot anybody," he said weakly.
"Did you push Kristie Herron over a cliff?" Mulder asked.
"I didn't -- I can't. How am I supposed to get to the edge of a
cliff?" McBer asked, holding his hands out to indicate his
wheelchair.
"If you're telling me it's impossible, then you're talking to the
wrong guy. I see impossible things happen every day," Mulder
said. He consciously imitated Skinner as he sat back and glared
at the man. Skinner had a glare like a scalpel.
"You're crazy," McBer said. He turned to Joe and said, "This
guy's a psycho." Joe didn't look at him. Mulder watched real
horror cross McBer's face as he realized he might get away with
one murder he'd committed only to have some nutcase FBI man get
him convicted of another murder he hadn't.
"Are you willing to take a polygraph to prove I'm crazy?" Mulder
asked. McBer looked uneasy but tempted. "You haven't got much
to lose. We can't use the results against you in court."
"A polygraph about what?" McBer asked.
"Kristie Herron. Whether you killed her. Nothing about the
other charge," Mulder said. Actually, he was worried that with
three years to justify the shooting to himself, McBer could beat
the box on the '97 murder.
McBer seemed to consider his options. "Fine. I'll do it," he
said. Mulder heard uniforms rustling all around the room as
officers could hardly contain their surprise.
"Let's be clear about this -- you're cooperating voluntarily.
You can call a lawyer at any time. Understand?" Mulder asked.
McBer nodded. Mulder asked, "Could you reply verbally for the
tape?"
"Yes. I got it."
Mulder looked up at Joe and said, "Go." Outside McBer's line of
vision, Joe gave him a thumbs-up.
"Come on, Mr. McBer. We're going to a room down the hall," Joe
said, leading the other man to the door. The polygraph
specialist from the Sheriff's Department was already standing by
with a list of questions Mulder had written. The sooner this was
done, the better -- before their suspect had a chance to change
his mind.
After McBer left, Mulder signed off on the tape and shut the
machine down. The interview had taken just over 40 minutes.
That wasn't bad, even for him. He hadn't even used up both sides
of the tape. To his gratified surprise, a couple of people
started to applaud, but icy stares from several officers cut the
clapping off quickly. The quiet that followed was strangely
awkward and people began a dignified push to get out of the room.
Mulder took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly he was
very tired. He heard footsteps on the hard carpet near the desk
and looked up. Sheriff Hawley stood there, looking at him in the
way Scully's brother Bill generally did. Mulder thought of it as
the "I'd like to squash you like a bug" look. "Sheriff," he
said.
"You sure know how to get what you want from people, don't you,
Mr. Mulder?" she asked. "I always wondered how you managed to
stay on this side of the cell bars. I guess now I know." He
couldn't think of any good replies, which seemed to intensify her
contempt. She turned on her heel and walked out.
Soon Mulder was alone in the dimly lit office. //Yeah,// he
thought, //I really know how to win friends and influence
people.//
*****
Scully parked in the tiny gravel lot behind Oriel Photography,
the little housefront shop Irv Stuckey ran in Menemsha. It
didn't surprise her that the man had to take a night job. The
village seemed to consist of a few dozen houses clustered around
the edge of an ocean inlet. She doubted it was much of a tourist
magnet even in summer. At the moment the only signs of
habitation were a couple of very cold-looking men standing on the
dock that ringed the harbor, fishing through holes chopped in the
ice.
The photography shop was a squat, two-story gray house with an
outdoor staircase that led to a separate entrance on the second
floor. According to Leigh, Stuckey and his ex-wife lived in the
upper story. Scully got out of the car and headed for the
stairs. She found it eerie to be in the middle of a town and
hear nothing but the wind and the sound of gravel crunching
beneath her feet. It reminded her of Mulder's childhood
nightmare about being the last person alive in the world. She
wondered how many year-round residents of Menemsha had the same
dream.
The cold made her bruised ribs ache as she climbed the weathered
steps that zig-zagged up the back of the house. A rusty coffee
can full of cigarette butts rested on the landing at the top.
Unable to find a doorbell, she tapped on the door's glass panel
with her gloved fingertips. Fortunately, the pane was loose and
it rattled loudly.
"Mr. Stuckey?" she called. "Mr. Stuckey, I'm Special Agent Dana
Scully with the FBI." She waited for several seconds but got no
reply. Had he even heard her? The stitches on her knuckles
prevented her from knocking, so she tapped again and said, "I
work with Fox Mulder. I'm here to talk to you about the South
Road Ghost."
Scully thought she heard voices inside. She was about to tap a
third time when a gray-haired woman with a face like a bulldog's
peered out of the door's little window. She heard the rattling
of locks being undone, and then the door jarred open a crack.
The bulldog-faced woman was quite short. She glared up at Scully
and said, "Store's closed. This is a private entrance."
"I know, ma'am. I'm looking for Mr. Irv Stuckey. I was told he
lived here." Scully showed the woman her badge and ID.
"You arresting him for something?" the woman asked. She sounded
hopeful.
"He contacted my partner and me about a case. I only want to talk
to him," Scully said.
"A 'case?'" the woman asked. Suddenly she seemed to make a
connection. "You're from Washington," she said.
"That's right, ma'am. From the FBI's X-Files Unit," Scully said.
The woman scowled and said, "Oh, for Christ's sake." She turned
and bellowed into the house, "Stuckey! The Mulder kid sent some
girl to talk to you about your fairy story."
A muffled voice replied, "Would you just shut up and send her
down, Emma?"
"He'll see you downstairs," Emma said, and slammed the door.
"Charming," Scully said under her breath. There was nothing else
to do but walk back downstairs and around to the front entrance.
The sheltered front porch was probably nice enough in summer, but
at the moment a cold wind coming off the water cut right through
Scully's coat and her borrowed clothes. Trying to keep her back
to the weather, she tugged the string of the heavy iron pull-bell
that was bolted to the doorframe. It sounded like what it had
likely been, a 19th century fire alarm. She heard a man inside
say, "All right! All right -- keep your pantyhose on."
