McClelland Park Holiday Inn
6:28 a.m., Sunday, March 19th
The execrably loud collection of squeaking and rattling sounds that was the dining room cart rolling past their table snapped Scully back to attention. Glancing at her partner, she couldn't help but notice with a certain degree of discomfort the way with which he toyed with his food. Fork in hand, gooey scrambled eggs and a blackened, half-eaten sausage chased one another around the inner rim of Mulder's plate, endlessly prodded and cajoled by the placid agent. Removing her spoon from the coffee swirling around in the bottom of her mug, Scully leaned back in their booth at the hotel dining room, turning the crinkled page of the Cleveland Plain Dealer as she raised the warm cup to her lips. A collection of heavily pixilated black and white photographs swam up to greet her. Most of them were baseball players. She had never been particularly interested in sports, but that was about all that was going on in the emaciated copy paper she had found waiting for them in the booth, and so she was forced to make do.
"Well, Mulder, how'd you sleep last night?" The opening remark was the first attempt she had made at real conversation that morning. After getting back to the Holiday Inn the night before, she had slipped into bed after a luxuriously long shower and spent the last few moments of her consciousness watching part of a Star Trek episode. She couldn't remember the ending, although she didn't think Mulder would be very amused at the show's bulbous-headed, laser-gun toting extraterrestrial hell-bent on ending Riker's life once and for all. She smiled at the thought. She had never really liked science fiction much, but that late at night it was either Star Trek or a Home Shopping Network rerun. She had easily chosen the former. Sighing, Mulder put the fork down and looked across the table. On some primal level, Scully became aware that this was not going to be what Mulder would consider a Good Morning.
"Something tells me you had a long night. Feel like sharing?" Scully turned another page, allowing her eyes to methodically scan across the articles, looking for nothing in particular.
"What on earth would give you that impression, Scully?"
"Nothing Mulder; female intuition. Not to mention the bags under your eyes or the fact that your room phone rang at least four or five times before you picked up." She glanced up. A bemused look crossed her partner's all-too-familiar mug.
"I was in the shower."
That was a lie. If Mulder had been in the shower he would have almost certainly ignored the call. Besides, considering the uncharacteristically sloppy lump of a knot at his collar and the thin (but clearly visible) brown stubble bristling at his chin, it was clear that what sleep he had gotten (if any) had been precarious. Replacing her now-empty cup on the cheap china saucer, she ran her eyes over him, a by-now familiar look of concern creasing her face. No, definitely not a Good Day. Despite her best instincts and better judgment, she grasped at the only opening she saw.
"Look, Mulder, why don't you take it easy today? I have plenty of work to keep me busy- grunt work mostly. I don't need your help with that. Maybe you'd like to stay here and work on your notes while I'm hitting the paper trail." Halfway into her suggestion she could see that it was going nowhere. Mulder had picked his fork back up and had resumed stabbing at the sausage with mild, indifferent curiosity while almost imperceptibly shaking his head. She should have known it was going to be this way. Whether it was out of misguided pride, a sense of misplaced macho bravado, or just plain stubbornness, she knew he wouldn't accept and so she let the matter drop. Just the same, she finished her statement out of principle.
"C'mon, Scully, you don't need to do everything by yourself. Besides," he grunted, holding his empty cup in the air to signal the waitress for more coffee, "I actually did get back fairly early last night. I just didn't fall asleep very easily."
"Duly noted." The waitress reappeared as if out of thin air and quickly poured the two agents a fresh serving of hot, generic motel coffee before sliding the bill down on the table and heading across the room to a family two booths away. When she was out of earshot, Scully closed the paper and, after quickly scanning the back page for the weather forecast, folded it up the middle and placed it on the seat next to her with a gentle rustle. The previous owners of the newspapers hadn't even bothered to leave the comics.
"So, Mulder," she began again, shifting the topic of conversation to something she felt would be more amenable to her somnolent partner. "Do feel like cluing me in on what happened after you left last night?" Folding her hands together on the table top, she waited for her coffee to cool. With one final enthusiastic jab Mulder ceased picking at his food once and for all and turned his attention to her. At last, it looked like the coffee was beginning to kick in.
"Well, let's see. Where to begin?" Reaching across the table, Mulder grabbed another pink packet of artificial sugar and shook it hard before ripping off the end and spilling its contents into his steaming hot mug. Anticipating his next move, Scully slid the cup full of ice and creamers across the table. Despite their countless generic motel breakfasts in countless generic dining rooms, she still couldn't remember if he took cream Murmuring his thanks, Mulder reached across the table for the bill and, quickly scanning it, folded it in half and placed it in his shirt pocket.
"How about at the beginning?" it was a corny line, but it was the best she could offer.
