Chapter Five
The Lone Gunmen Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
April 23rd, 2001, 5:16 p.m.
Doggett made three knocks at the door and gave Reyes a quick once over. "Mulder said they were afraid of me. Is that possible?" he asked her.
"Who, the Gunmen? They can't be too scared of you. I mean, they called you over here, didn't they?" As the multitude of locks began to be opened, he motioned her attention to the door.
"Then how come they have all those locks?" The door opened, and Frohike stood aside.
"To keep those predators that run our defenses and pretend to protect our country out," he remarked as Doggett and Reyes passed him.
"What's up, Agent Doggett, Agent Reyes?" Langly greeted his friends with a smile so large, it made the two of them give him a double take. But his positive attitude was not the only thing that had changed; he had taken a pair of scissors to his long locks and trimmed his hair into a fashionable coif. He still wore his 'Ramones' t-shirt and trademark noire glasses, though.
"Wow," Reyes giggled her approval. "Why the change from scruffy to trendy, Langly?"
Before Langly could answer, Frohike ushered them towards his desktop. "Let's just say that Langly's noticed the difference between boys and girls."
Byers sat in the chair facing the computer and spun around. "Hello. Mulder told us that you needed more information before you could start your investigation. So we wrote to the Pretender this morning-"
"Excuse me, the what?" Doggett interrupted him.
"The Pretender. That's what this guy does, and that's what we've decided to call him so we can print up his discoveries in our newspapers."
"But from what he's sent us so far, we think his name is Jarod," Frohike continued.
"I don't quite follow, either," Reyes remarked.
"A picture's worth a thousand words, Agents," Byers held up a finger while he opened up a video file. "Just watch this."
A young boy perhaps ten years old was strapped into a leather bucket seat. Multiple pieces of machinery surrounded him, and he appeared to be very stressed. "Jarod Apollo I simulation," a man's voice stated off camera.
"The first warning is a flash. A spark ignites in the pure oxygen capsule!" Jarod exclaimed as flames appeared around his chair. "I try to flee, but I can't. I'm strapped in." The boy began a struggle against his seatbelt. "I know the escape procedure, but the fire, it's too hot!"
The fire grew more intense, and Jarod panicked. "It cuts into our air lines. I try not to breathe, but it's too late. I can't open the hatch. I can't open the hatch!" He bucked against the straps and his eyes conveyed fear.
"It's too hot, I, I can't think! No one can get to us! We can't be saved! I'm burning, I'm burning!" His terrified cries caused the man to run into the room and show himself to the camera.
"Jarod, I'm here, it's all right!" The flames around the Pretender died down, and he commenced to calm down.
"No one could save them. It was impossible," Jarod finally announced.
"So what do you think?" Byers asked Doggett, who had been chewing his bottom lip.
"He did simulations of real events? Why?"
"This organization forced him to for the majority of his childhood and some of his adult life," Frohike said and offered Reyes a seat, which she gladly accepted. "He also created some simulations, that unfortunately, were used to cause catastrophes."
"I bet that's why he left. What happened, did they let him go?" Reyes inquired to Byers, who shook his head no.
"He ran away five years ago," he responded. "This poor guy has been on the run ever since."
"They want him back," Doggett nodded. "He was probably their biggest moneymaker."
"Simply put, yes. They're still running in operations; according to the Pretender, their shares in the stock market have taken a spill since he left. However, he noticed, that they have been making money more recently with pharmaceuticals and defense contracts to countries hostile to the U.S., such as Libya and North Korea."
"Let's get this information on a disc."
"Wait a minute. Just whom will you be giving it to?" Langly queried Doggett and walked over to the others.
"Our superior, Deputy Director Kersh, who will then forward it to the Organized Crime Section," Doggett told them truthfully.
"Aren't you going to be investigating the Centre?" Byers wondered.
"Of course. We'll be involved," Reyes assured him. "You know you can trust us, John."
