Hey, hey, hey folks, we're back. Stay tuned, because the story is rapidly drawing to its climax! All will soon be revealed. More to come soon!
8:22 P.M. Saturday, March 18th
The very first time Scully had ever been to a real crime scene, she had been hard-pressed to hide her disappointment. While years of T.V. shows and movies had taught her to expect glamorous, hard-boiled detectives, grisly homicides and gritty locales, the crime scene she had the good fortune of drawing her first week out of the academy was laughably bland: a deserted mailbox out of which someone had posted a threatening letter to the Hoover Building in Washington. And while few crime scenes since then had proved to be more boring than that faded, dented blue box on 38th avenue, few had proven to be quite as turbulent (and, frankly, exciting) as this one.
Looking around her, Scully felt like a movie star. Flashbulbs popped and cameras clicked all around her, illuminating the scene in a staccato of weird, stroke-light like flashes. The room was filled with the gentle hum of activity and low, murmured voices as the police officers and techs worked the area, laying out fingerprint powder and unrolling strands of yellow police tape. In the back corner of the main living room and elderly black man in coveralls and a faded Cleveland Browns cap sat on the windowsill, shaking his head and wringing his hands as a patrolman who looked to be no more than 25 jotted down scribbles in an open notebook and nodded ever so often, as if to encourage the witness (for he could be only that) to continue.
"What a fricken' mess, eh?" said Detective Preston, addressing the question to no one in particular. Ducking under the yellow tape which blocked off the corridor from the scene of the crime, he strode self-importantly into the room, plowing a path through the various people working the scene like a ship carving a path through a heavy surf.
Scully let out an audible sigh and reached into her blazer pocket, pulling out a pair of white latex gloves as she did so. Mulder did the same and, flashing her the briefest hint of a "go get 'em" smile, ducked under the tape and followed in the path marked out by Preston.
Within moments someone in charge (or rather, the person who had been in charge up to that point) was evidentially alerted to Preston's arrival for a well-dressed blonde man stepped out of the press and walked towards Preston, giving him a brief nod. A short conference ensued and both men made for the back of the living room, a small army of technicians in tow.
"Well, I'm glad to see that this situation is now officially under control," muttered Mulder under his breath as he slipped on his second glove with a satisfying snap.
"Beg pardon?" was Scully's reply.
"Oh, I was just commenting on the fact that I am so grateful that despite the incredible lack of organization manifested on the outside, the local police department seems to be only slightly less clueless than they appear." Scully's eyebrows perked up.
"Mulder," she began, hoping desperately that she did not sound half as cranky as she felt, "whatever happened to the good old 'mmm…this doesn't really matter, one way or another everything will turn out ok' Mulder from Preston's office?"
"Yeah, well, don't trust everything your ears tell you Scully. Just because I never lie to you doesn't mean that I always tell the truth to everyone else." His eyes twinkled.
"You never lie to me?" Her words truly were incredulous.
"No." His façade lasted for all of about two seconds before cracking wide open. "I'll let you ponder that one Scully while I try to make sense of all this mess."
Reaching into her blazer pocket once more, Scully pulled out a pen.
"Well, Mulder, if it's ok with you I'd just as soon work on this case a little more. That way I at least will be satisfied that someone cares enough about solving the mystery of what exactly is happening to these men."
"I couldn't agree more."
"All right then, Mulder, where do we start on all this?" Looking up, Scully noticed Preston and his gang beginning to separate, the obviously less important techs returning to whatever tasks Preston had assigned to them. In the center, Preston, toothpick firmly clasped between his teeth, continued to relay orders to his rapidly dwindling team of assistants like a general on campaign. In the corner, the youngish police officer had flipped shut his notebook and had stopped nodding, but as yet still seemed intent on hearing what the old black man had to say.
"Hey Scully, five bucks says that the old guy is our only 'witness' in this whole sordid affair." At the word "witness" Mulder arched his fingers to indicate his obvious lack of enthusiasm in what was going on.
"Well, Mulder, you've got to work with what you have. What were you expecting? The boogeyman in handcuffs?"