Deep down, she knew he hated this. After years together, she had finally begun to understand that when her partner went off alone to follow up a lead, it was his way of getting some breathing room, some time to think. It hadn't always been easy, and even now she still felt the occasional surge of rage in her system when Mulder decided to shut her out: to turn his back on her and lock himself in his own little mental treehouse. Believers only, no girls allowed.
On a primal, professional level, it infuriated her. After all these years, Scully felt that she had earned a right to be in on whatever it was that her partner was digging up and digging out. It had on more than one occasion crossed her mind that he didn't let her come along because he thought she was weak, but by now those thoughts were fleeting and she only allowed them to surface when she felt the need to give in to the sweet emotional release that was anger. She understood that Mulder had a deep, inherent psychological need to be correct. Call it insecurity, call it immaturity, but Scully knew enough to recognize it for what it was.
Working in the X-Files was Mulder's way of trying to fight back against the system, to earn some measure of repayment for what had happened in his past. In spite of her occasional anger and more frequent frustration, Scully understood that it was just the way her partner was. His familiarity with the paranormal was both his greatest strength but also exposed his most vulnerable side for all those to see. And, in a roundabout way, it was a testament to her investigative abilities and her assertive, at times forceful personality that he had to isolate himself from her. In a way, it was a profound statement on the quality of her work and her continuation and defense of the scientific method. A million miles away, Mulder began to stir his coffee.
It only took approximately five minutes for Mulder to relate what had happened the night before. His visit to Father Kalashnikov, the late-night rendezvous in the rectory, the story of the priest's life at the monastery, and the drive back to the hotel. Despite the by-now familiar sense of growing incredulity, Scully remained polite and attentive.
It wasn't that she didn't believe her partner, on the contrary. After three years together, she had no doubt that Mulder would come through for her when it really counted. It wasn't that she doubted the man's sincerity either; too many close calls and back-alley pursuits had long since stripped away any doubts she had regarding his candor. No, it was rather his enthusiasm that got him into tight spots a little too often. How many times had Mulder's enthusiasm for getting to "the truth" impaired his skepticism and critical rationalization? Just the same, Scully had long ago learned to accept her partner's failings and had resigned herself to her fate. Where once she might have risen up and interrupted her partner's thoughts in midstream, now she simply sat back and paid attention. More often than not it was at times like these that the flaws in Mulder's logic and reasoning became most apparent. And just as Mulder's seemingly limitless enthusiasm for digging at the abnormal features of the world propelled them deeper and deeper into the world of intrigue and scientific anomalies, it was her ability to make sound, rational judgments which more often than not pulled Mulder's fat out of the fire. It was perhaps not the best arrangement, but she had long ago come to grips with it and now accepted it as part of her professional life at the Bureau.
"So," she began after a moment of silence at the conclusion of Mulder's story. "You managed to determine the identity of this 'Cassian.' Where does this leave us?"
Mulder massaged his temples for a moment before speaking again. On the opposite side of the booth another dining cart went thundering by as a busboy made his rounds, curiously eyeing the two agent, no doubt wondering how much longer they were going to be.
"Scully, is none of this making sense to you? I mean, we have three dead bodies, all Russian or of Russian descent, all frozen solid with no apparent explanation. On a parallel track we have a malevolent demon of the Russian Orthodox church who apparently has, among other things, the ability to kill people more or less at will. Inject into this mix the fact that a witness to the crime told me personally that the deaths were the direct result of Cassian the Unmerciful's doing, I'd say we have a pretty solid explanation. The only thing we have to figure out now is how or why this is happening."
Scully caught Mulder's eye. Held it, and waited for him to look back down at the table. Point, parry, riposte
"Mulder, the fact that you were able to dig up a piece of folklore which has a passing resemblance to this case-" Pausing to organize her thoughts, Scully was not at all surprised when Mulder spoke up before she could resume.
"I think that this is more than just a case of 'passing resemblance' Scully. Would you like to hear another interesting little factoid that I dug up last night before returning to the hotel? In addition to Father Kalashnikov's personal experience, there is another dimension to the folklore of Cassian. According to Bullfinch's encyclopedia of European mythology, Cassian the Unmerciful only came out and roamed the earth once every four years. On this feast day, after having spent the previous three years and 365 staring at the ground, he would look up and wander the earth, causing anything that crossed his path to wither and die. In one province he was also thought to have control over the frozen northern winds and in the beliefs of peasants was said to be the gatekeeper to hell."
"Mulder, that doesn't make any sense." Scully strove to keep her voice neutral, or at least tried to maintained a gentle, if firm, skepticism.
"Three years and 365 days? Mulder, there are 365 days in a year." At this, Mulder's eyes glimmered. Realizing her mistake, she tried to recover. Too late.