"Yes, but...-"
"Kersh isn't the most trustworthy boss I've had, I'll admit. But he can keep a secret, that's for sure, and he seemed genuinely interested in what this place is all about," Doggett stated and pointed to one of the monitors.
"Then why is he giving it to another department?" Frohike accused him. "Doesn't he think his own agents can handle the case?"
"It isn't truly an X-File--it's more of a case of treason and racketeering."
"Look, we weren't crazy about Mulder taking this information to the FBI at first, and now that you're palming it off to some other department, it's very tempting to stop right here and say no," Byers' brow furrowed.
"It's the best we can do for now, damnit!" Doggett finally lost his temper and smashed his fist onto the desk. The Gunmen retreated about three steps back from him. As he realized what he had done, he lowered his fist and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's been a long while since Kersh has actually said 'yes' to a case for us, and I'm tired of being hired to chase after some punk drug dealers all the time. I used to do that as a cop; and I'm beginning to ask myself what I'm doing here as an FBI agent if I can't bring people to justice."
"Will you be sending the disc or bringing it straight to Kersh?" Langly was the first one to say something after their moment of thought.
"I'll be the one placing it in his hands tonight--I'm meeting him for a drink later," Doggett informed them. "Monica, will you be coming?"
"Sorry, John, but going back to a bar too soon will probably tempt me to light up. But let me know what your plans are, okay?" He agreed and patted Byers on the shoulder.
"Good, now what about that disc?"
"It'll be done in two minutes," Byers replied and transferred his eyes back to the screen.
Indianapolis Police Department South Precinct, Indianapolis, Indiana
April 23rd, 2001, 7:02 p.m.
Scully parked the Chrysler a block away and trudged into the station alone. There had been a time when someone had been there to open the door and chivalrously guide her in with his hand on the small of her back. But since Mulder was not a part of the law enforcement community any longer, he could not go with her to the station to question a suspect. It saddened and angered her that the FBI would just throw away one of their most prized investigators like yesterday's garbage. Well, according to Kersh, Mulder was a waste. If only they had had a higher ally. Matheson was no longer a senator, and no one in the Consortium was interested in Mulder's career any more.
At least Detective Cooper seemed like a decent guy--hopefully his attitude would not change when he was alone simply with her. He phoned Scully an hour ago and let her know that through a great deal of combing, he'd managed to pick up Vanessa's dealer--a man by the name of Everett Campbell. Scully reached the reception desk, flashed her badge, and was directed towards interrogation room number three. Campbell did not look like a stereotypical drug dealer; he was dressed in a very finely cut suit and to any other Joe on the street, he could have appeared to be a stock broker.
At that precise moment, Cooper was grilling him like a piece of salmon. Campbell's face did not flinch once; he was as cool as a cucumber and seemed bored throughout the whole ordeal. Scully remained outside patiently as Cooper fumed. He must have seen her; he instantly shut his mouth and left the room. "You wanna talk to him?" he asked Scully, who shook her head.
"What'd you find out about him?"
"He works the 'burbs selling designers as well as street shit. You sure you don't wanna ask him something? I'm not sure of what else to quiz him on, and he probably wouldn't be much of a Trivia Pursuit whiz."
"How'd you find out he was Walsh's dealer?"
"Picked him up for running a red light and found his stash. Then I saw her name on a list of houses he goes to visit. His cover story was real original--a vacuum door-to-door salesman."
"What else?"
"That's it. He won't say anything else."
"Has he got a history on file here?"
"Sure--he's only been in town for a year, and he's got three D.U.I.s, two assault charges, and one moving violation. Quite an exemplary driving record."
"How about other cities?"
"I didn't check--I figured these were enough sins to condemn him," Cooper shrugged.
"Where was he picked up each time?"
"Well, Agent Scully..." The detective's eyes skimmed over the case file he held in his hand and lit up five seconds later. "All in the same neighborhood, right outside of Dilvo."
"Dilvo?"