A little man with wispy gray hair opened the door and squinted at
her out of the house's dimness. He was wearing button-down long
underwear and bulky gray socks. "Mr. Stuckey?" Scully asked.
"So you read my fax after all," he said.
"Yes. I'd like to talk with you about that," Scully said.
"Come in," Irv said, moving aside out of the doorway. Scully
walked past him into the shop. The windows had all been covered
with an assortment of curtains, blankets, and sheets, but light
from the open door revealed an old-fashioned cash register
sitting on a counter at the back of the room. A couple of space
heaters glowed orange but illuminated nothing. Once she was
inside with the door closed, the gloom was formidable.
"Give me just a minute," Irv said. He walked back to a
curtained-off inner door and passed through it into some unseen
room.
As her eyes adjusted, Scully realized there was a camp cot near
the space heaters. Irv had clearly just gotten out of it, half-
tumbling its blankets to the floor. Somehow knowing this room
served as Irv's bedroom made her uncomfortable. She ran her
hands over the wall by the door until she found a light switch.
When she flicked it on she found herself in a tiny photo gallery.
The walls were covered with matted prints, and photography
equipment rested on shelves behind the counter. A camera with a
long telephoto lens was mounted on a tripod in the corner.
Scully looked over some of the framed prints. Many were standard
photos of local architectural detail -- wood-shingled Victorian
house spires, delicate fanlights above lavender or teal-painted
doors, a round window behind the wrought-iron railing of a
widow's walk.
The nature photos were more to her liking. Most were in black
and white, and they tended to have a stark, almost Japanese
asymmetry to them. One print drew her particular attention.
It was of an ice sheet with an irregular hole punched in it.
The water inside was the strange, luminous green of the
ice-locked sea, and deep below its surface lay something dark.
No matter how hard Scully looked at the dark shape she could not
make out its outline. A rock? A spar? It created a sinister
impression, as if it were waiting for someone to remain too long
by the hole. She glanced at the title, written in pencil on the
mat: "Window Through The Ice."
She frowned and looked up at the other pictures on the wall. For
the first time she realized how many of them were of literal
windows, and the telephoto lens in the corner took on a darker
significance. The only human subject in the whole collection was
a young girl, or rather her eyes, which were opened so wide they
reflected back a tiny, distorted image of the photographer.
Scully looked for a few seconds before turning away in distaste.
She had the feeling there was some subtle violence in the
picture, as if Irv were trying to peer inside the girl. She
thought that if it had been up to her, she would have questioned
Irv Stuckey very carefully after Samantha Mulder disappeared.
Soon the man himself returned from the back room, tucking the
tails of his flannel shirt into his creased and faded jeans. Two
dogs followed him, an enormous black Lab and a little, curly-
haired mutt. The mutt trotted boldly up and sniffed Scully's
shoe.
"Step in something?" Irv asked.
"Not that I know of." Normally she liked dogs, but she was
starting to make up her mind not to like Irv's. She didn't
appreciate this one getting its wet nose all over the navy
leather of her pump.
"Hey, Meatloaf, back off," Irv said. The dog scooted back
slightly on its stubby legs, wagging its tail so hard its whole
butt wiggled. "Looks like you've been having some adventures out
here, Miss Scully," Irv said.
Scully didn't like his little smirk, and she fixed him with as
cold a look as she could manage. "What makes you say that?" she
asked. She'd purposely kept her gloves on her bandaged hands in
order to conceal the kind of adventures she'd been having.
"You're wearing someone else's pants," Irv said, chuckling.
"Excuse me?" She briefly considered slapping him. Federal
agents weren't allowed fits of ladylike indignation, which was a
pity.
"Come on now, look at you. You've got on your tailored coat and
your hair done just so. You got on shoes that match your
handbag, but none of it matches those baggy black pants. They
give you elephant knees, girl. You take a spill in the bog and
have to go slumming at the church bazaar?" Irv asked.
Scully willed herself to stay professional and preserve some
dignity. "I can't remember the last time a man paid so much
attention to my outfit, Mr. Stuckey," she said. She didn't know
why she was surprised. All around her was evidence of Irv's
relentless gaze.
"Oh, I notice all kind of things," he said. He smiled at her
like an evil gnome.
She was determined to steer the conversation back to the case.
"I'd like you to explain some of the things in your fax, like
what you meant about 'what happened in Boston,'" Scully said.
"Oh, that. The Herron girl had a child that died -- it was the
dope that did it in. I don't think she ever did tell her folks.
A shame, the parents always seemed decent. Of course, you never
can tell," Irv said.
"And how do you know all that?" Scully asked.
His smile broadened. "I've got ways and ways," he said.
"And I've got ways of reporting you for obtaining medical records
under false pretenses," Scully said.
She was gratified when that wiped the grin off his face. "I
never did," he said. "It's part of her police record. The
hospitals report these women when they come in pregnant, higher
than a kite. They throw some of 'em in jail, but not pretty
girls with folks on the Vineyard, I guess."
"You wrote away for her police record?" Scully asked.
"Sure. Sunshine laws are the best thing that ever happened to
this country. Sometimes they want you to pay through the nose
for copying, but it's usually worth it. I'm sure Fox would agree
with me," Irv said.
Scully thought the comparison did Mulder a great disservice.
"Mulder doesn't go prying into the police records of his
neighbors," she said.
"Oh, yes he does. That boy never could leave a secret alone.
Being an FBI agent and all, he doesn't even have to pay. I bet
on his off-hours he does nothing but pry. Well, almost nothing
but," Irv said. Scully pretended not to see his knowing little
leer, but it irked her. This was exactly the kind of subtle
harassment she dreaded having to face from her co-workers, much
less people she was interviewing.
She gave him her best icy glare as she tried to drag him back on
track. "Explain to me about the South Road Ghost."
