Title - Decoding the Enigma
Authors - Amy Jonas and MagsRose
E-mail - or 2
2/20
Melvin Frohike drove around the streets of Washington, DC searching for someone. He knew the man was working that day and it should be a simple matter to locate him but after circling the neighborhood for the fifth time, Frohike was ready to give up.
Finally spotting the beat cop talking to one of the local prostitutes on a corner near his favorite coffee shop, Frohike pulled up to the curb. The prostitute stepped hopefully up to the car, saw who it was and, making a sour face, turned to the cop and said, "It's for you, Mulder."
"Don't be so sure, Crystal," the cop replied. "Some day he may want your services."
"That gnome?" Crystal laughed making fun of Frohike's short stature. "He says he's never paid for it in his life."
Frohike was in no mood for the usual banter. He reached over and opened the passenger door. "Get in, Mulder. We need to talk."
The cop obliged, pulling the door of the old Ford shut. "What's the scoop, Shamus?" Mulder asked amiably.
Frohike was often amazed at how cheerful Mulder always seemed to be. He'd been on the police force for years but never managed to get promoted beyond beat cop although Frohike knew that what the man truly desired was to be a detective.
Pulling out into traffic, Frohike said, "You know, Mulder, if you arrested the prostitutes instead of making friends with them, you might actually get that promotion you think you deserve."
"In a town full of politicians, these ladies have an important role to play," Mulder said in good-natured defense of his actions. "I'm helping them provide a vital service by making sure no one hassles them."
"Yeah," Frohike snorted, "and you don't seem to mind the free services they toss your way."
Mulder nodded. "I feel it's my duty to ensure the quality of their product."
Frohike smiled in spite of himself. Mulder always had that effect on him: made him forget his problems, at least for a short time. The man was such an incorrigible smart ass. He couldn't help but laugh at him.
"So what did you need to see me for, Frohike?"
"Molly Jennings…were you able to get any information on her for me? Do the police have any leads?"
"I tried but the chief found out I was asking around and told me to back off. He said I should mind my own business and that when and if I ever make detective, I can work on open cases."
"Damn him," Frohike swore. "Did you tell him I'd been hired to look into it?"
"Yeah, but he wasn't impressed."
Frohike shook his head. "I'll have to go talk to him myself. I don't know why he has to be so hard headed."
Mulder shrugged. "I guess he thinks it's his job."
Frohike pulled the car back up to the curb not far from where he'd picked up Mulder. "Thanks anyway, Bub," he said to the cop as he climbed out of the car.
"Good luck with the chief," Mulder said closing the door. "You're going to need it." He shouted as the car pulled away from the curb.
"It's an open case and I don't have to give you any information!" Police Chief Skinner was nearly shouting.
"Now, Walt…" Frohike began.
"And don't call me Walt!"
This angered Frohike. "You didn't mind me calling you that when we walked a beat together," he snapped. The correction of the name stung. Ever since Skinner made the rank of Chief, he had stopped passing Frohike information citing rules and regulations and procedure. It served to only make Frohike feel shut out from a life he had once loved and cherished.
"That was years ago," Skinner slung back. "The only time I see you now is when you want my help with something."
Frohike bit back the retort that sprung to his lips, remembering the reason he was here.
"This isn't for me! It's for the kid's parents. The police weren't making any progress so they asked me to look into it."
"There are sensitive politics involved in this job, Mel. I can't just give you police information whenever you ask."
"My God, Walt, the kid is only twelve years old."
When the Police Chief seemed unmoved, Frohike added, "She and Emma walked home from school together everyday. What if it had been Emma and not Molly?"
Skinner sat down behind his desk. Frohike knew the man well enough to understand that he was backing down from his hard-nosed stance.
"I'm sorry, Mel." Skinner shook his head. "It just makes us look bad when I have to tell you…" he paused, "that we have nothing. No leads…nothing." Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked worn out. He glanced up at Frohike standing on the other side of his desk. He pointed to a chair. "Have a seat."
"How much information did you get from her parents?" Skinner asked as he watched Frohike take off his coat to sit down.
"She never came home from school. Her parents talked to Emma and the other girls they walked with. They all said nothing out of the ordinary happened."
The Chief nodded. "We interviewed all the girls and got the same story and canvassing the neighborhood did no good either." Skinner sighed again. "It's like she just disappeared."
He continued, "Her parents were very unhappy when we had to ask them if they had considered the possibility that Molly had simply run away." He studied Frohike. "I'm willing to bet that's when they enlisted your help."
The private investigator nodded.
"It's been four days," Skinner went on. "The chances of finding her alive at this point are not very good." Skinner noted the pain in his friend's face at that comment. He knew how this type of case could get to Frohike.