"You are, of course, absolutely correct Scully, except for the fact that every four years-"
"-there's an extra day," she conceded, her words slow and thoughtful.
"Exactly. Guess which day of the year is Cassian's Feast day?"
"February 29th?" Scully nodded. She could see where this was going now.
"Correct. Guess how many days February had this year?" Mulder's face had cracked into a wide open grin that Scully couldn't help but find beguiling, not matter how ridiculous the grin's owner's theories might be.
"So, Mulder," she said, gathering her coat about her in anticipation of leaving the dining room and heading to work. Another universe away, the busboy prepared to go into warp drive. "You're telling me that this unusual spate of apartment freezings is the work of a malevolent saint hell-bent on chaos?" She grimaced as the tingling of thousands of pins and needles pricked at her leg. She hadn't realized her foot had fallen asleep.
"Not chaos Agent Scully, shucks no," Mulder chuckled, his eyes wide in mock disbelief. Then, seriously: "These attacks aren't random at all, I can guarantee you that. We know that these victims are all linked, no matter how tenuous the link may appear. Someone wants them dead Scully, and they're just using Cassian to get it done. Besides, technically-" he continued, sliding out of the booth and pulling his coat towards him as he did so, "Cassian isn't really a saint. In reality he's a demonic personage of ancient pagan Russia that survived the conversion to Christianity and the purges."
"Thanks Professor," she mocked, only semi-seriously as she tensed her lower leg, coaxing blood back into the atrophied limb. "And since you ignored my gracious offer to let you sleep in this morning," at this Mulder playfully raised his arms as if to shield himself, "it looks like I'm stuck with you. C'mon let's pay up and get to work.." They both smiled at this as they made their way to the front counter. Moments later, Mulder's cell phone rang.
6:52 a.m.
In all his years on the force, CPD Detective-Lieutenant Mark Preston, for better or worse, had only broken down and apologized twice. Abrasive. Pig-headed. Stubborn. All these and worse had appeared countless times on his bi-annual evaluation report to characterize his attitude and disposition to work. Does not play well with others, his ex-wife had once playfully remarked, half teasing, half serious. However, thinking about his ex-wife dredged up unpleasant memories. The way she had swung her hips around his friends, but never him. The way she always seemed so cold and unenthusiastic when they were in bed together, always rolling over and going straight to sleep afterwards without so much as a goodnight kiss. The way she ran and ran her mouth until he felt the urge to just punch her to make the bitch shut up. The- he forced those images to the back of his mind, refocusing his attention on the issue at hand. The big detective cleared his throat.
Preston was a firm believer in the "I'll try being nicer if you'll try being smarter" approach to police work. It was not that he was a difficult man to work with, or at least, not difficult if you did the job right and kept your mouth shut. Rather, it was the fact that ninety-eight percent of the time, he was in the right and his opponent of the hour was stupid, wrong, or (more often) both. He knew that he had stepped on countless toes in his life on the force, but that was just the cost of doing business. In the end he always got the job done and bagged the bad guy, thereby silencing the more vocal of his critics. However, sometimes- not often, but sometimes- a situation would arise in which he recognized that he had not just been uncivil, but that he had in fact been dead wrong. This was one of those times. It was time to pay the butcher's bill.
Looking around the briefing room for the umpteenth time, Preston once again asserted that the chamber was in fact deserted and that no one else would be around to overhear his conversation. Sitting across from him at the long rows of desks and chairs were the two FBI agents, Mulder and Scully. The girl- the agent, he silently corrected himself- wore a brisk look which reminded Preston of the way his third-grade teacher would look at him after she caught him swearing in the lunchroom. It was no doubt meant to be an unreadable poker face, but there was no mistaking the bleak contempt behind those eyes. The other agent was harder to get a read on. Sitting nonchalantly on top of one of the desks immediately facing Preston, he chewed on a nub of something, all the while keeping his face neutral and his lucid brown eyes fixed on the detective. What the hell, this is going to be difficult, thought Preston tiredly, might as well get it over with.
"I'll bet you're probably wondering why I called you guys up and asked you to come over to the station so early in the morning, especially after last night." Reaching into his shirt pocket, he fished out his box of toothpicks and slid it open. When neither of the agents responded, he continued.
"I just wanted to let you folks know that I'm sorry about last night. I was frustrated and pissed off and…probably said some things I shouldn't have. And so I apologize." He placed a toothpick in his mouth and returned the box to his pocket as he methodically began to chew at the thin wooden sliver, gauging their responses. Mulder didn't seem to have been paying attention, his smooth brow a testament to his lack of concern. To his surprise, it was the female agent- Scully- who replied first.