Irv shrugged. "What's there to tell? They say women who've
murdered their children hear Mary Brown calling to them from deep
in the woods. It's always a wild night in winter, and some say
you can hear the voices of those dead babies crying in the wind.
If a woman follows the voices she'll be found slashed to death
the next day. I once spoke to an old down-island woman who knew
someone it happened to. Deaf lady -- never heard a thing in her
life but her own dead child calling her name. She went out into
the woods around the graveyard and never came back."
Irv's smirk returned as he said, "You know, you ought to ask Fox
about it. Ask him what his mama heard out in those trees. After
all this time they won't find that girl of hers, not above the
sod, anyway."
"Mr. Stuckey, that is enough," Scully snapped. She was surprised
at the depth of her anger at him; she was nearly shaking with it.
"The rumors you've spread have caused his family a lot of pain.
It's been 26 years, and it's time to stop." Leigh Williams had
told her how Mulder had gone from a friendly little boy to a
withdrawn and unhappy adolescent. How much of that suffering was
Irv Stuckey directly responsible for?
His pale blue eyes widened a moment at her vehemence, but he
wasn't off-balance long. "You're protective, aren't you?" he
said slyly. "I expect he likes that. He always did have a thing
for mother-figures. I suppose that's only natural, Teena being
the way she was. Tell me, is he an enemas and plastic pants
boy?"
"What?" was all Scully could think to say. Irv had gotten so
inappropriate she hardly knew how to respond.
"Well, never mind -- it was his father who made him the time-bomb
he is, anyway. I'm surprised the FBI lets him walk around armed
with all those excessive force citations in his file," Irv said.
"Where did you --" Scully began, then she realized she knew. "You
made a FOIA request for the contents of his personnel file."
"He's a federal employee. His file's a public record," Irv said.
"You'd be surprised at the kind of information you can get if you
ask: probate records, filings with friend of the court . . ." He
gave Scully a look as if she was supposed to read something into
that. "Of course, they always ink out the names of minors. Fox
has a juvenile record in Connecticut, for instance, but it's
sealed. Oh -- you didn't know that? Ask him about Fairfield
County Juvenile Court sometime, or about the time he poisoned the
cat. I think that's what set old Sheriff Luce sniffing after
him, more than anything else."
Scully forced herself to keep her mouth shut while she recited
one of the Fatima prayers to herself, the one about people who
needed God's mercy. //You have too little respect for this man
to let him enrage you,// she thought. When she spoke it was
deliberately, but without anger. "Mr. Stuckey, what did you call
us out here for? If it was just to assassinate my partner's
character, then you're wasting my time and yours."
"I called you out here to find the truth," he said. "Isn't that
what you people do? I've seen your file too, Miss Scully.
You're a scientist who's lately become interested in . . . how
did they put it, 'extreme possibilities.' If there's something
out there, you have to *know.* Or do 'Texas killer bees' not
ring a bell?"
"I wouldn't be in such a hurry to get that information if I were
you," Scully said. "People have died because they knew too much
about what's in those files."
"You're lovely when you're threatening, but I'll take my chances,"
Irv said. "And since we're talking about the South Road Ghost,
I wanted to ask you something. I know you tried and failed to
get custody of a child who died in 1998. You claimed she was
your daughter, though your personnel file says you have no
children. Last night when you were out ruining your real
clothes, did you hear her calling you?"
Scully felt the blood drain from her face. For a moment she had
no words to respond. Irv smiled, clearly enjoying her helpless
outrage. When she finally found her voice, it was only to say,
"Go to Hell."
She walked out of the house and slammed the door behind her. By
the time she got to the car, she was crying. It was one thing to
slander a grown man like Mulder, but to taunt Scully with her
daughter's death was too cruel. Who had Emily ever hurt, that
Irv Stuckey should gloat over her fatal illness? Scully's
tires shot up arcs of gravel as she peeled out of the parking
lot, determined not to give Irv the satisfaction of seeing her
cry. As she turned into the street she saw his hand twitch a
curtain closed over the window.
*****
terrible, which was exactly what Mulder had in mind. At his
direction, the other officers had removed all personal items from
their desks and cleared a large space in the middle of the room.
Mulder jostled some of the overhead fluorescent bulbs until the
room's corners were enveloped in flickering dimness. When they
were done, the only bright light shone directly down on a bare
desk in the middle of the room.
Mulder stood back, admiring his handiwork. Sheriff Hawley walked
up to him and asked, "All right, Agent Mulder, what is this . . .
haunted house supposed to accomplish?" She gestured at the dimly
pulsing lights.
Mulder couldn't resist milking her annoyance for just a moment by
sitting down on the desk and polishing his glasses on the sleeve
of his shirt. "It's meant to put McBer off-balance. He's a
classic anti-social personality -- a born manipulator. He can't
take control of a situation if he can't figure out what's going
on."
"And sitting in the dark will keep him from taking control,"
Hawley said.
"He won't be in the dark. He'll be right here in the light with
me. You guys will be in the dark, able to see him a lot better
than he'll be able to see you. It'll drive him crazy," he
assured her.
She gave him a cold, hard look. "You'd better be right," she
said.
"I'm right." Mulder turned to Joe, who was looking uncomfortable
in his borrowed corrections officer uniform. "I want you to do
two things when you bring him down. Let him know the OUIL is a
misdemeanor. Treat it as a hassle between him and the judge that
set his bond. If he figures out how much trouble he's in he's
likely to clam up and call his lawyer. Then tell him how the
detectives called in this crazy FBI man to talk to him. Say I
chase aliens. Tell him I'm obsessed with serial killers and I
sleep with bloody crime scene photos pinned to the ceiling over
my bed. Whatever it takes to get him curious about me. He's
going to have to sit and talk to me to find out if I live up to
my reputation."
"Aliens and serial killers. Got it."
"Good luck, Igor," Mulder said. He thought Joe repressed a
smile. Joey had been an inspired Igor to Mulder's Dr.
Frankenstein, back in the days when their psychological
experiments were designed to run off their tagalong little
sisters.