"I need to go talk to everyone again," Frohike decided. "They may have remembered something new since your boys were out there." He stood up, shrugging into his coat and adjusting his fedora. "And, who knows. They may be more willing to talk to me seeing as I'm not a cop."
"It's worth a shot," Skinner agreed. "Do you have a photograph of her?"
Frohike pulled the picture of a smiling girl with light, curly brown hair out of his breast pocket and showed it to his friend. Skinner held up a similar one from the file open on his desk.
"Good luck then," he said. "Let me know what you find out or if you need any help."
"I will. Thanks."
Melvin Frohike missed the look of concern on his friend's face as he exited the office.
Jimmy adjusted his camera until the blurry image of Carla Mason came into focus. The reporter, a study of concentration amidst the commotion of the newsroom around her, tapped a pencil against her desk while staring intently at the copy she had just written. A stickler, she was never satisfied until she was confident her article was letter perfect. Whenhe was positive his picture would capture this aspect of her, he clicked the shutter.
Startled by the flash, Carla's head jerked up to see Jimmy heading toward her. "Not enough happening outside," she growled, "that you have to go around blinding reporters?"
Jimmy chuckled. He liked Carla. She played the hard-boiled reporter when in reality she was one of the nicest people around. She was also the best reporter the Gazette had. "They say this is where the news is at," he replied, "and since I go where the news is…"
Carla pointed her ever-present pencil toward the window. "The news begins out there," she said. "It just takes an overworked, underpaid reporter to bring it to the newsroom."
Grinning at her light teasing, Jimmy leaned against the edge of her desk. "Can I talk to you a minute?"
Carla gazed up at him. Something was bothering the normally jovial photographer. Her pencil tapped rhythmically. "Sure."
Jimmy set his camera down next to him. "I think I found a story the other day." He paused but, when Carla waited patiently for him to continue, he did. "You see, I was passing Ted Crabbitz's desk when his phone rang."
"You answered Ted's phone?" Carla's lips lifted in a bemused smile. No one touched anything on Ted Crabbitz AKA The Crab's desk without risking the prickly reporter's wrath.
"He's on vacation," Jimmy pointed out. "And I thought it might be important. So anyway it turns out to be this guy claiming he's a scientist. Said he was close to a big breakthrough. Something about codes and how he wanted people to know." Jimmy paused to glance at Carla. "I thought it sounded like a lead and told Jeffery Spender…"
"Spender the Lesser," Carla muttered in disgust.
It was no secret she disliked the man and thought he wouldn't know a story if Walter Winchell himself took Spender by the hand and led him to it. It was rumored Carla, after an explosive argument, was the one who started the nickname. It wasn't just Spender's distinct lack of a nose for news that bothered her but the smug, self-important way he flaunted his position as the publisher's son to bully the photographers and other reporters.
"He was real annoyed I answered Ted's phone," Jimmy said, "but he agreed to check it out with me."
"And?" Carla prompted.
"He said there was no story. That the guy was just a long-haired lunatic."
"What do you think?" Carla considered Jimmy a pretty good judge of character. He seemed to be empathic. His pictures always managed to find the soul of the subject he was photographing.
"He's…" Jimmy's brow furrowed, trying to think of a way to soften what he wanted to say.
"Don't be diplomatic," Carla urged. "Gut instinct. What do you think?"
"At first sight, he reminds you of one of those mad scientists who've been cooped up in a lab too long: skinny, long haired and rambling nonstop about bizarre theories and scratching out weird equations on a chalkboard. It'd be real easy to dismiss him as a nut. Once you get past that though, I think he's the real thing. Then there's his assistant. She's smart and…grounded. I'd believe her in a second if she was the one trying to convince me."
"She didn't try?" Carla's pencil did several quick taps.
"I couldn't read her too well. She was…" He paused, wondering about the feeling of pleasure he got when thinking about Yves Harlow. He couldn't explain his attraction to the woman at all. Maybe it was the Veronica Lake hairstyle, he thought. During his time in the lab she had barely spoken to him and when she did, he sensed she was tolerating his presence. "She was controlled," he decided.
"She was controlling the Professor?"
"No," he shook his head, frustrated. He had never been good with words but he wanted to get this right not only for Carla but himself.
He was failing miserably but he plunged on. "She was emotionally controlled. I got the impression she was unhappy and angry and concerned all at once. I don't think she agreed with his decision to call the paper."
"There could be dozens of reasons for that," Carla pointed out. "He may be jumping the gun on his research and she knows it. Assistants have a lot at stake but little input where decisions are involved. Maybe she knows his research is a dead end but he's invested a large chunk of his life on it and is desperate for validation."