"Yeah, as suggestive as the name is minus one letter, the club is known for its sensual music and style. I hear that he DJ mixes topless from time to time. It gets so packed that you can barely move without rubbing against someone every two feet. But that's the way that the club was designed--it was put into very tight quarters. I guess someone liked the smell of human perspiration. What a perfect place to sell at night."
"Something tells me he wasn't just selling X and those other drugs. Look at him. He's no common thug--most of them would be telling you to "f" off or demanding to speak with a lawyer right away," Scully observed. "No dealer is stupid enough to only sell at one club. Tell me, when he was arrested the other times, did he have 'a stash' on him as well?"
"Well...um...according to this, only one other time. But it was such a minimal amount that we couldn't hold him for long. What're you thinking, Agent Scully?"
"Do we still have the impounded car?"
"Yeah, but it's already been searched."
"What other items were found?"
He clicked his tongue up against the roof of his mouth and brought out his notebook. "A dozen needles or so--either clean or used. And then one really weird lookin' one--it had a spring stiletto attached to it."
Scully's eyes narrowed as he finished his last sentence. "Did you say a stiletto?"
"So I did. But I don't see-"
"Get it. That's going to be our trump card."
"Just tell me what you're trying to prove first."
"I'm trying to link up the evidence to catch Vanessa Walsh's killer. In a sense, Mr. Campbell was aiding and abetting."
"Okay. I don't exactly see where you're going with this, but you sure seem to know what you're doing." Cooper placed the notebook back into his breast pocket and turned on his heel. "I'll be right back. You want a coffee?"
Scully was temporarily stunned; this hadn't happened to her in a long while. A male member of local law enforcement was showing her the respect she'd worked so hard to deserve, and he was a gentleman. "Yes, please," she replied quietly. He must still live with his mother.
Five minutes later, Detective Jacob Cooper reappeared with a styrofoam cup of piping hot coffee and the stiletto needle inside of an evidence bag. "Thank you very much, Detective." Scully reached for the weapon and walked assertively to the door of the interrogation room. Her hand moved to the knob, and she cocked her head towards him. "Are you coming?"
"I'll let you work your magic from here, Agent Scully. Don't worry, I can still hear you."
She nodded and strolled into the enclosed room. Campbell had been twiddling his thumbs on top of the table, and they suddenly ceased as she haplessly tossed the bag onto the table. "I assume by your actions that you know what this is," Scully commented and stayed a safe distance from the drug dealer in the shadows.
He kept mute but removed his handcuffed hands from the tabletop.
"Now, what would you, a crummy cheap crook, be doing with a piece of technology whose genesis isn't from this planet?" After receiving no reply, she went on. "So they scared you into silence. How much is your life worth, Mr. Campbell?"
"What the hell kind of cop are you?" he snarled.
Aha. Humpty Dumpty's taken the fall.
"One that can protect you if you start talking."
"These people would find a needle in a haystack."
"And what do you think would happen to you if they discovered that you were incarcerated? I doubt that they'd send you any letters." Damn, this coffee's too hot.
"You've got nothin' on me."
"According to Detective Cooper, you were found with enough X to supply an entire upscale, middle-class neighborhood. That's at least fifteen years."
Campbell immediately shut his mouth and stared at the floor.
"Now, we can deal with this in two ways, Mr. Campbell." Scully began to circle him and the table slowly. "You have the right to speak with an attorney, and we'll provide you with one. But don't count on a good defense, since you were caught red-handed with illegal stimulants and a moving violation with a hefty rap sheet. Or you can simply 'spill the beans' to me here and now, and I'll make sure that you're off of their radar...permanently."
"Yeah, well, what's your partner got to say about it, lady? Since he was the one that busted me, I think it'd be his decision."
Scully eased some of the coffee down her throat and set the cup down across from him. It was still a little too hot to be gulped.
"And just what kind of connections do you got that they ain't, lady?"