As Joe left to get their suspect, Mulder stood and set his folded
his glasses down on the desk. Given the logistics of bringing a
disabled man down the stairs, it would likely be at least five
minutes before McBer arrived. Mulder was under enough pressure
without spending the time before the interview under the hostile
gaze of Hawley and her deputies. He excused himself to the
officer nearest the door and walked into the hall.
He had no particular destination in mind, but found he headed
instinctively for the front door and the jail's oddly inviting
front porch. The desk guard gave him a look of dull surprise as
he signed in and out at the same time. "I'll be right back,"
Mulder said.
When he stepped out onto the porch, a gust of icy wind whipped
his hair and flattened his clothes against his body. He had to
shade his eyes from the brilliant sunlight, but exposure to the
elements felt real and good. All around him lay Edgartown's
empty waterfront streets. Restaurants, inns, and boathouses
seemed well-kept but abandoned, waiting until the tourist season
to unbolt their doors. Down Dock Street he could see the bare
masts of boats moored at the public wharf, and beyond them,
Katama Bay shining almost too brightly to look at.
Home. He'd forgotten how much he loved this island, with its
summer crowds and its wintertime desolation. It made him feel a
fresh wave of remorse for Roche. He didn't remember much from
the three-hour reaming he'd gotten from OPR after that case, but
he did recall the general theme of betrayal. There was a long
list of things he was supposed to have betrayed, which he should
have paid more attention to since he'd been required to sign it.
At the time, what had hurt most was that he had betrayed the
trust of Caitlin and her mother. He had also betrayed the
Vineyard and the people who had once been like family to him.
Perhaps McBer was his chance to atone.
Mulder took a deep breath and released it, willing himself to
learn from the mistakes he'd made. Wanting something from men
like Roche and McBer was like arming them. He had to distance
himself from his desire to make good. //Don't think about what
you want. Think about what he wants,// he told himself. He had
to make McBer want to cooperate with him. //Just like selling
Perrier to a drowning man,// he thought. He glanced at his watch
and saw his grace time was nearly up. With regret, he turned and
went back into the jail.
No sooner had he settled himself at the office's newly-central
desk than he heard voices in the hall. Joe opened the door and
held it while a stocky, dark-haired man in a wheelchair pushed
himself in. McBer was still in his civilian clothes: cowboy
boots, black leather jacket, jeans, and a black T-shirt. His
long ponytail and droopy mustache gave him a sinister appearance,
but Mulder knew those would be gone at any future trial. Without
all the fashion statements, McBer would be a fairly handsome man
in his early 30's, sitting in a wheelchair. He might even manage
to look harmless. Mulder wondered if Jaws the attorney would
stoop to replacing the sleek-bodied chair McBer was using now
with a clunky hospital model. Davis had been right -- any
incriminating statements Mulder got out of this guy had better be
so clean they squeaked.
"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder from the FBI -- the guy I was
telling you about," Joe said.
McBer looked curious about him all right. Mulder wondered
exactly what Joe had told him. He held his hand out. "John," he
said. He'd decided that the false intimacy of calling McBer by
his first name would be more demoralizing.
The man took his hand and grimaced at the coldness of his skin.
"Jesus -- where'd they find you, the morgue?" McBer asked.
Mulder had put his glasses on after coming in, and they'd fogged
over very slightly -- on the inside. He had hoped McBer would
notice.
"Actually I'm from D.C.," he said. G-Men, especially spooky
ones, weren't supposed to have a sense of humor. "John, I want
to ask you some questions. I'm going to need to tape our
conversation, if that's all right with you."
"Fine with me, so long as nobody fools with the tape," McBer
said.
"You can have your lawyer ask for a copy of it if you're
worried," Mulder said. He turned the tape on and told McBer his
rights, then asked him if he understood. He did. If this case
went to hell, it would not be because Jaws made a successful bid
to suppress the tape on 5th amendment grounds.
"Could you state your full name please?" Mulder asked.
"John Edward McBer."
"Your address?"
"2700 Pebblestone, Boston, 02108."
The early questions were meant to set a rhythm, to get McBer
comfortable.
Mulder's dry voice and the regular ticks of the tape recorder
created a sense of hypnotic calm. Although the suspect remained
relaxed and cooperative, he stole occasional glances at the
officers in the dim corners of the room. Mulder was glad he
couldn't ignore them. They were present to suggest the weight
and power of the justice system that lay behind the crazy FBI man
with the tape recorder.
"Do you know why you're here, John?" Mulder asked. His tone was
almost gentle. People gave more interesting answers to a
psychologist than to a cop.
"He says you want to talk to me about some murder," McBer said,
gesturing toward Joe. "I guess you're supposed to be the FBI's
expert on sickos. Did you really catch a guy who put people's
organs in a blender?"
Mulder blinked in surprise. When had Joe heard of his
involvement in that case? "You mean James Sproule? I didn't
catch him personally; I profiled him. I studied his crimes until
I felt I understood him."
McBer looked somewhere between doubtful and disgusted. "You
understand a guy who puts organs in a blender?"
"As well as anybody sane can," Mulder said.
"Uh-huh." McBer didn't seem convinced about the "sane" part.
"So why'd he do it?"
"He thought he needed to drink bodily fluids in order to
survive," Mulder said.
"And you understand that?" McBer asked. Mulder shrugged slightly
as if he didn't see what the problem was.
"You're either a liar or a psycho," said McBer.
"I assure you that I'm neither," Mulder said. He looked intently
into McBer's eyes a little longer than a sane person generally
would. The other man appeared uncomfortable but did not look
away. Before McBer could figure out how to respond, Mulder
switched topics. "I have something I'd like you to look at,"
Mulder said. He opened a manila envelope and brought out a
picture of Kristie, clipped from her obituary in that morning's
paper. He pushed it across the desk. McBer glanced at it but
did not pick it up.
"Do you know who she is?" Mulder asked.
"No." He looked at the picture too long for that to be true.