"No." Jimmy shook his head, thinking about his conversation with Professor Langly. "No," he repeated more confidently. "It was nothing like that. I didn't understand most of the stuff he talked about but I believe it's real." He met Carla's eyes, hoping to convince her. "There's a story there."
"Professor Richard Langly and Yves Harlow." Jimmy watched in fascination when Carla closed her eyes, her pencil tapping quickly on the finished oak.
"Langly," She murmured softly. "The name sounds familiar but…" her eyes snapped open. "Show me the pictures you took of them."
"How do you know…" Jimmy began.
Carla held up his camera. "You're a photographer, Jimmy. Besides." She smiled at his sheepish expression as he took it from her. "You're never without your friend here."
Her phone rang. She held up a finger then answered the instrument. "Carla Mason; D.C. Gazette." She listened a moment then covered the mouthpiece. She looked up at him. "Jimmy, I'm going to be a while but I want to see those pictures."
"Thanks for listening, Carla. I owe you one."
She indicated his camera. "Give me a copy of the picture you took and we're even." She paused, obviously in thought, and then said, "Despite what I say about him, even Jeffery Spender is occasionally right. There might not be anything to this Professor Langly."
Jimmy nodded his understanding but she had already returned to her phone call, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.
Hanging his camera around his neck, he headed for the dark room. Jimmy decided he wouldn't let Carla's warning get him down. He trusted Carla; she was honest and would give him a straightforward, professional opinion unlike Spender who thought it was his mission to make everyone feel like dirt.
Jimmy opened the door to the storage room where the staff photographers kept their most recent pictures in rows of filing cabinets. There were two desks against one wall. These were often used to crop pictures or just hang out at while waiting for the dark room to become available.
Out of habit Jimmy checked the light above the door at the far end. There was a bright red glow indicating the dark room was in use. Whistling, he moved to a file cabinet and opened the second drawer. He flipped though the files but the envelope containing Professor Langly and Yves Harlow's pictures was missing.
He glanced at the letters in the small window on the front: L – M. It was the right section. The pictures should be there. He checked again just in case he missed it but they weren't there.
"Hey Jimmy. Why the long look?"
Jimmy glanced up to see Dylan Walsh stoop as he came out of the darkroom. Dylan was thin and at least 6 inches taller than Jimmy's own 6 foot 3 inch frame. He had red hair and freckles to match. "Hey, Dylan." Jimmy shot the files another frustrated glare. "Can't find some pictures I need."
Dylan glanced at the files. "A bunch of pictures were moved down to the morgue yesterday. Maybe they accidentally got mixed in."
"Maybe," Jimmy commented trying to remember when he'd filed them. He was sure he had put them away in the afternoon and the librarian normally came in the morning. He'd have to go down there and look. Thanks, Dylan."
He would have to tell Carla about the delay. He was thinking about this when he entered the bullpen and discovered her desk vacant.
"Hey, Lenny." Jimmy stopped a passing copyboy. "You know where Carla is?"
"She…"
"She's meeting a source," Jeffery Spender cut in. Lenny glanced at Jimmy, rolled his eyes and walked away quickly. "Working," Spender the Lesser continued, "which is more than I can say for you, Bond."
"I was getting some photographs Carla asked me for," Jimmy defended himself. It wasn't a lie. Carla had asked to see the pictures.
Spender's lips slashed into a scowl. "I heard how you went to Mason with your wild theories, wasting her valuable time."
Great. Jimmy wondered who had gone to Spender then realized belatedly no one did. The bullpen was an open area. Spender probably saw them talking.
"Leave the reporting to the reporters and do your job," Spender ordered. "That is if you're still interested in keeping your job." He let the threat hang in the air.
"I am," Jimmy said quickly, hating Spender's self satisfied smile.
"Good." He handed a piece of paper to Jimmy. "A call just came in about a bank job. The robber is holed up in the vault with hostages. Cavanaugh is screaming for a photographer to get there as soon as possible."
Jimmy glanced at the address. "This is an hour away," he said incredulously.
Spender smirked. "Then you better drive fast."
"But we could call a freelance photographer in the area," Jimmy objected. "By…"
Spender's smiled disappeared. "Just…get...down there." He turned to leave but stopped, looked up at Jimmy, obviously enjoying what he was about to say. "Oh, and Bond? You get a speeding ticket, it comes out of your paycheck."
Frohike turned from the closing door of a house down the street from where the Jennings family lived. The houses in this neighborhood were small but well maintained. White picket fences with flowers at their bases adorned most of the front yards. Small dogs and the occasional larger one barked at Frohike from behind various gates.
It was along this street that Molly walked home alone the last few blocks after saying goodbye to her friends. He wasn't having any luck. Most people were hesitant to talk to him since they had already spoken to the police. And those who did talk to him had nothing substantial to add to what he already knew.
