Chapter 3/20

In the Police Chief's office, Frohike ran through his notes, telling Skinner what the woman had told him.

"I'm sorry, Mel. But this lead is a dead end."

"You've talked to this old lady?"

"More often than we'd like." When Frohike said nothing, Skinner went on. "She calls here once or twice a month. I send my boys out there and it's always some crazy thing. She sees famous people on every dark corner."

"But what if she's right this time."

"Do you honestly believe Molly was kidnapped by Charlie Chaplin?"

"No, but what if it was someone who looked like him?"

"You're grasping at straws, Mel," Skinner said not wanting his friend to waste time on a dead end. "Last month she said she saw Jimmy Stewart breaking into her neighbor's house. I sent a patrol car out there and there was no sign of a break in or Mr. Stewart."

Frohike thought for a moment. "So, even if there was a man there, you'd have no idea what he looked like."

The Police Chief was becoming more and more frustrated with the conversation. "I'm telling you, Mel, this woman is not playing with a full deck. Last week she swore she saw the President himself sitting in a parked car down the street."

"And was it?"

"Was what?" Skinner asked shaking his head.

"Was it President Roosevelt?"

"Of course not!" Skinner replied with more irritation than he'd planned. "It was just a man waiting for his wife who was visiting a friend. The friend wouldn't let him smoke his cigarette in her house so he was smoking out in the car."

"Was the man wearing glasses?"

"What difference does it make?"

It was Frohike's turn to express irritation. "Just tell me if the man wore glasses!"

"I have no idea," said Skinner, waving a dismissive hand in the private detective's direction.

"Can you find out?"

"I think you've wasted enough of the Police Chief's and this department's time," said a voice from behind Frohike.

Turning, Frohike was not surprised to see District Attorney Byers standing in the doorway.

"What do you want, Byers?" Frohike asked with more than a little scorn in his voice.

"Is this an open case you're with which you're interfering?" the DA asked. Frohike said nothing. He calmly folded his arms across his chest and met the other man's scowl with one of his own.

Seeing that he was not going to get an answer from the PI, Byers turned to face Skinner expecting an answer from him.

"He's been hired by the Jennings family to help find their missing daughter."

"You mean he's preying on their fears to get money out of them." Byers turned his scorn on Frohike. "I'd bet that, in their desperation, it didn't take much convincing to get them to pay you a hefty fee on the false promise that you could find their little girl alive. Did you make them pay the money up front?"

Skinner came out from behind his desk, worried how Frohike might respond to such an allegation. He stood facing DA Byers but kept his body between the two men. "Did you come here on business, Mr. Byers?"

"My business is with you, not with this conman," said Byers. "And I suggest he leave before I charge him with obstruction of justice or, at the very least, loitering."

Boiling at the unfounded accusations, Frohike grabbed his coat off the back of the chair where he'd dropped it and brushed past the DA to exit the office. "I'll talk to you later, Walt," he called over his shoulder. Frohike left police headquarters without turning back to see what reaction his words elicited from the District Attorney.

Stopping at the watch commander's desk, Frohike asked if Officer Mulder was on duty. Checking his log, the desk sergeant confirmed that the beat cop had just come in from his patrol. Frohike headed for the locker room to talk to him.

Wednesday, September 25, 1940

Frohike arrived at his office early the next morning. He had spoken to Maggie the previous evening and she had expressed her concerns about this new client. Frohike wanted to get there before the man arrived.

Maggie was already at her desk. "Good morning, Melvin," she said cheerfully. She was relieved to see him. She knew how involved he was with the Molly Jennings case and was afraid she might have to reschedule the new client for a third time and Maggie didn't care to see how the man would react.

"Good morning," he said with less enthusiasm. "Did I get any phone calls?" He was hoping to hear from Mulder.

"Just Mrs. Jennings."

Frohike took the slip of paper out of Maggie's hand. The desperate mother called at least twice a day hoping for news. "I'll call her right now," the private investigator said as he headed for the inner office.

Maggie watched him shut the door. She could see his shadow against the frosted glass as he moved around his desk. After a few minutes, she heard his muffled voice as he talked to the worried mother. Maggie knew that these phone calls were not easy for Frohike and that each passing day made it more difficult to offer the parents any hope of finding their precious child alive.

