Apartment 43B, Singer Avenue

12:36 p.m. March 17th, 1996

"I guess they should have used Ziplock bags." Mulder's voice cut through her reverie like a razor through lard.

"What?" She asked, her face conveying her confusion better than her voice ever could.

"Ziplock bags. According to the ads I see on TV they reduce freezer burn by over seventy percent compared to the leading competitor." Silence. His deadpan finally broke out into a full-fledged smile. "C'mon Scully, lighten up. Did you leave your sense of humor back in Washington this morning?" Despite the tastelessness of the joke she had to admit that the scene before them was at the very least bizarre, if not precisely funny.

Although the death of Piotyr Yumashev had occurred nearly ten hours earlier, the mass of people crowded into the modest apartment did not seem to have diminished substantially over time. In fact, judging by the amount of yellow tape out in the corridor and the number of emergency vehicles that were pulling up even as others left, this particular location was attracting quite the crowd. As if reading her mind, Mulder spoke up.

"This is quite the place to be in Cleveland if you're a cop, huh Scully?" he began again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of latex gloves as he did so.

"Well, Mulder," she said, hoping her voice sounded as tired to him as it did to her, "if this department's quality of investigation is in any way reflected by the quantity of their investigators, I don't see why we had to make this 'quick little trip' out here to assist."

"I hear the rock 'n' roll hall of fame is pretty neat too. Maybe we can take a tour after lunch."

"Funny, Mulder," she responded, unsure of whether to be amused or irritated at her partner's lack of appreciation for the sacrifices she had made to come out for another one of his crazy investigations. She had been planning on calling in sick that morning to boot and catching a little down time. Oh well, so much for that plan. "Why don't we try to figure out who's in charge here."

The sight which lay before them was perhaps best described by what Skinner would have called "organized chaos." Everyone around them was engaged in a flurry of activity. Technicians came and went toting cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes across the living room. A few white-coated techs were in the middle of dusting the windowpanes with fingerprint power and vacuuming the floor for fiber samples. More uniformed officers sat about filling out paperwork attached to the ubiquitous brown clipboard, and off to one side stood a pair of paramedics, their role long since finished but still insanely curious, no doubt.

Far off in the back of the apartment near the door to the kitchen stood a lone plainclothes officer, chatting on his cell phone. Noticing the two agents standing in the foyer, he quickly terminated his conversation and walked towards them in long strides, clapping his phone shut as he did so. Extending his hand he made his introductions.

"Agent Mulder?" he asked quickly, confirming their identity. Mulder nodded in acknowledgement. "I'm Detective Mark Preston. I believe I spoke with you over the phone last week. Thanks for coming out on such short notice."

"Not a problem, detective," Mulder replied, "this is my partner Agent Scully." Brief nod, handshakes all around. Mulder continued. "So, this is, what? The second one of these...incidents...you've have this year?"

"Yeah, that's right," replied Preston, sliding his hand back into his coat pocket. "To tell the truth I was debating whether or not I should call you up this morning and invite you over to take a look, but when I called the Bureau they said you were already on your way here."

Already on your way here. Scully shot a brief, hot glance at Mulder. So much for this being an "urgent case" requiring "immediate assistance." Strike two for Special Agent Fox. If Mulder noticed he gave no indication.

"May we please see the body, detective?" Scully asked, eager to establish herself as an independent agent and not just Mulder's tag-along. "I'd like to get started."

"Sure, sure. Right this way," replied Preston, beckoning for them to follow him as he began the hazardous trek back towards the kitchen. "Try not to step on anything." And with that he launched into the narrative.

"Victim's name is Piotyr A. Yumashev. That's Y-U-M-A-S-H-E-V. This is his apartment and as such also his last known address. Twenty-seven years old, currently unemployed."

"Unemployed?" Scully was surprised.

"As far as we can tell." The detective kept a poker face but his eyes twinkled. "Yeah, I know. How can an unemployed person keep house like this? Crime obviously, though we don't have a record on this guy so we're currently still trying to work it out." Having cleared his way through the last of the techs, Preston stopped. "Well, here we are. Though I must warn you, this is very weird."