Some offered their own private theories as to what happened to Molly. But most complained about neighbors they didn't like or trust for some reason. He listened to them and took notes but knew that these petty disagreements were not doing him any good. He was looking for something out of the ordinary not whose dog barked too loudly all night or which yard was not as well cared for as the others.
He glanced at his watch. He had time to talk to at least one more person before he had to head back to the office for his three o'clock appointment. He scanned the other houses on the block for those that appeared to have someone home. He thought he'd caught movement in the window of the house across the street. He observed a hand slowly pulling back the curtains for a better view.
Frohike adjusted his hat to hide his grin. "The neighborhood busybody," he thought. "Just what I've been looking for."
As he crossed the road, he saw the curtains fall back into place.
An elderly woman answered his knock. "Yes?" she said in a voice that betrayed her age.
"Hello ma'am. My name is Melvin Frohike." He showed her his identification. "I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by the Jennings family, your neighbors from a couple of blocks down."
"Is that the family that lost their daughter?"
"Yes, do you know them?"
"I read about it in the paper but I've never met them."
Frohike reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his picture of Molly. "I'm talking to everyone who lives on this street in the hopes that someone saw her the afternoon she disappeared." He showed the woman the picture.
She took it from him and, holding the picture at arms length, she squinted at it. "Oh, I can't see anything up close without my glasses." She held the door wider. "Why don't you come in and sit down while I get them?"
Frohike did as he was bidden. The woman's house was hot, stuffy and full of knickknacks and lace doilies. He half expected to see far too many cats but the woman did not seem to have any pets at all. The tables, walls and fireplace mantel were covered with old photographs: many of them appeared to have been taken before the turn of the century.
With a fire burning briskly in the fireplace, he was forced to remove his coat and hat. He glanced at the arrangement of the furniture and sat in a chair that was strategically placed in front of the big picture window that looked out over the street. On the small table next to it, he found a half empty cup of tea. He touched the side of the cup. It was still warm.
Frohike stood as the woman came back into the room. She was wearing her reading glasses, which gave her an owlish appearance. "Now, where is this photograph you wanted me to look at?"
He handed the picture to her. She studied it carefully nodding. "I know this girl. She walks by here most days." She handed the picture back to Frohike.
"Did you see her late in the afternoon four days ago?"
The woman thought for a minute. "Yes, I believe I did."
Finally, Frohike thought, a lead!
"Did you notice anything unusual on this particular day?"
"Yes, I did." Frohike took out a notebook to jot down some notes. "I saw the little girl walking down the other side of the street. When she got to the corner, a car stopped and a man got out and started talking to her. After a little while, she got into the car with him and they drove away."
Frohike couldn't believe the police missed this. The woman continued. "And you know, I recognized the man, too."
"You did?" Frohike asked in excitement. "Who was he?"
"That man from the movies. You know, the one with the funny mustache that always carries a cane."
"Charlie Chaplin?" Frohike offered, his enthusiasm fading.
"Yes!" the woman said smiling. "That's him!"
Even though he figured he was probably wasting his time, Frohike decided it couldn't hurt to be thorough. "Tell me about the car."
"Oh, it was a big, fancy car. The tires were all white on the sides."
"Was it a Packard?"
"I couldn't say, dear. I don't know one car from the next."
Frohike had one more question before he left. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I didn't get your name."
"Mrs. Mildred Patterson." Frohike jotted this down.
"Thank you very much for your time," he said heading for the door.
"I hope you find the little girl," said the woman.
"I hope so, too. Thanks again."
Frohike walked quickly back to his car. He needed to talk to Police Chief Skinner to see if his boys had spoken to this woman. He glanced at his watch.
But first he had to call Maggie and cancel that three o'clock appointment. Even though this was a weak lead, it was a lead. If there was any chance that Molly was still alive, he had to act on it immediately.
"What do you mean, he's not coming?" the client asked.
"That was Mr. Frohike on the phone just now," Maggie explained smoothly. Her southern accent often had a calming affect on irate clients, which is why she never worked to get rid of it when she moved to DC. "He's very sorry but he won't be able to make it. He asked me to reschedule you for tomorrow." Flipping open her appointment book, Maggie picked up her pencil and held it poised over the page. "Will 10:00 a.m. work?"
The man was obviously displeased but seemed to shake off his frustration and smiled sweetly at the secretary.
"That will be fine," he said. "I'll see you then."
Maggie watched him leave, glad to be rid of him. Something about him didn't sit right with her. He was pleasant enough, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this was only on the surface, that something much more insidious lurked beneath that façade.
She glanced back down at her appointment book and carefully noted his name and the time he was due to return: Morris Fletcher - 10 a.m.