"That's ok, Detective Preston," she began, her arms crossed and leaning back in her chair, her simple gold stud earrings glimmering in the soft neon light refracted through the dusty, insect-filled glass above their heads. Her voice betrayed no emotion, and that was all the more disconcerting for Preston. Years of experience had taught him to essentially disregard what a person actually said, but rather to pay attention to the way in which they said it. "We all want to get this case closed as soon as possible. That way you can focus on other things, we can get back to Washington, and everything will be business as usual. Right Mulder?" She glanced at her partner as she shifted her weight on the desktop.
"Absolutely," replied the other agent as he nodded in agreement, still chewing on whatever it was he had in his mouth, a look of vacant apathy leaving his features flat and listless and he spoke. "Cases like these are tough and can put everyone under a lot of stress." A short silence ensued. Preston felt an itch just under the arch of his right foot, fought the urge to scratch it, and instead pulled the toothpick out of his mouth.
"So, if I, uh…" he resumed, switching his toothpick to the other corner of his mouth and resuming his chewing. God he wanted to get this over with. "If I said anything that might be construed as ingratitude or something like that…" Despite his best efforts he stalled out, unsure of how to proceed. Apparently Scully was feeling generous as she took over from where he had left off.
"Water under the bridge," responded Scully, leaning forward in her chair. "Don't worry about it." Closing his eyes, Preston breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
"So, Detective," spoke Mulder, crossing his ankles, flicking whatever it was he had been chewing- Preston assumed it was a fingernail clipping- off into the distance to join the other members of the invisible tribe of odds and ends populating the briefing room floor. "What have you got for us? I mean I assume," at this he traded glances with his partner, "that you didn't just call us in here to apologize." Sliding his hands into his pockets, Preston scratched at another itch developing on his upper thigh.
"Not at all. Actually, it's just that my boys tracked down some pretty interesting stuff on these three victims. Real dirt if you know what I mean." A self-conscious stage wink, an attempt at humor. Having cleared the hurdle without too much difficulty, Preston appeared to be turning on the afterburners and putting as much distance between the apology and the agents as possible. The thought of Preston wedged into an F-15 cockpit, goggles over his eyes and toothpick in his mouth made her smile. Perhaps thinking he was making good his escape, Preston continued. "Besides, I knew that you two would probably want to investigate some of the background work on our vics, so if you would be so kind as to follow me this way, I will introduce you to our resident anti-gang specialist, Detective Stefan Rybakov." And with that, Preston turned and walked out into the hallway. Rising from his chair, Scully noticed Mulder rebuttoning his jacket and scratching the back of his neck self-consciously. Catching her look of mildly puzzled inquiry, he shrugged.
"I don't know about you, Scully but that left me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside." Cocking her eyebrows, she regarded him with playful disgust.
"Thanks for sharing, Mulder. I appreciated your input back there. Be sure to call me next time you want me to accept an apology on your behalf. I'll wear a better suit" A grin danced around Mulder's eyes but never blossomed.
The first thing that struck Mulder upon walking into the office with the words "Rybakov, Det. S." stenciled onto the frosted glass door was the contrast between this and Preston's office. It was not that this office was in better condition than the others, on the contrary. Despite numerous state and federal grants awarded to the CPD over the past few years, the station as a whole suffered from very patchy monetary coverage. Despite the new patrol cars in the station motor pool and the fairly recent-looking telephones scattered around the various rooms and offices in the building, there was no mistaking the fact that the 2nd Precinct's headquarters wore a look of perpetual fatigue. Chipped blue paint on the desks in the briefing room exposing pitted, rusted metal, the pervasive smell of urine and vomit in the lobby restroom, the numerous faint (is still visible) stains on moss-green carpet, all hinted at the long legacy of police work and law enforcement in this lakeshore city which had been the first stomping ground of Eliot Ness the gangbuster. Mulder couldn't help but wonder, half sportingly, half seriously, if on quiet nights the ghosts of long-dead officers and convicts returned to walk the halls, answering ancient rotary telephones that no longer functioned and poring over mouse-eaten, half decomposed case files dating back to the 19th century. It was not the form of Rybakov's office that that varied from the rest, but rather the content and organization that marked it out from the other offices in the CPD. The other office, Mulder corrected himself. He had really only been in one other- Preston's.
Where Detective Preston's office had been a mass of paperwork, folders, and other assortments of random junk united in organizational form only in that they all slumped in piles, Rybakov's office was immaculate. There was a crack in the plaster on the opposite wall and a few dark stains dotted the carpet, but other than that, it could have been the high-rise castle keep of a Fortune 500 executive. Sitting behind a fairly new-looking office PC, a young man, spectacles perched on his nose, was typing at a steady pace. If he noticed the party poised at his office door, he gave no sign. For the third time that morning, Preston cleared his throat.