When it became obvious that he was no longer on the phone, Maggie poured Frohike a cup of black coffee and brought it in to him. She stood holding the steaming cup until he looked up at her from his newspaper. She set the coffee on the desk. Frohike picked it up and took a sip of the hot beverage. "Thanks," he said.

"Mr. Fletcher's appointment is at 10 a.m." Maggie reminded him unnecessarily.

"Yes, I know."

Maggie continued to stand by Frohike's elbow. This unusual behavior pulled Frohike's attention away from Carla Mason's daily update on Molly's disappearance in the D.C. Gazette. "What is it, Maggie?"

"This new client…" her hesitant reply was cut off by the sound of their outer office door opening.

They both turned to look toward the door not really surprised to hear a familiar voice.

"Where the hell is everybody? This is no way to run a business. I could be robbing you blind out here!"

Maggie stepped out to the reception area. "Hello, Officer Mulder," she said with a smile.

"I've been meaning to ask," Mulder said coming to lean on Maggie's desk where she had settled, "when are you going to let me take you away from all of this?"

"I keep telling you, Mulder, you're not my type." Maggie got up to open a drawer in the file cabinet to ostensibly look for something thereby dismissing the police officer. Mulder did notice the small smile that refused to stay hidden as she sorted through the files.

He took this for encouragement. He stepped up beside her. "There was a time when you found my company more than a little agreeable."

"That was a long time ago, " Maggie replied not taking her eyes off her work. "I've learned a lot more about you since then."

Knowing he was in grave danger of getting his face slapped for what he was about to do, Mulder reached behind her head and pulled the pencil out of her hair, letting the wavy, blond mass fall around her face.

"Fox!" Maggie said in a soft voice so her boss wouldn't hear. She didn't move away from him though. Instead, she turned to face him fully. Mulder straightened a lock of hair that was caught up under the rest but his attention was focused elsewhere. "You have the deepest brown eyes I think I've ever seen."

Maggie smiled fully then, a smile meant only for him. Mulder grinned back hoping he didn't look like an idiot in doing so. He angled his head closer. He could feel her breath on his face. He took her exhaled breath into his lungs relishing the smell of her.

Maggie's smile softened, her eyelids closing part way.

"Mulder!" Frohike said from his office. "Quit flirting with my secretary and get in here."

Mulder jerked upright sighing in exasperation. Maggie turned away from him, sitting once again at her desk. She expertly wound up her hair, replacing the pencil.

Damn it, thought Mulder. It had been months since she'd let him get that close but the moment was ruined.

"You don't know how good you've got it, Frohike," Mulder said slipping back into his usual role of smart-ass. "A beautiful woman like this at your beck and call."

Maggie snorted, playing her part. "He doesn't pay me enough to be at his beck and call."

"You're still here, Sugar, that's saying a lot," the police officer noted.

"MULDER!" Frohike shouted.

"All right, all right. Keep your shirt on."

Mulder came into Frohike's office shutting the door behind him.

"Did you get the information?" the private investigator asked.

"Yeah." Mulder pulled out a folded paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Frohike.

Unfolding it, Frohike was shocked to note, "This is the original report!"

The police officer shrugged. "I didn't have time to copy it all so I just pinched it."

Frohike scanned the incident report searching for a description of the perpetrator. "Here it is and I was right: he was wearing glasses."

"What are you talking about?"

"The man in the car outside Mildred Patterson's house did wear glasses. He was sitting in the car, smoking a cigarette and he wore glasses. He was in his late 50s and was balding. She said it was President Roosevelt but she was mistaken. He just looked like the President to an old woman who describes people in terms of whatever celebrity they look the most like."

Mulder pushed his hat back on his head. "So, what does this have to do with anything?"

"This same Mrs. Patterson says she saw little Molly Jennings get into a car with Charlie Chaplin. Skinner has dismissed this as the ramblings of a crazy, old woman."

"So, we need to arrest Charlie Chaplin?"

"Don't be an idiot. We need to find a man who looks like Charlie Chaplin, possibly carries a cane and drives a big fancy car with white wall tires."