"Her name is Kristie Ann Herron. Sound familiar now?" Mulder
leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, moving a bit further
into the other man's space.
"Oh, her. She dated this guy I used to know. I heard he went to
prison. I haven't seen her in a couple of years."
The line sounded rehearsed. Out of the corner of his eye Mulder
thought he saw Davis writing something in a notebook. He made a
point of turning to look, and McBer looked too. Good.
"Kristie was scheduled to testify against you in a murder trial.
Did you know that?" Mulder asked.
McBer managed a rueful laugh that sounded almost natural. He
seemed to gain confidence as he spoke: "Unfortunately. Look,
Agent Mulder, that case was garbage. They've got a little bit of
circumstantial evidence and the testimony of a cokehead. I mean,
if she had all the information she said she had, why didn't she
go to the police with it three years ago, when this supposedly
happened? Why did she wait until she was facing time on
possession charges before she told anybody? She made it up. To
be honest, I'm surprised the prosecutor took the case -- unless
she was paying him in kind, if you know what I mean."
Cold fury made Mulder long to pick McBer up and punch his lights
out, wheelchair or no wheelchair. //Do not react. Don't give
him any emotional response at all.// He thought of Scully
sitting next to him during the Roche interview, sympathetic and
rock steady. The memory dissipated some of the rage and reminded
him how to behave. //Let McBer fling shit. It's not going to
stick.// His voice remained nearly neutral as he said, "If she
made it up, it's strange she knew so much about the crime scene."
"Maybe she shot this narc. Maybe she saw Brian do it and she's
protecting him. How would I know? All I know is it wasn't me."
There was a hostile look in his eyes that told Mulder they were
treading on dangerous ground. If he spooked McBer too much about
the '97 murder charge, he'd take the 5th and call Jaws.
Mulder backed off for the moment. "When was the last time you
saw Kristie?" he asked.
McBer shrugged. "I kind of distanced myself from that crowd
about two years ago. I had a little bit of trouble back in '93,
and some friends finally convinced me I had to watch what company
I was in. They'll take you down for just sitting in a car with a
guy who's dealing, you know?"
"So you saw her last in 1998," Mulder said.
"I guess. Maybe. I mean I didn't really know her that well.
It's possible there was a party or something and she was there
and I just didn't notice," McBer said.
"Did you come out to the Vineyard to see her?" Mulder asked.
"No. I came out to visit a friend, Chuck Penry in Vineyard
Haven. His number's 508-693-5767 if you want to call him."
Mulder wrote down the number, along with a shorthand note about
McBer's alternating vagueness and excessive helpfulness. That
was a classic sign that a suspect was on the defensive, seeking
to direct the interrogation. Whether or not McBer had sensed his
reaction to the comment about Kristie, Mulder had not lost
control of the interview.
Without looking up from his notepad, Mulder asked, "When did you
get here?" This was a critical question, and he didn't trust
himself not to telegraph his interest if he looked McBer in the
eye.
He heard McBer's clothing rustle as he shifted position.
"Yesterday."
"What time?"
"The afternoon -- I don't know. You could ask Chuck. Maybe he
could tell you." Mulder was pretty sure Chuck had been coached
to tell him something or other. He made a note to find out what
Chuck Penry did for a living.
Mulder opened his manila folder and removed two pages he'd
printed out on Hawley's computer. One was the web page of the
Three Sisters Market where Kristie had worked. The photo
included a partial image of the store's parking lot, for which
Mulder thanked any deity that might exist. He was pretty sure
McBer had approached Kristie there. The other page was a
calendar for April, 2000. He'd circled Tuesday the 11th in red
marker, and wrote "6:15 p.m." in the date box.
As soon as Mulder set the pages down on the desk, McBer became
very still. He looked steadily at the picture of the grocery
store, and Mulder could almost see the wheels of calculation
turning in his mind. "What's that about?" McBer asked, gesturing
at the papers.
"Do you remember what you were doing on this date?" Mulder asked,
tapping the calendar square with the red markings.
"I was home," McBer said.
"Alone?"
"No, I was fucking every member of the Dallas Cowgirls
cheerleading squad. Yes, I was alone," McBer said.
Mulder sat back, taking some of the pressure off McBer by moving
away. His goal was to wear the man down slowly, not drive him
into a panic that would make him refuse to cooperate. "You
understand you're not accused of anything but the drunk driving
charge and the other charge in Suffolk County," Mulder said. He
consciously avoided the word "murder."
"Yes." McBer seemed to relax a little.
"Your cooperation is purely voluntary -- this guy let you know
that, right?" Mulder asked, gesturing at Joe.
"Yes," McBer said.
"If you can help us rule you out, then we can just drop this and
it won't go any further," Mulder said.
"Fine. I've had nothing to do with her," McBer said looking at
Kristie's picture. Significantly, he didn't ask what Mulder was
going to rule him out as.
Mulder returned to safe questions for a while, asking how long
McBer had known Chuck Penry, what the two had planned to do on
the Island, and so on. He pushed the printout sheets to a corner
of the desk where McBer would have to turn slightly to see them.
Even though they were out of his direct line of sight, the man
clearly found them distracting.
After a time, McBer stopped giving long answers to anything. The
scare of seeing the circled date was starting to work on him.
Mulder decided it was time to close in. "Do you know what
happened to her, John?" he asked, pushing Kristie's picture more
squarely in front of her suspected killer.
"She's dead," McBer said.
"When did you find out?"
"Friday."
"Did somebody tell you?" Mulder got no immediate answer. He
prompted, "Was it in the newspaper . . .?"
"It was in the paper."
Mulder wrote that down. "Which one?"
"I don't know."
"They run this picture with it?" Mulder asked, pointing to the
obituary photo.
"No."
"A different one?"
"It might have been a different one." Only a local paper would
bother to run a victim's picture. If Kristie's death had been in
the Boston papers at all, the article would have been buried on a
back page. McBer hadn't quite admitted he'd been on the Vineyard
before Saturday afternoon, but it was a start. Davis was
scribbling something again.