The young man looked up and, noticing the group, stopped typing.
"Hey Mark, please come in," he beckoned as he stood up, sliding his rimless glasses higher back on his face. The smile which adorned his face was warm and genuine, the look of a person who dispensed with formal emotional conventions and actually bothered to respond with feeling upon making someone's acquaintance. Scully took a more or less instant liking to him.
"Don't mind if I do," replied Peterson, striding into the room and picking at his teeth with his by-now soggy toothpick. "Howya doing Steve?"
"Oh, can't complain; or won't rather," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of futility as he turned his focus onto his two visitors. "You two must be agents Mulder and Scully, right?" He extended his hand across the desk. "I'm Detective Stefan Rybakov. Please call me Steve. Stefan sounds a little too ethnic for my taste." Mulder reached forward and took his hand, giving it the polite, formal shake preferred in Washington circles. To his momentary surprise, Rybakov gave his hand a firm squeeze. The man's skin was smooth, cool and powdery to the touch. He couldn't be sure why, but for some odd reason Rybakov reminded him of a recent graduate from dentistry school.
"I'm Fox Mulder," he replied as he released the policeman's hand. "We really appreciate you taking some time from your busy schedule to accommodate us."
"Oh, no problem. Anything I can do to help really." He looked over at Preston who was standing off to the side, staring at the scene as if passing judgment. "Please sit and we can get started."
There were only two other chairs in the office, but what could have been a difficult situation between the two agents and their newly reconciled friend was carefully averted when the big detective made his excuses.
"Hey folks, I'd love to stick around and chat," began Preston, sounding not a bit disappointed with the situation, "but I have a hell of a lot of stuff going on right now, so if it's all the same to you, I'll leave you in the care of Steve here. Unless-" he cocked his eyebrow at the other policeman "-you have a problem with that?" There was unmistakable menace in that voice, Scully could feel it in the air.
"Not at all. Catch ya later Mark," replied Rybakov, but his words almost certainly were not heard by Preston. He was out the door and had disappeared into the hallway before Rybakov had finished the sentence. Silence ensued.
"So…" Scully was grasping at straws, trying to diffuse what had been an awkward moment between two coworkers. Although not her fault, Scully couldn't help but feel a bit like a voyeur.
"First let me apologize for Detective Preston, agents." The boyish, happy-go-lucky demeanor, which had characterized Rybakov's face, was gone. Instead it had been replaced by the quiet, determined look of the professional white-collar worker, a face known and imitated the world over. With both hands, Rybakov carefully lifted the glasses off of his ears and began to wipe them with a Kleenex from the box on his desk. "He's not a bad guy really," he continued as he wiped the glass clean, pausing to inspect them from time to time in the ray of pale, mote-filled light swirling from the unshaded window behind him. "It's just that this case is driving him up the wall and he's all out of answers. But, at least he seems to have recognized that your contributions to this case are important, if not invaluable. And so," he continued, replacing his spectacles, apparently satisfied with their cleanliness, "he apologized and essentially admitted that he's lost." Replacing his hands on the desktop, Rybakov interlaced his fingers and hunched slightly forward, before chuckling quietly, mirthfully. "That's just Mark Preston for you, folks. Genuine old school cop through and through. Love it or leave it."
"If you don't mind my asking, sir-"
"Steve. Please call me Steve. If you say sir, I'll start thinking my dad's in the room."
Scully smiled.
"All right then, Steve. If you don't mind my asking, on an unrelated note, how did you end up working for the Cleveland police department?" I mean," she cast a quick glance around the office, "I don't mean to presume, but you don't really seem to be…"
"The type?" Rybakov finished the sentence for her. To her immense relief, he seemed comfortable with the question. "Not at all, you're absolutely correct. Believe it or not, I always wanted to be a cop. I guess I watched too many police shows when I was a kid, ya know?" You still are a kid Mulder almost threw in, but he bit his tongue and stayed silent. Instead he focus on turning to the last page in his notebook and made a mental note that it was about time to get a new one.
"In any case, there's a couple factors. One, I speak Russian. Two, I actually have a master's degree in sociology from U Penn. Three, I'm willing to give back to the community and work what is, let's be honest, a pretty crappy job for low pay just because I think I'm helping people. Hey," he sat back in his chair, inspecting his wedding band as he did so, "who says idealism is overrated, right?" Scully surprised Mulder by actually gracing the detective with a polite little smile.