"No, but on the other hand I don't think he'll be adding much to the case either. Probably heard some muffled screaming or fighting, took a chance, came in the apartment, and voila. One more tovarish on ice." As if to confirm Mulder's suspicions, on cue two beefy, lab-coated men lifted up a metal stretcher and extended its rollers with a hollow metallic clicking sound. On the stretcher was what could only be the body under a white plastic sheet, although the odd lumps and projections seemed to suggest that the deceased was doing anything but resting peacefully.
As the Stretcher neared the door, Scully lifted up the yellow tape and allowed the techs to pass undisturbed.
"Thanks," said one of the techs as he walked past, pushing the stretcher, the light in his eyes reflecting his gratitude.
"How'd you guys get him off the floor?" came Mulder's question as an afterthought. "I was thinking he was frozen solid."
"Carpet," replied the tech by way of explanation. "Peeled the sucker right off." For a brief instant a brief "a-ha" flashed across Mulder's face and was gone as quickly as it had come. Scully released the tape, but Mulder held back. At this Scully looked puzzled.
"Hey Mulder, you coming or what?" Before Mulder could formulate a reply, his eyes caught a large figure in a long tan raincoat surging out of the crowd. Biting his tongue, he realized that he had forgotten about Preston.
"Hey, Agents," came the by now all too familiar voice. "You guys can stay up as late as you want, but I don't have all night. So, if it's ok with you-" he gave a slight faux bow to the two agents, "- let's get started."
Mulder felt a tide of resentment rising up in him, but pinched it before it could engulf him. Anger accomplished nothing and was all together useless: it dulled the mind, numbed the senses, and ruined him as an investigator. What he needed now was a cool, clean head and an escape pod.
"Victim's name is Oleg Adam-" before he could get another two words out, Mulder made an impatient chopping gesture with his hand.
"You know what," he began, keeping his voice low and even. "I think I'm going to take a rain check on that, Detective Preston."
In the shocked silence that followed, the world seemed to stop. It was impossible that everyone in the room had heard the two, neither man had raised his voice but it was as if something…intangible…had shifted in the atmosphere above them. Almost instantly all sounds in the room hushed and even the anonymous crime scene inspectors stopped brushing for prints, as if afraid that the soft, silent bending of the whiskers of their brushes would disturb the conversation. They were all ears.
Preston's eyes seemed to twitch in their sockets for an instant, before instantly deflating and assuming the menacing, watery glaze of the truly hardened investigator.
"What was that, Agent Mulder?" Scully felt as if the entire room around them cringed.
"I said," repeated Mulder, tired yet firm, "that I think I will take a rain check on the grand tour of this scene."
"Oh." Preston's jaw tightened and the toothpick stood ramrod straight. "And just why is that, Agent Mulder? I thought you G-men were interested in solving this little case of ours. I mean," he raised his hand in a gesture of false helplessness, "I thought you wanted to help us poor little local cops fix this situation, isn't that right?" Scully could almost see the venom flying in Preston's words as he hurled them at Mulder. She felt hot blood rise to her face and ears. This was not embarrassment, no. She had tolerated Preston, tolerated his condescending remarks, his macho posturing, his barely concealed misogyny long enough. And if he thought that she or her partner were just going to sit back and take it like good little federal government employees, he had another thing coming. Feeling her own anger rise, she swallowed hard and prepared to launch a broadside of her own at Preston, but before she could, Mulder responded.
"Detective Preston," he began, outwardly calm but no doubt boiling on the inside. "Let's get a few things straight here. You called us in to help. Here we are. Now this is the third murder of this type you have had and so far I'm afraid that I haven't heard a single theory, let alone an intelligent one, come out of your entire office. You managed to link the two victims. Great. And now you're going to poke around here, interview the sole witness, and ultimately conclude the same thing: that this guy, whatever his name is, is dead. That he died by freezing, just like the other victims, and that there is no rational, plausible explanation. Furthermore, you are going to tell me, no doubt after a day or two of half-hearted searching on your part that this guy is also involved with Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc. I'm sorry, but that gets us exactly nowhere. Are you with me so far?"