Mulder nodded. "Let me check around and see what I can find." He rose to leave.

He paused at the outer office door with his hand on the knob. "I'm not doing anything tonight, Maggie. You game?" He said this jokingly but he had to admit, he wished she'd take him up on the offer.

Before she had a chance to answer, Mulder had to jump back as the door was pushed open. He moved out of the way to let the man in. They stood considering each other for a moment.

"Melvin Frohike, the private investigator?" the balding, barrel-chested man asked.

"No, Fox Mulder, the police officer," the uniformed cop said leaving and shutting the door. "As if it weren't obvious," he added to himself as he walked down the hall.

Maggie admitted the client to Frohike's office. "Mr. Morris Fletcher," she said by way of introduction.

The PI rose and shook hands with the man then pointed him to one of the two chairs strategically placed for client use. Although the chairs were old and didn't match they were both sturdy and comfortable.

"I'm sorry I was unable to be here for our appointment yesterday," Frohike said. "I got a lead on a troubling case and needed to check it out. I hope the delay didn't inconvenience you too much."

"If you put that kind of effort into my case, I'll forgive you," the man said with a grin.

Frohike didn't much believe the smile but returned it with one of his own. "So what can I help you with?"

"Well," Morris Fletcher began, "I've been looking for someone for quite a while and am about ready to give up."

"Why are you searching for this person?"

"She's a long lost cousin and I need to let her know that she's inherited some money."

Frohike made some notes. "And you believe she is living in the Washington, DC area?"

Fletcher nodded. "The last I heard, she was. I checked the phone book with no luck and have asked around quite a bit but no one seems to have heard of her."

Frohike continued to write. "What is her name?"

"Monica Reyes."

Frohike's pen stopped in mid-notation. He crossed out what he had written to cover his surprised reaction to the name then jotted down a couple more notes. He didn't want to raise the man's suspicions. He looked up at the client carefully studying his face. This could not be a coincidence.

"This inheritance… what is the name of the deceased relative?"

"Uncle Bernie."

Frohike wrote that down. "Last name?"

Fletcher chuckled. "Brickham. Bernie Brickham. Sometimes we called him Uncle BB." This time the man laughed out right. It didn't seem sincere and to Frohike it was like the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

"What was the woman's last known address?"

"Oh, I have it right here." Fletcher reached into his coat pocket and set a slip of paper on the desk. Frohike copied the address into his notes. This was not necessary because Frohike knew at first glance that it was a fake.

The phone rang. Frohike ignored it knowing Maggie would get it.

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Fletcher. How can I contact you?" As Fletcher was giving Frohike his phone number and address, there was a soft knock on the door.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Maggie said coming into the room. "But the Chief of Police is on the phone. I told him you were with a client but he said it was important."

"Thank you, Maggie," said Frohike before turning back to Fletcher. "Once again, I'm sorry, but I do need to take this call. If you'll excuse me, I'll just take it out there." He left the office to pick up the receiver that Maggie had left lying on her desk.

"What is it, Walt?"

Unable to hear the other end of the conversation, Maggie watched her boss's face for some indication of what was going on. Whatever it was, it wasn't good news.

"No, let me check first. If you're right, then I'll bring them in." Frohike hung up the phone and returned to his office.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but a situation has come up that needs my immediate attention. I have all the information that I need to get started. I'll let you know what I find out."

A bit bemused at this quick dismissal, Fletcher stood and was escorted to the door. "How soon can I expect to hear from you?" he asked before leaving.

"It's difficult to tell. I'll call you in a couple of days." The man had no choice but to settle for this answer. He left and Frohike watched him walk down the hall until he turned the corner. Checking that there was no one else around, he shut the door.

He went back inside to get his hat and coat. He wasn't looking forward to what he needed to do next but it had to be done. Part of the job, he told himself.

And it was nothing new to him.

Before he left though, he told Maggie. "Call Monica Reyes and tell her that I have to talk to her as soon as possible."

The soft red glow of the darkroom bathed Jimmy as he submerged the photographic paper in the chemical bath. Normally he loved the developing process: seeing his pictures slowly, magically appear on the paper but today he just wanted it to be done.