"Do you remember how she died?" Mulder asked.
McBer shook his head slightly. "She fell over a cliff or
something. I don't know." His failure to mention the knife
wounds was the first indication of his innocence so far.
Mulder leaned forward on the desk again, placing his folded hands
at the top edge of Kristie's picture. He spoke very gently, "Did
you kill her, John?"
McBer didn't meet his eyes. "No."
"Did you plan to kill her?"
"No."
"Did you threaten her?"
"I never even saw her." McBer spoke through his clenched teeth,
looking away at the printed calendar with its red ink markings.
"You want to hear a theory of mine?" McBer looked up at him. His
expression probably mirrored that of the murdered narcotics agent
as he'd watched the specially modified van roll slowly to a stop.
"I think you came here from Woods Hole at 10:45 a.m. on Tuesday
the 11th. You saw your friend Chuck and you made some
'arrangements' with him. About 5:30 you got in the van, drove
out to the Three Sisters Market in Aquinnah and waited for
Kristie to get off work. You parked behind her car and sat with
the engine running." Mulder said. He wasn't sure McBer was
breathing. The look of horrified fascination on his face told
Mulder he hadn't missed yet. He continued, "She came out at
around a quarter after six, and you rolled down the window and
called her name. To soften her up you reminded her you knew her
secret -- that she'd lost a baby last year in Boston. Did it
make her cry, John?"
It seemed to take McBer a moment to realize he'd been asked a
question. "I don't know what you're--" he began, but Mulder cut
him off.
"While you had her there, trapped and scared, you leaned close to
her and said, 'You'd better call the D.A. and tell him the deal's
off. Otherwise you'll end up just like that narc.'" Mulder
leaned in and pronounced the words in a menacing whisper, as
McBer probably had. McBer's jaw dropped. He looked as if he
half expected Mulder to stick out a forked tongue at him. "The
threat involved being shot in an alley, didn't it, John? Or was
the place you shot the narcotics officer more like an access road
between warehouses?"
"I didn't shoot anybody," he said weakly.
"Did you push Kristie Herron over a cliff?" Mulder asked.
"I didn't -- I can't. How am I supposed to get to the edge of a
cliff?" McBer asked, holding his hands out to indicate his
wheelchair.
"If you're telling me it's impossible, then you're talking to the
wrong guy. I see impossible things happen every day," Mulder
said. He consciously imitated Skinner as he sat back and glared
at the man. Skinner had a glare like a scalpel.
"You're crazy," McBer said. He turned to Joe and said, "This
guy's a psycho." Joe didn't look at him. Mulder watched real
horror cross McBer's face as he realized he might get away with
one murder he'd committed only to have some nutcase FBI man get
him convicted of another murder he hadn't.
"Are you willing to take a polygraph to prove I'm crazy?" Mulder
asked. McBer looked uneasy but tempted. "You haven't got much
to lose. We can't use the results against you in court."
"A polygraph about what?" McBer asked.
"Kristie Herron. Whether you killed her. Nothing about the
other charge," Mulder said. Actually, he was worried that with
three years to justify the shooting to himself, McBer could beat
the box on the '97 murder.
McBer seemed to consider his options. "Fine. I'll do it," he
said. Mulder heard uniforms rustling all around the room as
officers could hardly contain their surprise.
"Let's be clear about this -- you're cooperating voluntarily.
You can call a lawyer at any time. Understand?" Mulder asked.
McBer nodded. Mulder asked, "Could you reply verbally for the
tape?"
"Yes. I got it."
Mulder looked up at Joe and said, "Go." Outside McBer's line of
vision, Joe gave him a thumbs-up.
"Come on, Mr. McBer. We're going to a room down the hall," Joe
said, leading the other man to the door. The polygraph
specialist from the Sheriff's Department was already standing by
with a list of questions Mulder had written. The sooner this was
done, the better -- before their suspect had a chance to change
his mind.
After McBer left, Mulder signed off on the tape and shut the
machine down. The interview had taken just over 40 minutes.
That wasn't bad, even for him. He hadn't even used up both sides
of the tape. To his gratified surprise, a couple of people
started to applaud, but icy stares from several officers cut the
clapping off quickly. The quiet that followed was strangely
awkward and people began a dignified push to get out of the room.
Mulder took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly he was
very tired. He heard footsteps on the hard carpet near the desk
and looked up. Sheriff Hawley stood there, looking at him in the
way Scully's brother Bill generally did. Mulder thought of it as
the "I'd like to squash you like a bug" look. "Sheriff," he
said.
"You sure know how to get what you want from people, don't you,
Mr. Mulder?" she asked. "I always wondered how you managed to
stay on this side of the cell bars. I guess now I know." He
couldn't think of any good replies, which seemed to intensify her
contempt. She turned on her heel and walked out.
Soon Mulder was alone in the dimly lit office. //Yeah,// he
thought, //I really know how to win friends and influence
people.//
*****
Scully parked in the tiny gravel lot behind Oriel Photography,
the little housefront shop Irv Stuckey ran in Menemsha. It
didn't surprise her that the man had to take a night job. The
village seemed to consist of a few dozen houses clustered around
the edge of an ocean inlet. She doubted it was much of a tourist
magnet even in summer. At the moment the only signs of
habitation were a couple of very cold-looking men standing on the
dock that ringed the harbor, fishing through holes chopped in the
ice.
The photography shop was a squat, two-story gray house with an
outdoor staircase that led to a separate entrance on the second
floor. According to Leigh, Stuckey and his ex-wife lived in the
upper story. Scully got out of the car and headed for the
stairs. She found it eerie to be in the middle of a town and
hear nothing but the wind and the sound of gravel crunching
beneath her feet. It reminded her of Mulder's childhood
nightmare about being the last person alive in the world. She
wondered how many year-round residents of Menemsha had the same
dream.