"I wouldn't worry about that detective," said Mulder. "I'm sure we can handle it." Scully stifled a chuckle. Preston had no idea.

Compared to some of the death scenes they had been to, it definitely wasn't that bad. Not that it was good, on the contrary, every death they attended was a tragedy. But comparatively it could have been much worse.

The first thing which struck Scully upon entering the kitchen was the body itself. Piotyr lay curled up on the floor in a fetal position, his right arm extended, fingers splayed out as if to defend himself. Although she had seen thousands of cases rigor mortis on the autopsy slab, this by far was the most extreme she had ever witnessed. The body's head was held up at an angle almost perpendicular to the body in a position which would have only been comfortable for a few seconds at the most. Likewise, his legs were slightly parted, the left one lying on the floor and the right foot several inches off the ground. It was almost as it he had been doing aerobics, such was his position. However, the body's position alone was not what grabbed Scully's attention, it was the man's skin.

Quite simply put the entire body was a silvery blue color throughout, except at the outer extremities. The ears, the nose, the lips, the fingertips, all these were a putrid, rotting green-black. Scully recognized it immediately from Introductory Biology 101; no other color like that ever appeared on the human body. It was frostbite, no questions about it.

"Well, I will say this for him," droned Preston in the background. "At least he don't smell much."

Scully silently agreed and continued her inspection of the body. Reaching into her jacket pocket she produced a cheap plastic government-issue pen. Without actually coming into physical contact with the body, she began to tentatively tap the pen against the man's face. It was solid and unyielding, emitting only a slight "tink" with each tap. Again, Scully tapped various parts of the man's body, beginning with the neck and working her way down. When she was satisfied, she began to run the pen lightly against the man's silvery-black hair. Although it was slightly less stiff, the results were much the same. Suppressing any suspicions that a hoax was being played on her (she had learned to quash those particular sentiments within weeks of starting her job on the X-files), she stood up and turned around. Both men gazed at her with anticipation.

"Well, Mulder," she began, her tone conveying a strong tone of professional surprise (and not a little stupefaction), "it would appear that this victim has indeed been frozen solid."

Agent Preston nodded sagely. "That was our initial assessment as well."

"How long has he been here?" This time it was Mulder's turn.

"The landlord discovered the body at about 5:45 a.m. Neighbors below made complaints to the management about water dripping from their ceiling. When no one answered, he used his master key to get in and found the victim. We mopped most of the water away, but as you can see, he's still pretty stiff."

"Can you draw any conclusions just by looking at him Scully?" After pondering for a moment, she responded.

"No. Not here anyway, Mulder. I'd have to run a full autopsy to see what else I could find."

Mulder turned and looked at Preston. "Have you tried moving him yet?"

"No, not yet. We thought about using a blow drier to thaw him out some, but he's stuck to the floor."

"Use a chisel or something, "Scully interjected. "Chip him free. Exposing the body to heat might destroy some of the biological evidence. It'll be much safer to let him thaw out on his own." Preston's eyebrows arched but he said nothing. Hoping to avoid the detective any embarrassment, Mulder quickly spoke up.

"What about this guy's personal life. Have you made any headway there?"

"We're working on it. So far as we can tell this guy was something of a loner. No living relatives that we can find, no girlfriends. If he had any friends, they're not coming forward and introducing themselves. Typical, really."

"Oh? Why's that?" Mulder asked, but he already knew what the answer would be. Detective Preston chuckled.

"Look around you Agent Mulder. I don't know where you folks come from, but this is a Russian neighborhood. They trust the 'po-lee-ski' even less than they trust each other, which is saying a lot, believe me." Scully half expected Mulder to make some witty remark and cut Preston down where he stood, but instead he merely gave the detective a slight smile, one which could be interpreted in any number of ways.

"Have you tried canvassing the neighborhood yet?"

Detective Preston shrugged. "Eh, we tried, but we haven't found anything yet." His demeanor had certainly changed since earlier. Scully made a mental note that Preston was probably already beginning to grow tired of these big-nosed feds meddling on his turf and interfering with his jurisdiction.