The previous day, when he got to the address Spender had given him, Tom Cavanaugh, the reporter, was in a foul mood and decided to take his frustrations out on his photographer. Jimmy decided to keep his mouth shut and circulate: taking pictures of the police, bystanders and the bank that was the focus of an intense hostage crisis.

Jimmy stared at the picture his friend, Dylan, would call a coup de grace: a young woman leaning against a police car, her face streaked by tears and marred by shock, grief, exhaustion and fear. He thought about when the hostage taker had released her 'as a show of good faith' to the cops. Once the woman was out of harm's way, reporters and photographers descended on her like hyenas. Reporters volleyed a barrage of questions at her while numerous flashbulbs popped in her face.

"How do you feel?"

"What was it like in there?"

"Was anyone killed?"

Still in shock, the woman sat unmoving, unseeing and soon the media, tired of her silence, drifted away. Jimmy stood a few feet away from the woman, his camera in his hands. He hadn't taken a single picture.

"Bond!" He looked up to see Cavanaugh's furious glare. "Take the damn picture already!" Cavanaugh hissed.

Jimmy turned to the woman. It was that moment that she raised her head and met his gaze. He nearly wept at the anguish embedded in her green eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks just as he raised his camera and snapped her picture.

"A Coup de grace," Jimmy thought as he hung the picture to dry, one worthy of the front page. It would have his name under it, of course. People would be drawn to the anguish in her face and read the story. It would give him a level of respect among his peers. Reporters would request him for stories. Even Spender would give him some breathing room, at least for a while.

It was at times like this he hated his job.

He wanted to help people, to expose the truth and alert people to things that needed to be fixed. What Jimmy really wanted was to be a reporter. Not one of the pack like Tom Cavanaugh who chased after sensational stories for the sake of the headlines. Jimmy wanted to be a reporter like Carla Mason. She was tough and thorough when she went after a story but she respected the people involved.

She had once told him. "Some reporters, in their haste to get the story, forget that people are living breathing beings. Good reporters remember that and treat people accordingly."

He had taken the advice to heart. It was why he was so interested in Professor Langly and Yves Harlow. While he felt deep down that there was a story there, he was also curious and wanted to know more about them. Who were they? What was their relationship? Why did the professor insist on talking to a reporter and why was Yves Harlow insistent that he not? Langly had used the word 'enigma' several times and Jimmy thought it fit the strange pair.

Slipping his picture of the female hostage into an interoffice envelope, he decided to drop it off to the editor on his way to 'the morgue'. He still had to find his pictures of Professor Langly and Miss Harlow.

"I need to speak to the medical examiner," Frohike told the receptionist.

The elderly woman looked over her dark rimmed glasses at Frohike. Her steel-gray eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "Do you have an appointment?" Her gaze dropped down to the appointment calendar in front of her.

"No," he admitted, "but the Chief of Police called ahead and said I 'd be coming."

The women pondered this information a moment before rising from her chair. She didn't look happy. "One moment. I'll inform the doctor that you are here."

Frohike noted the woman's tone at the word 'doctor' wondering about the obvious pride in the word. While he waited, he glanced around the reception room. The walls had received a new coat of paint. It looked brighter but it seemed a feeble attempt to add cheer to the room.

Frohike considered sitting but decided against it. He just wanted to view the body and be done with it.

Where the hell was the coroner?

The sound of shoes on tile caught his attention.

"About time," he thought grumpily. But his irritation evaporated when he turned to see who it was.

The woman was a looker. She was about his height, maybe a bit taller because of the high heels. She had a nice body. Even her dark suit and lab coat could not hide this fact.

But it was her face that held his attention and took his breath away. Her copper colored, shoulder length hair framed an oval face. Her skin was a pale porcelain like a china doll. Her full, red lips frowned at him while her electric blue eyes studied him.

"May I help you?" Her voice was all business but Frohike wondered what it would sound like in a more intimate setting.

"Just waiting for the coroner, Dollface." Frohike said. "Why don't you get me a cup of coffee?"

Her full lips became flat and straight. "I AM the coroner."

Frohike snorted. "That's a cute one, doll. Tell Judd he can't pull one over me and get his skinny butt out here."