The red-faced man swallowed and nodded. Glancing over at Preston, however, Scully wasn't so sure. As Mulder's tirade had continued, Preston had at first seemed incredulous, and then outright enraged. By now Preston seemed to have calmed himself a bit, but Scully had no doubts that this would lead to some serious repercussions further down the line. No senior investigator was going to take a public tongue lashing like that in front of his subordinates (from a fed, no less) and let it slide. No, Scully knew there would be consequences. But for the time being, Preston merely nodded.
"Now, I am going to leave you here to investigate the crime. Talk to the witnesses, and collect the exact same type of evidence that we have collected twice already. I, however, am going to pursue other avenues of approach into all of this. Good luck." And with that, Mulder lifted up his hands and began to peel off his gloves.
A heavy silence filled the room. If the apartment had felt quiet before, it was now as silent as a tomb. Even the normal ambient noise from the street seemed to have silenced itself on command.
In the corner of his mouth, Preston's toothpick began to twitch. His mouth stayed still and his face expressionless, but as far as Scully was concerned, Preston's eyes told her all she needed to know. They had to look of a predator, of a wounded animal. And she had no doubt whatsoever as to where most of the rage was focused. Seconds ticked by. Mulder finished taking off his gloves and slid them into his pocket.
"Knock yourself out." Preston's words shattered the silence and hug over the room like a cloud. And then, as simply as that, he turned and strode back into the living room, self-importantly as ever.
Little by little, the noise and hum of activity picked up, first as a low drone, and then slowly building up to its previous dull roar in the minutes that followed, although to Scully it seemed as if the sound had been permanently lowered a notch. No wonder, she thought to herself. The techs and all those assembled had just seen something extraordinary in the world of local police: a seasoned, hardened investigator told off.
Surprisingly enough, Mulder seemed none the worse for wear. Running his fingers through his hair, he sighed and then turned towards the door. Slipping off her own gloves, Scully did the same.
"Gee, Mulder," she began. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't, he replied, sounding truly tired for the first time since their arrival in Cleveland.
"What are you going to do?" asked Scully, hoping desperately that she didn't sound too anxious. Instead of answering that particular question directly, Mulder got to the point.
"This is our game plan," he began with a voice that sounded decidedly unlike the Mulder she had known in times past: the self-effacing, slightly embarrassed Mulder who quietly admitted he believed in UFOs and that the fact was no one's business but his own. "I want you to go back to the motel room and get a good night's sleep. We've been working at this way too hard and to be honest, you look like you need it." Scully began to protest. After all, she looked no worse than he did, in her opinion, much better, but he cut her off with an impatient gesture.
"Don't worry, we're gonna be working our butts off yet. Tomorrow, I want you to go to the local FBI branch office. Call some people. Get in deep with their organized crime section. They're bound to have tons of files to any and all Russian mob activity in the great Lakes region. Find out everything you can about this Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc. Find out everything you can about the three victims: who they are, what they did, and who would want them dead. Once we get there, we will re-evaluate our position and see how to proceed."
Several conflicting thoughts flew through Scully's head. Under normal circumstances, she would bristle at the very idea of Mulder ordering her around. He was her partner, not her boss, and she had no problem reminding him of that, and had in the past. However, she also understood Mulder. He was tired, he was frustrated, and he had just expended a lot of emotional energy clearing away the obstacle known in the mundane world as Detective Mark Preston. In many ways she was grateful. For once she relished the prospect of sinking herself into some real hands-on police work and leaving aliens and monsters and magic by the wayside.
"What about you, Mulder?' she asked, her voice filled with concern. "You need your sleep too you know." Mulder smiled.
"I, Agent Scully, am going to join you at the motel shortly. In the meantime, I have one or two more leads to track down."
"Such as…?"
"Such as finding out who the hell Cassian the Unmerciful is and what he has to do with this case."
And with that the two agents departed the dilapidated, if comfortable, Bluehill Terrace apartments on 322 Joshua Brown Street, Northwestern Cleveland, unaware that, despite the chill of the night and the ever-present darkness on the seedier side of town, a pair of eyes was watching.