She stopped pacing in her circle and sat down. "The federal kind." She withdrew her identification and held it up in the light.
"A g-bitch? Or lemme guess--you're a dyke. Real nice pickings they got up in D.C., I hear. You ever do mud wrestling?"
Scully rarely let down her professional mask, but every once and a while, someone could rub her the wrong way. And unfortunately, Everett Campbell had chosen to do so. She nonchalantly picked up the scalding java and threw it into his face. He reeled back and screamed painfully. As Campbell's hands reflexively went to nurse his wound, Scully grabbed one by the thumb and jerked it to the side. "You bitch!" he yelped.
"I'll fix the dislocation if you apologize," she told him calmly.
"I ain't sayin' shit! And I want my lawyer! Police brutality!"
"You should've thought of that before."
"Police brutality!"
"Try it a little more slowly. I think they almost heard you enough to care."
Campbell was about to shout again, but this time, he gave her a bitter glare. "You know, they say that the most important but least appreciated finger is the thumb. Have you ever tried to function without one for a day?"
"I'm sorry," he grunted and stretched out his forearms for her to reach.
"Tell me everything else now," Scully soothed and snapped the thumb back into place.
"I was working one night outside of Dilvo's last week, and this woman approached me. She was dressed kind of like you, so I thought at first that she was, you know, a high class hooker or something lookin' to fix for the night." "Did she have blonde hair?"
"Yeah, I think so, with blue eyes. But she pulled me aside and gave me that thing," he motioned to the evidence bag with his eyes. "Then she told me to prick some people's ears with it, and that if I did, there'd be some heavy dough in it for me. I told her to piss off at first, but when she showed me a fat wad of cash in that envelope, I gave in."
"How many people did you get?"
"I dunno. I just kept doing it until all the black shit inside of it was gone. The club was packed from wall to wall, so I can't say for sure."
"Then what happened?"
"It took me about ten minutes. I went back out for a smoke and a breather. She came back and told me to keep my mouth shut. And next week, she wants to do it again."
"What day did she approach you, Friday?"
"Yeah, that sounds about right. Now what do you got for me?"
"For now, Detective Cooper will probably show you your suite for the night. I need to speak with my superiors before we can remove you from Indianapolis' custody."
"What the hell, bitch! You promised me immunity!"
"You don't listen very well, Mr. Campbell. I said that I could provide you with the means to disappear; I didn't say that I would."
Campbell balled up his fists and slammed them onto the table. "You're gonna pay for double crossing me, you dyke! You violated my civil rights, too!"
Scully arose slowly and stared him down. "It's funny how little people seem to care for a drug dealer's rights. Do you know what scum is, Mr. Campbell?"
"Screw you."
"It's a filmy layer of extraneous or impure matter that forms or rises to the surface of a liquid or body of water. Not even animal plankton, which is basically the lowest creature of the food chain, will eat it. Consider yourself as part of that phylum until further notice." With that, she turned and left the room. Cooper was still there drinking his coffee and leaned up against the window. As Scully eyed his beverage, he gulped down the rest of it quickly.
"I'd offer to get you another one, but I'm kind of wondering if it'll end up burning me as badly as it did him," he gestured to Campbell with his head.
Scully managed to force a smile at Cooper; she still wasn't sure about his character yet.
"So who's the blondie?" he asked and broke her train of thought.
"Hmm?"
"Who's the blonde woman you were talking about in there?"
Two police officers opened the door and led the silent drug dealer away. "A felon that needs to be brought to justice."
"Can I have a name? I'll put out an APB for her if you'd like."
"She's too high up on the ladder to be caught and tried for her crimes."
"Okay, well, what's her relationship to us, then? Can we stop her?"
"I hope so, but I'm not sure."
Cooper ran a hand over his face slowly, and she picked up annoyance from his body language but said nothing. Instead, Scully turned and pulled out her cell phone. "What're you doing?" he demanded.