"Mr. -"

"Frohike." He handed her one of his cards.

She barely spared a glance at the card. "Mr. Frohike." Her tone dropped several chilling degrees. "I am not in the habit of joking about my position as Chief Medical Examiner. If there is anything I can help you with, please say so. Otherwise you are wasting my time as well as that of my staff."

Frohike had to admit she was good. She never faltered or blushed in her determination. Where did Judd dig up this babe? The receptionist returned, clipboard in hand. Her eyes bounced between Red and him as if testing the temperature of the room.

She frowned, handing the clipboard to Red. "Dr. Scully," she emphasized the word 'Doctor'. "I need your signature on this release form."

Scully took the clipboard and pen, quickly scribbled on the board before handing it back. Frohike had the sudden feeling he had just made a colossal error in judgment. She was Dr. Scully? The new medical examiner was a female? He was going to kick Walter Skinner's ass for not filling him in on this little detail. In the meantime Dr. Scully was staring at him, one sculpted eyebrow raised while she waited for him to dig himself out of this mess. He wished she didn't look like she was enjoying herself so much.

"Well, Doll," Frohike said gruffly, "It's about time someone with both beauty and brains took over this job." She rolled her eyes but at least some of the antagonism disappeared. He found himself wondering what she would look like if she smiled. He had a feeling she didn't do it all that often.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Frohike?" Dr. Scully repeated.

He remembered why he had come and his stomach tightened. "You have an unidentified little girl." He pointed toward the business card she still held between two fingers. "I'm here to see if she's my clients' daughter."

Dr. Scully nodded. "Come with me," she said, turning towards the door.

Each time he entered the morgue the sterile, anti-septic smell set Frohike's gut on edge. It had a way of seeping into his skin and remaining on him for days afterwards. He followed Dr. Scully to where the cold storage lockers were lined up and stacked on top of each other like bus station lockers. At the end she stopped and opened one of the doors, pulling out the drawer it concealed. Frohike stared at the white sheet and its pitifully tiny outline.

"She was found in a dumpster on Canal Street," Dr. Scully stated. "She was raped and strangled." Frohike could hear a touch of anger and disgust in her voice but never once did she loose her professionalism. With a respect Frohike rarely saw for the dead, she lifted the sheet, uncovering the girl's face.

Frohike stared at the lifeless face of little Molly Jennings and something wrenched inside him. She had been an adorable child with Shirley Temple curls and sparkling, mischievous hazel eyes. Now her glassy eyes stared up at him, imprinted with the terror of her ordeal.

"How long has she been dead," he asked.

"No more than 24 hours." Dr. Scully's voice was decisive.

Twenty-four hours. She had been missing for five days.

He touched the ligature marks on her neck. They were deep, cutting into her skin. Her killer had used something thin and strong. Maybe a laundry line or wire. He tried not to think of her struggling uselessly against her attacker, pleading, begging for her life. Did she wonder why her father wasn't there protecting her? Or was she beyond thinking and catatonic at the end? His gaze went to her face again. She had the same hair color as Emma, the same oval face. His vision blurred and the tiny body on the cold hard slab was his Emma.

He blinked and it was Molly again and he said a silent payer of thanks. Emma walked home from that private school with Molly every day. For some reason the killer had chosen one girl over the other. It could just as easily have been Emma and there would have been nothing he could have done to protect her.

"Mr. Frohike, are you all right?"

He realized his hands were shaking. He shoved them into the pockets of his trench coat, clamping them into fists, willing them to stop but they didn't listen to him. They never did. God he needed that drink. He could practically taste the alcohol.

"I'm fine." He didn't sound fine even to himself. Dr. Scully must have thought the same thing.

She pierced him with a stare only a doctor could manage. "She and my daughter are friends…were friends," he amended. He turned away from Molly and those unseeing eyes not realizing what he'd just said.

"Mr. Frohike… Melvin." Scully hesitated then continued as if she wasn't sure she should. "Why don't we get some lunch and talk."

The thought of lunch with the sexy redhead should have given him pleasure. Any other time it would have. He shook his head. "I can't. I have to inform her parents that their little girl is dead."

Then I'm going to get stinking drunk. He did not say this last part aloud as he turned to leave.