"Don't get me wrong though," continued Rybakov, his voice now more serious, "I'm a cop all the way. Not an old-school cop like Preston, mind you, but a police officer just the same. I'm 27 years old and the second youngest detective in the city. Judges have awarded over eight thousand years' worth of prison time as a result of investigations initiated and concluded by me. Later this afternoon, the district attorney and I are going down to the federal courthouse to open a grand jury hearing on six men I arrested last week in connection with racketeering, murder, and other organized crime charges. If the trials ultimately result in convictions, I'm looking at a maximum of two death sentences and a combined 250 years of prison time for my suspects." At this Rybakov folded his hands behind his head and smiled a small, self-accomplished, although his voice was crisp in tone. "I hope that answers any questions you may have about my qualifications. And don't worry, I'm not responding this way because I'm offended, that's just my general blanket disclaimer. I get it a lot and I find that it usually solves a lot of problems if I recite it upfront."
Mulder looked at Scully out of the corner of his eye. What he saw gave him cause to be cautiously optimistic, and after all why not? He liked the kid. Although he could see how Rybakov's disposition could lend some people towards bitter dislike, jealousy, or even professional hatred, he felt no such impulses. Steve displayed exactly the right mix of self-confidence, humor, approachability, and professionalism that lent itself well to almost immediate friendship. He wondered for a moment if Scully felt the same way. She seemed impressed by the look on her face, but that didn't necessarily translate to approval in her world. Just the same, he had a feeling that whatever Rybakov had for them, it was going to be good. To his surprise, it was Scully to broached the topic first.
"Well, we appreciate your help in the matter, Det-" Rybakov leveled a smooth, straight finger at her chest in mock seriousness, "-Steve," she corrected herself in mid-course and was rewarded by a single brisk nod. "But we certainly don't mean to keep you from you other assignments, so if we can get started, that would be great."
"Certainly," replied Rybakov, turning to his computer and angling the monitor in the general direction of the two. "This is what I've got for you. It's not much, but hopefully it will answer some of your questions." A few keystrokes later, they were underway.
"O.K. About two, three weeks ago, Detective Preston came to me with the details of his first freezing case. That would have been about…" he bit his lip and knitted his eyebrows in concentration, "about the last week of February or so. As I recall, at the time the case was being dismissed as little more than an oddity. We had had a cold spell here in Cleveland and although records indicated that the first victim, Lev Sobiowski, had apparently had the heater on in his apartment, there was enough circumstantial evidence to suggest that he had simply gotten drunk, frozen to death in his apartment when he passed out, and that the EMTS turned on the heat when they got to the scene. Cops are supposed to secure crime scenes and watch out for that sort of thing, but EMTS don't necessarily care as much about criminological niceties as cops do." At this Mulder nodded. Been there, experienced that, hated every minute of it.
"In any case, I couldn't be very helpful. My organized crime sting was in full swing around that time and I was spending every waking moment with the Joint Crime Taskforce and the DA's people. I made some calls for him, helped translate a bit of testimony for Peterson, and that was about it." A couple more strokes of the keyboard and the Ohio Office of Criminal Justice Services website came up. Rybakov accessed his "Favorites" folder in the IE toolbar and quickly the browser flashed to a page that he had obviously book-marked in anticipation. Out of the monitor stared the sullen, gloomy mug of Lev Sobiowski, the picture pasted next to what was obviously a central criminal databank entry. It listed several addresses as well as a number of vital statistics as well as a partial rap sheet, although this stretched beyond the bottom edges of the screen and was not visible.
"As you can see here," continued Preston, rapidly scrolling down the screen, "there's nothing too interesting in his official record. Just your ordinary swindles, acts of vandalism, petty crimes, larcenies, and so forth. He was suspected in a number of more serious crimes and was thought to have connections with the Russian mob, but then again, that alone wasn't enough to single him out, a lot of people do. But, that was about it. Not too much to go on. I simply wished Preston good luck and got back to work. However-" the excitement in Rybakov's voice was unmistakable, "a couple days ago there was a new development."
Scully's eyebrows shot up in confusion.
"You mean the next victim?" Rybakov nodded.
"Exactly. At first it was little more than a curiosity to me. I mean, I'm a detective and interested in protecting the citizens of my city, but I really couldn't devote much more time to the investigation. But as you yourselves know, this time the circumstances were quite different. This second victim," again the mouse danced across the computer screen and in an instant the by-now familiar face of Piotyr Yumashev popped into view, along with a corresponding rap sheet, "was different."
Scully was taken aback for a moment. She hadn't really known what to expect, but the contrast between her mental image of the twisted, grimacing face of Yumashev's frozen corpse and the photograph of what he had looked like in real life caught her off guard for a moment. Quickly recovering, she glanced at Mulder and then back at the computer screen. If he had noticed her discomfort, he gave no sign, or at least, pretended not to notice. No matter, thought Scully.It would probably be more convenient for both of them to pretend he hadn't seem her momentary surprise, even if he had. It would avoid potentially frustrating accusations of weakness or over sensitivity on her part later on down the road. Not that that had ever really happened, she reminded herself, but they had come close enough on occasion. Too close for comfort, both on a professional, as well as on an emotional level.