"If I'm going to remain in Indianapolis for a while, I'd better ask to stay. I wasn't originally here on a case; Dr. Verne and I just stumbled upon the bodies yesterday."
"Wait a minute," he barked as her fingers traveled over the buttons. She gave him a sharp glare. "What kind of charges do you want to press against Campbell?" his tone weakened.
"For now, I think all you've got to go on are those drugs and running a red light. That stiletto technically is a murder weapon, but I don't think even if we manage to convince a judge or grand jury to admit it into evidence that we could get him for anything more."
After years of being the green agent, the thought suddenly occurred to her that she had taken up Mulder's old role, and Cooper was in her shoes from years ago. The fact that she was a woman in the senior position made her feel slightly uncomfortable, and this man wasn't giving her any trouble. He seemed to be very supportive, but yet he wasn't questioning her actions at all. He didn't even flinch when she had earlier mentioned the stiletto's source to be from another planet. Cooper had shown up to the eastern morgue not long after Jarod had reported it to the police--and since he was alone, she became even more suspicious. Was he involved in the Consortium's affairs? It was too soon to tell.
"All right, then I'll process him through the system while you're doing that. And your partner was right," Cooper informed her.
"About what?"
"The man's body was stolen from the west side morgue, too. Got any suspicions?"
"Actually, yes, but more like a...a premonition," Scully responded thoughtfully.
"Tell me."
"Well, something never sat right with me when Dr. Verne and I were about to start that autopsy. You know how important it is to refrigerate a body, right?"
"You're the doc, so you'd know more than me," he shrugged.
"And one would think that a deputy coroner would understand how important it is to preserve the body for latent evidence."
"Maybe the DC's a rookie."
"No...not even a greenhorn medical examiner would do that. Perhaps an assistant would forget, but that's not the case here. O'Shaungnessy's body was left out purposely in the open to decay all night. And perhaps there was another reason, too, but I'm just not sure right now."
"You think the deputy medical examiner was involved in the theft of the bodies?"
"Like I said, it's more of a conjecture at this point." "Well, it's a pretty damned good one. I'll call forensics and head out with them to the western morgue to do a more extensive look at the crime scene." The detective crushed the styrofoam cup in his fist and dumped it into a trash bin. He recovered his suit coat from his nearby desk and shrugged himself into it.
"Detective Cooper?"
"Yeah?" Cooper was distracted with his holster for the moment; it was caught on his jacket's lining.
"Could I have your department's cooperation even though I have no jurisdiction yet?"
"Of course. I said I'd help you," he grunted and jerked the holster away finally.
"I'd like to request some data on the victims, if you please, and...some information about Chief Coroner Verne."
"What do you want?"
"Anything available...for my partner's speculation, please."
"Sure, just flash your badge at reception, tell her what you need, and mention my name in the same sentence. Oh, and uh, can I ask you a question?"
"All right."
"I've never heard of an FBI agent being partnered with a psychologist before. Just how often does the Bureau do that?" Cooper motioned with his head that he was leaving, and she accompanied him on his way out.
"He was an FBI agent once."
"Hmm...I see. So he really doesn't have anything to do with them anymore?"
Scully's refusal to reply was enough of an answer.
"Right. Sgt. Riker, this is Special Agent Scully. She's working with me on a murder case; give her anything she needs, please," he ordered the woman at the desk. "I'll keep you in the loop with whatever we find."
"Thank you, Detective," Scully responded graciously and turned to Riker.
"What can I help you with, ma'am?" Riker inquired and leaned her weight onto the bureau before her.
Scully withdrew a notepad, tore off a sheet, and wrote furiously onto it for a few seconds.
"Whatever information you have available on these three subjects."
"Are you in a rush?"
"I'll be needing it soon," she said and checked her wristwatch. Mulder would be expecting her in half an hour. "I have fifteen minutes. Oh, and one question."
"Yes?"
"Where's Detective Cooper from? South Africa?"
"New Zealand, actually. He's a Kiwi," Riker responded and left.