"Do you mind if I give it a shot myself, see if you missed anything?" Mulder's voice was quiet, but insistent. Preston shrugged again.

"Suit yourself. I've got other stuff to deal with right now. If you need me, you know how to reach me." And with that, the big man took his leave from the two agents, sliding through the crowd like an ocean liner through the sea, all the while calling out "Hey, someone get me a chisel or something over here. And a coffee, extra sugar!"

Scully shot a quick glance at Mulder and caught his eye. "Whatcha up to Mulder?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think that our good detective Preston here may be a little short in the charm department, so I think I'm going to see if I can't win over any hearts and minds."

"Do you want me to come along?"

"No, I think I'll be ok on my own."

Scully was secretly relieved. She was tired and to be perfectly frank just didn't have the energy to go chase down leads. She would be just as happy sitting in the morgue while her partner ran off to fill in the gaps of whatever crazy narrative he had no doubt already concocted. "All right then. I'll meet you over at the precinct morgue in a few hours then."

"You betcha Scully," he responded, heading for the door. "Just try to stay cool." And before she could even respond, her partner was out the door.

Mulder had had better days interviewing in the past, but not recently. After having spent the better part of two hours on patrol and canvassed most of dark, shadowy building from top to bottom, he had only actually had two people respond to his knocks, including the landlord. Although he knew for certain that most of the people whose doors he knocked on were home (unless the locals had a tendency to leave their TVs and radios on while they were gone), most had simply ignored him, evidentially preferring to be left alone than talk to the police. With only two apartments to go, Mulder braced himself for what would no doubt be another knuckle rap followed by silence.

Knocking on the door of apartment 21A with his left hand (his right had worn out long ago), Mulder stood and waited in the silence that followed. Nothing. Again. Downcast, Mulder turned away and began to walk down the hall. He was about to give up and finish on the last door when he was rewarded by hearing a slight click behind him. Ever so slowly he turned on his heel and looked back at the apartment on whose doorstep he had just been. Where before the door had been shut up and nothing but silence issued from within, the door had now creaked a hand's breath open. Intrigued, he slowly padded down the hall back towards the door.

The apartment was dark, but Mulder could still make out the door chain in the darkness. It smelled slightly musty, as if it had not been ventilated in quite a while. Instinct told him that there had to be someone behind the door out of sight, but his eyes showed him nothing. In the long silence that followed, he was keenly aware of a slight, raspy breathing emanating from the darkened room.

"Wvhat you vant?" The voice was tired, frightened. It carried the slight inflection of a non-native speaker and a hardness around the consonants that place its originator as being from central or eastern European stock. Considering the ethnic makeup of the neighborhood, Mulder thought he had a pretty good idea it was Russian in origin. Unsure of how to proceed, he braced himself and cautiously began his by now well-worn monologue.

"Sir, my name is Mulder, I'm with the FBI," he began, trying to sound as firm but approachable as possible. He briefly thought about reaching for his badge but thought the better of it. There was no need to startle the locals unnecessarily. "I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding-"

"I know nothing. You go now." The voice remained fairly even, but somewhere down below it had begun to crack, losing steam.

Mulder was uncertain what to do next. The man on the other side of the door had obviously thought long and hard about his knock and decided to answer the door. Why else would he be speaking with him if he didn't want to convey some information? Conversely, if Mulder pushed too hard now, he was liable to throw the hook. "Sir, I think you do know something," he began again, hoping he didn't startle the old man. "I don't want to get you in trouble, but if you know something, I need to speak with you."

Almost faster than Mulder's brain could register it, the door began to slam shut. Fortunately Mulder had on some unconscious, instinctual level already taken into consideration that possibility and before the door could shut he had jammed his foot between the door and the doorjamb, forcing open a precious 4-inch gap.

The voice on the other side of the door started with surprise and involuntarily Mulder winced. Pressure on his foot increased, taking hot bites out of his leather shoe, but to no avail. Pushing hard the old man tried to force it shut, but with Mulder's foot in the way, closing the door was not a possibility. Still, it didn't keep the man from trying.