"Although their rap sheets are both similar," resumed Rybakov, evidentially unaware of Scully's momentary consternation, "I couldn't help but notice one slight…similarity between the two. Care to take a guess?" Mulder, impatient to get on with the case, exhaled and looked directly at Rybakov with the expression generally reserved for assistants who were well-meaning but slow on the uptake. Rybakov got the hint.
"They both list the same place of employment at least once in their criminal history. Not simultaneously mind you, nor a specific occupation, but just an address. Considering the length of these rap sheets and the wealth of information they provide, it would be a pretty easy thing to miss."
"Let me guess," interjected Scully. "The address listed by the two suspects belongs to Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc. Correct?" Rybakov cocked his head.
"She's a sharp one, Agent Mulder," he teased. "I only wish my partner was half that perceptive." Mulder's lips twisted into a slightly humorous smirk. Rybakov continued.
"Actually, yes, but not Trans-Rus shipping per se. Rather, upon looking it up in the reverse address book we keep on file here, the number I called was for a place called Yuri's Pub and Grill."
"So, you're saying that these guys were both- what? Cooks or waiters, or bartenders at a local restaurant?" Mulder's voice carried a slight edge of optimism to it, as if coaxing Rybakov. Scully had heard that voice before. It was Mulder who, having finally settled on an acceptable framework for one of his scenarios, was desperately trying to get the facts to fit together.
"Well, they would be, if this were an ordinary restaurant. But you see, the thing is, despite the fact that I know for a fact the number was right, there was no answer. As far as the phone company could tell, the number was valid, but disconnected. Ipso facto, no phone was plugged in."
"Curiouser and curiouser," murmured Scully, borrowing her favorite line from Alice and Wonderland.
"Naturally, I was kind of curious as to what sort of pub would not only not be listed in a conventional phone book and would not have any telephones. So, I went to go take a look myself one afternoon. At first I thought I had the wrong address. It was just some anonymous building out on Pushkin street. Just another typical downtown building. It looked like it was in a reasonable state of repair: there was no graffiti, the locks and hardware were fairly new, but there were no lights on and the shades were drawn. As far as I could tell, it looked like the kind of place which is undergoing remodeling, only it was very clear that this place wasn't being remodeled."
"So I dug a little deeper. As it turns out, the place really is a bar and grill, but only unofficially. This Yuri guy runs the establishment, but it's only open at certain times and certain days of the week. Not exactly the kind of place you can just walk into off of the street, if you know what I mean."
"Sounds an awful lot like a prohibition-era speakeasy," said Mulder reaching into his shirt pocket absentmindedly looking for a few seeds to chew on. With no luck.
"In a lot of ways, Agent Mulder, that's exactly what it is. It doesn't have a food license, or a liquor license, or any kind of certification or regulation. As far as Yuri and the people running the bar are concerned, if the cops show up it isn't a bar, it's just one big private block party. You know, every couple days Yuri and 100 or so of his closest friends get together and shoot the breeze for a couple hours. Although make no mistake about it, they really are running the place like your ordinary booze and food joint. It's just that everyone knows it's actually run by the Russian mob and as such, they're not talking. Besides," he added, an exasperated, sad look that was neither pity nor anger, just weariness, crossing his face. "What can you do? Most of the Russian families in the area probably have a father or uncle or brother that goes there from time to time. The liquor is bound to be smuggled in from Canada or stolen so it's cheap, and it's a good place to meet people who can help with various…difficulties."
"That," sighed Rybakov, "brings us to our last victim: Oleg Adamovitch. At least this crackerjack was smart enough not to list himself as being employed for a nonexistent, mob-run restaurant. However, unlike the other two, we have more than enough dirt to link him definitively to Trans-Rus Shipping. Take for example-" two more quick clicks and a case file photo popped up on the computer screen, "-this little Pulitzer-worthy moment." The grainy black-and-white photo showed a thin, weasely man with slick black hair and big sunglasses in the process of kicking what could only be a downed man in the face on a city sidewalk, a grimace of pure rage contorting his face. In the background two uniformed patrol officers could be seen, nightsticks drawn, rushing towards the scene. "Here we have the good Mr. Adamovitch involved in some altercation with another member of the neighborhood, a local shop owner. Although the shop owner lost six teeth and required 18 stitches to the face and wasn't insured, he refused to press charges and also refused to admit for the record that he had been late in his protection money payments to the local mafia boss, a guy by the name of Sasha Khostov. However, off the record, he admitted as much. We have a lot on Adamovitch, both in terms of criminal activity and association. We know that he has been involved in liquor smuggling in the past, that he runs protection payments, and that he was close friends with the other two victims, Lev and Piotyr. That's enough of a connection to link the three to Yuri's pub and Tran-Rus Shipping."