The cold made her bruised ribs ache as she climbed the weathered
steps that zig-zagged up the back of the house. A rusty coffee
can full of cigarette butts rested on the landing at the top.
Unable to find a doorbell, she tapped on the door's glass panel
with her gloved fingertips. Fortunately, the pane was loose and
it rattled loudly.
"Mr. Stuckey?" she called. "Mr. Stuckey, I'm Special Agent Dana
Scully with the FBI." She waited for several seconds but got no
reply. Had he even heard her? The stitches on her knuckles
prevented her from knocking, so she tapped again and said, "I
work with Fox Mulder. I'm here to talk to you about the South
Road Ghost."
Scully thought she heard voices inside. She was about to tap a
third time when a gray-haired woman with a face like a bulldog's
peered out of the door's little window. She heard the rattling
of locks being undone, and then the door jarred open a crack.
The bulldog-faced woman was quite short. She glared up at Scully
and said, "Store's closed. This is a private entrance."
"I know, ma'am. I'm looking for Mr. Irv Stuckey. I was told he
lived here." Scully showed the woman her badge and ID.
"You arresting him for something?" the woman asked. She sounded
hopeful.
"He contacted my partner and me about a case. I only want to talk
to him," Scully said.
"A 'case?'" the woman asked. Suddenly she seemed to make a
connection. "You're from Washington," she said.
"That's right, ma'am. From the FBI's X-Files Unit," Scully said.
The woman scowled and said, "Oh, for Christ's sake." She turned
and bellowed into the house, "Stuckey! The Mulder kid sent some
girl to talk to you about your fairy story."
A muffled voice replied, "Would you just shut up and send her
down, Emma?"
"He'll see you downstairs," Emma said, and slammed the door.
"Charming," Scully said under her breath. There was nothing else
to do but walk back downstairs and around to the front entrance.
The sheltered front porch was probably nice enough in summer, but
at the moment a cold wind coming off the water cut right through
Scully's coat and her borrowed clothes. Trying to keep her back
to the weather, she tugged the string of the heavy iron pull-bell
that was bolted to the doorframe. It sounded like what it had
likely been, a 19th century fire alarm. She heard a man inside
say, "All right! All right -- keep your pantyhose on."
A little man with wispy gray hair opened the door and squinted at
her out of the house's dimness. He was wearing button-down long
underwear and bulky gray socks. "Mr. Stuckey?" Scully asked.
"So you read my fax after all," he said.
"Yes. I'd like to talk with you about that," Scully said.
"Come in," Irv said, moving aside out of the doorway. Scully
walked past him into the shop. The windows had all been covered
with an assortment of curtains, blankets, and sheets, but light
from the open door revealed an old-fashioned cash register
sitting on a counter at the back of the room. A couple of space
heaters glowed orange but illuminated nothing. Once she was
inside with the door closed, the gloom was formidable.
"Give me just a minute," Irv said. He walked back to a
curtained-off inner door and passed through it into some unseen
room.
As her eyes adjusted, Scully realized there was a camp cot near
the space heaters. Irv had clearly just gotten out of it, half-
tumbling its blankets to the floor. Somehow knowing this room
served as Irv's bedroom made her uncomfortable. She ran her
hands over the wall by the door until she found a light switch.
When she flicked it on she found herself in a tiny photo gallery.
The walls were covered with matted prints, and photography
equipment rested on shelves behind the counter. A camera with a
long telephoto lens was mounted on a tripod in the corner.
Scully looked over some of the framed prints. Many were standard
photos of local architectural detail -- wood-shingled Victorian
house spires, delicate fanlights above lavender or teal-painted
doors, a round window behind the wrought-iron railing of a
widow's walk.
The nature photos were more to her liking. Most were in black
and white, and they tended to have a stark, almost Japanese
asymmetry to them. One print drew her particular attention.
It was of an ice sheet with an irregular hole punched in it.
The water inside was the strange, luminous green of the
ice-locked sea, and deep below its surface lay something dark.
No matter how hard Scully looked at the dark shape she could not
make out its outline. A rock? A spar? It created a sinister
impression, as if it were waiting for someone to remain too long
by the hole. She glanced at the title, written in pencil on the
mat: "Window Through The Ice."
She frowned and looked up at the other pictures on the wall. For
the first time she realized how many of them were of literal
windows, and the telephoto lens in the corner took on a darker
significance. The only human subject in the whole collection was
a young girl, or rather her eyes, which were opened so wide they
reflected back a tiny, distorted image of the photographer.
Scully looked for a few seconds before turning away in distaste.
She had the feeling there was some subtle violence in the
picture, as if Irv were trying to peer inside the girl. She
thought that if it had been up to her, she would have questioned
Irv Stuckey very carefully after Samantha Mulder disappeared.
Soon the man himself returned from the back room, tucking the
tails of his flannel shirt into his creased and faded jeans. Two
dogs followed him, an enormous black Lab and a little, curly-
haired mutt. The mutt trotted boldly up and sniffed Scully's
shoe.
"Step in something?" Irv asked.
"Not that I know of." Normally she liked dogs, but she was
starting to make up her mind not to like Irv's. She didn't
appreciate this one getting its wet nose all over the navy
leather of her pump.
"Hey, Meatloaf, back off," Irv said. The dog scooted back
slightly on its stubby legs, wagging its tail so hard its whole
butt wiggled. "Looks like you've been having some adventures out
here, Miss Scully," Irv said.
Scully didn't like his little smirk, and she fixed him with as
cold a look as she could manage. "What makes you say that?" she
asked. She'd purposely kept her gloves on her bandaged hands in
order to conceal the kind of adventures she'd been having.
"You're wearing someone else's pants," Irv said, chuckling.
"Excuse me?" She briefly considered slapping him. Federal
agents weren't allowed fits of ladylike indignation, which was a
pity.
"Come on now, look at you. You've got on your tailored coat and
your hair done just so. You got on shoes that match your
handbag, but none of it matches those baggy black pants. They
give you elephant knees, girl. You take a spill in the bog and
have to go slumming at the church bazaar?" Irv asked.