"Look sir," Mulder resumed, speaking in a gravelly tone through clenched teeth. Although sturdy, his shoes were already beginning to let a little of the pain seep through to his foot. "I don't want to bother you any more-" he gave the door a sturdy shove, slightly relieving the pinch on his foot and forcing open another half inch, "-than I have to. But, if there's something you know about this crime that you haven't told anyone else, I do need to hear it."

With equal determination the weight on the other side of the door seemed to increase. Slowly the slight gap that Mulder had forced was beginning to slide shut again. Placing his full right against the door, Mulder was surprised to see that he was powerless to stop its forward progress. Inch by inch, the thin wooden door reclaimed the empty space he had just moments before secured for himself, slowly clamping down on his shoe and the foot inside.

For a brief moment, Mulder panicked. He momentarily toyed with the idea of drawing his gun and forcing the door open, but immediately dismissed it out of hand. Such violence was almost certainly uncalled for and would not endear him to the locals any more than he already had been. The pressure on his foot was gradually increasing as the door chain grew slack. Beads of sweat had begun to appear on Mulder's brow and were beginning to slide own his face. What had once been a solid presence was now rapidly darkening to a very real and tangible sense of pain on the arch of his foot.

Biting his lip, he again redoubled his efforts to at least give himself some breathing space, hurling himself against the door as best he could. There was no tangible effect. Finally, as the pain graduated from a brow-knotting to a more tongue-biting level, Mulder felt he was going to have to scream. Although it would no doubt be comical in a few hours and probably cause him to loose considerable esteem with good old detective Preston, there was nothing else for it. In his mind's eye, he would almost see the spider web pattern of hairline fractures crinkling across the white bone beneath his flesh.

As quickly as it had begun, the door suddenly stopped moving. It gave no slack, but took none either and while Mulder was still poised to call out for help, he was just able to resist the temptation.

"You wvant to know wvhy this is happenink," the voice crept out from the murky depths of the darkened apartment. "Eh?" the tone was unfriendly, almost mocking. Mulder thought about taking offense, but some more primal instinct in his brain overwhelmed that particular social function: PAIN IN MY FOOT. STOP IT NOW, MULDER. "You really wvant to know what you are gettink into?" Through the searing red curtain which enmeshed his perception, Mulder could almost swear he heard the dry rustle of the old man's laugh creeping through the thin gap.

"Y-yes...." His voice was thin, empty sounding. A pause ensued, and finally the old man's voice resumed.

"Zis is His doing. Ze one vith the eye of shadows."

Through his clenched teeth Mulder attempted to get out a "what?" but found he was unable. All other resources of his brain had been taxed to their limit, charged with the task of finding resolution to the litany of mygodithurtsmakeitstopnowpleasepleaseplease. And as Mulder envisioned his foot being ground to a powder, his unasked question was answered for him in two words.

"Kas'ian Nemilostivyi."

As quickly as it had begun, the pain of Mulder's foot subsided as the gap in the doorway eased by perhaps a quarter of a inch. As quickly as he could, Mulder wrenched his foot out of the doorway, staggering back against the wall of the corridor as he did so. A million and one sensations flooded back across his brain like a snowy avalanche in the Sahara. Pulling off his shoe as gently and as speedily as he was capable of, Mulder slid inspected the damage.

It was several full minutes before he could gather up the strength to focus on anything other than his foot. When he did finally look up, he was unsurprised to see the corridor seemingly undisturbed and the door for apartment 21A firmly shut, seemingly oblivious to the drama which had just unfolded. While he was angry and in pain, Mulder knew better than to force the issue then and there. Although he could certainly have the man arrested and put away for assaulting a federal agent, such actions might prove to be counter-productive. After all, at least he now had a name to work with and his foot didn't seem to have suffered any permanent damage. And yet, a little reconnaissance never hurt. As he slowly massaged his foot back to life and put his shoe back on, Mulder made a mental note to ask the landlord who exactly lived behind the door of apartment 21A and what year the occupant had earned his Olympic gold medal for weightlifting.

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