"Unfortunately, we don't have a lot on Khostov. Recent Russian immigrant, he came to this country 10 years ago in the wake of the fall of the Soviet Union. Details are sketchy, but he was suspected of selling guns on the Soviet black market and of running elaborate scams involving social security payments to crippled veterans of the war in Afghanistan back in the 80s. He supposedly defrauded the Soviet government of millions." A new photo appeared. This time it was that of a large, tan, bull-necked man. He wore the thin web of red blood vessels across his face that was the mark of a conspicuous, unrestrained drinker. His thin black hair was combed over in a vain attempt to camouflage a prominent bald spot. He wore the wide grin of a man completely unconcerned with the details of life, despite the fact that he held a police mug shot board in front of his chest. In the back of his mouth, Mulder could make out several gold teeth.
"This is him under arrest back in '93. It's a well-known fact that he's had his hand in every pie that gets cooked up in the Cleveland underworld. He's big enough that he's become rich off of his criminal network and commands a lot of respect, but on the other hand he keeps a low profile as well. That way he can enjoy his fortune and live quietly while managing to avoid a similar fate as all those Italian mob bosses who were brought down back in the late 80s and early 90s."
"We've had him under arrest eight times on a variety of charges. Seven times the charges were dismissed for lack of evidence. The eighth time we thought we had him nailed on a conspiracy charge, but two weeks before the trial our key witness disappeared and he easily beat the rap. We're hoping that this most recent sting will perhaps be enough to encourage someone to cop a plea and rat out Khostov, but to be honest, we're not optimistic. And…" sliding the mouse across the stained gray foam mouse pad, he closed the several internet windows, leaving Scully and Mulder staring at a blue-green screen, "that's all folks."
A dense, leaden silence filled the third-floor office. Rybakov pulled his glasses off his face and dropped them on the desktop with a almost imperceptible sound. Closing his eyes, he began to massage the bridge of his nose where the glasses had left two angry red impressions. Looking over at Mulder, Scully saw him flip his notebook shut and glance over in her direction. She licked her lips and began to speak, but before she could get any words out, Rybakov broke the silence.
"Look, I know this isn't much to go on, but it's a start. No matter how strange this case may appear in terms of the details, the fact of the matter is that we now have three dead Russian mobsters in our precinct. Nothing goes on without Sasha Khostov knowing about it, and although you can try, something tells me he'll be very hard to find. Even if you do find him, he won't talk to you. He's a wanted man, after all, or at least, he will be soon enough, once we make our arrests and we get some of these suckers to cop a plea." His words were cheery, but his tone of voice made it very clear he was less than enthusiastic about his chances.
Nodding sympathetically, Scully noticed her partner return his pen to his shirt pocket and button his blazer. Sensing the movement, and perhaps understanding that his role in the investigation was complete, Rybakov opened his eyes and, replacing his glasses on his face, stood.
"Thank you very much for your help, Steve." Mulder wondered if his voice sounded as warm and encouraging as he hoped it was, but somehow he doubted it. The look on Rybakov's face, although not overtly sad, was clearly tired and melancholy. Somewhere, although where Mulder could not say for sure, the full weight of the man's profession had descended on him, crushing his optimism and the ardor he had displayed when he introduced himself. "I'm sure we'll be able to put this information to good use." Rybakov looked as though he were trying to smile.
"Not at all. I only wish I could do for you, Agent Mulder, Scully." There was an unmistakable, is heavily camouflaged, tone of regret in his voice.
"On the contrary." This time it was Scully's turn. "You've given us some good information. If we manage to make any headway in this case, we'll be sure to let you know."
"And inform Detective Preston of the service you've done us," chipped in Mulder.
"I'd like that," replied Rybakov, a genuine grin at last crossing his features again, lighting up his eyes and retracing the contours of his eyebrows. "But, I don't think that informing Preston will be necessary. I mean, you tell him that I've helped you out, the next thing I know he'll come gunning for me because I ended up being more useful in solving his own case than he was. So," snapping his fingers for comic effect, "I guess we're done talking here. Let's get to work," he continued in the harsh, gruff voice that was a perfect imitation of the big man's demeanor, prompting full-fledged grins from the two agents. "Take care," he said, extending his hand. And this time, when Mulder shook took his hand and shook it, he made sure to squeeze back.
To be continued...