Scully willed herself to stay professional and preserve some
dignity. "I can't remember the last time a man paid so much
attention to my outfit, Mr. Stuckey," she said. She didn't know
why she was surprised. All around her was evidence of Irv's
relentless gaze.
"Oh, I notice all kind of things," he said. He smiled at her
like an evil gnome.
She was determined to steer the conversation back to the case.
"I'd like you to explain some of the things in your fax, like
what you meant about 'what happened in Boston,'" Scully said.
"Oh, that. The Herron girl had a child that died -- it was the
dope that did it in. I don't think she ever did tell her folks.
A shame, the parents always seemed decent. Of course, you never
can tell," Irv said.
"And how do you know all that?" Scully asked.
His smile broadened. "I've got ways and ways," he said.
"And I've got ways of reporting you for obtaining medical records
under false pretenses," Scully said.
She was gratified when that wiped the grin off his face. "I
never did," he said. "It's part of her police record. The
hospitals report these women when they come in pregnant, higher
than a kite. They throw some of 'em in jail, but not pretty
girls with folks on the Vineyard, I guess."
"You wrote away for her police record?" Scully asked.
"Sure. Sunshine laws are the best thing that ever happened to
this country. Sometimes they want you to pay through the nose
for copying, but it's usually worth it. I'm sure Fox would agree
with me," Irv said.
Scully thought the comparison did Mulder a great disservice.
"Mulder doesn't go prying into the police records of his
neighbors," she said.
"Oh, yes he does. That boy never could leave a secret alone.
Being an FBI agent and all, he doesn't even have to pay. I bet
on his off-hours he does nothing but pry. Well, almost nothing
but," Irv said. Scully pretended not to see his knowing little
leer, but it irked her. This was exactly the kind of subtle
harassment she dreaded having to face from her co-workers, much
less people she was interviewing.
She gave him her best icy glare as she tried to drag him back on
track. "Explain to me about the South Road Ghost."
Irv shrugged. "What's there to tell? They say women who've
murdered their children hear Mary Brown calling to them from deep
in the woods. It's always a wild night in winter, and some say
you can hear the voices of those dead babies crying in the wind.
If a woman follows the voices she'll be found slashed to death
the next day. I once spoke to an old down-island woman who knew
someone it happened to. Deaf lady -- never heard a thing in her
life but her own dead child calling her name. She went out into
the woods around the graveyard and never came back."
Irv's smirk returned as he said, "You know, you ought to ask Fox
about it. Ask him what his mama heard out in those trees. After
all this time they won't find that girl of hers, not above the
sod, anyway."
"Mr. Stuckey, that is enough," Scully snapped. She was surprised
at the depth of her anger at him; she was nearly shaking with it.
"The rumors you've spread have caused his family a lot of pain.
It's been 26 years, and it's time to stop." Leigh Williams had
told her how Mulder had gone from a friendly little boy to a
withdrawn and unhappy adolescent. How much of that suffering was
Irv Stuckey directly responsible for?
His pale blue eyes widened a moment at her vehemence, but he
wasn't off-balance long. "You're protective, aren't you?" he
said slyly. "I expect he likes that. He always did have a thing
for mother-figures. I suppose that's only natural, Teena being
the way she was. Tell me, is he an enemas and plastic pants
boy?"
"What?" was all Scully could think to say. Irv had gotten so
inappropriate she hardly knew how to respond.
"Well, never mind -- it was his father who made him the time-bomb
he is, anyway. I'm surprised the FBI lets him walk around armed
with all those excessive force citations in his file," Irv said.
"Where did you --" Scully began, then she realized she knew. "You
made a FOIA request for the contents of his personnel file."
"He's a federal employee. His file's a public record," Irv said.
"You'd be surprised at the kind of information you can get if you
ask: probate records, filings with friend of the court . . ." He
gave Scully a look as if she was supposed to read something into
that. "Of course, they always ink out the names of minors. Fox
has a juvenile record in Connecticut, for instance, but it's
sealed. Oh -- you didn't know that? Ask him about Fairfield
County Juvenile Court sometime, or about the time he poisoned the
cat. I think that's what set old Sheriff Luce sniffing after
him, more than anything else."
Scully forced herself to keep her mouth shut while she recited
one of the Fatima prayers to herself, the one about people who
needed God's mercy. //You have too little respect for this man
to let him enrage you,// she thought. When she spoke it was
deliberately, but without anger. "Mr. Stuckey, what did you call
us out here for? If it was just to assassinate my partner's
character, then you're wasting my time and yours."
"I called you out here to find the truth," he said. "Isn't that
what you people do? I've seen your file too, Miss Scully.
You're a scientist who's lately become interested in . . . how
did they put it, 'extreme possibilities.' If there's something
out there, you have to *know.* Or do 'Texas killer bees' not
ring a bell?"
"I wouldn't be in such a hurry to get that information if I were
you," Scully said. "People have died because they knew too much
about what's in those files."
"You're lovely when you're threatening, but I'll take my chances,"
Irv said. "And since we're talking about the South Road Ghost,
I wanted to ask you something. I know you tried and failed to
get custody of a child who died in 1998. You claimed she was
your daughter, though your personnel file says you have no
children. Last night when you were out ruining your real
clothes, did you hear her calling you?"
Scully felt the blood drain from her face. For a moment she had
no words to respond. Irv smiled, clearly enjoying her helpless
outrage. When she finally found her voice, it was only to say,
"Go to Hell."
She walked out of the house and slammed the door behind her. By
the time she got to the car, she was crying. It was one thing to
slander a grown man like Mulder, but to taunt Scully with her
daughter's death was too cruel. Who had Emily ever hurt, that
Irv Stuckey should gloat over her fatal illness? Scully's
tires shot up arcs of gravel as she peeled out of the parking
lot, determined not to give Irv the satisfaction of seeing her
cry. As she turned into the street she saw his hand twitch a
curtain closed over the window.
*****