"This-- is Trafalgar Square. The noise that you hear at the moment is the sound of the air raid sirens. A searchlight just burst into action off in the distance; there's another searchlight. You see them reach straight up into the sky and occasionally they catch a cloud and seem to splash on the bottom of it. One of the strangest sounds one can hear in London these days -- or rather these dark nights -- just the sound of footsteps walking along the street, like ghosts shod with steel shoes."
Jimmy leaned back in his seat. The steady hum of traffic on the next street was a startling contrast to Edward R. Murrow's vivid and disturbing radio report from London. Whenever he listened to one of these reports, he was reminded how lucky he was to be so far from war torn Europe and the atrocities perpetrated by a mad dictator.
Like everyone else, he and his friends talked about the war, whether the U.S. should get involved or stay neutral. Jimmy often thought it was only a matter of time before his country stepped in. How could it not? So many people were dying; countries were being enslaved as much as their citizens were. Not to act went against everything the United States stood for. But Jimmy worried about that, too.
Jimmy sighed, snapped off the radio and looked at the converted warehouse across the street. He still needed to figure out what he was going to ask Professor Langly and Miss Harlow. He had never interviewed anyone before and he hoped he didn't sound like the rookie he actually was.
Opening the car door, he grabbed his camera from the passenger seat then climbed out. Before he left The Gazette he had made sure he had plenty of film. He was still irritated he hadn't been able to find Professor Langly and Yves Harlow's pictures in 'the morgue'. He had looked everywhere and bugged the librarian until she had kicked him out.
It was strange, he thought as he crossed the street, it was like they'd simply vanished.
"Hello?" Jimmy called out when no one answered his knock. "Professor Langly? Miss Harlow?" He knocked again, louder this time. The frosted glass rattled in the doorframe. "Professor Langly, it's Jimmy Bond from The Gazette."
He waited, listening. He couldn't hear any sound that might indicate someone coming to answer the door.
"Good job, Jimmy," he rebuked himself. "They're probably running errands. Or maybe went out to eat." Jimmy let out a frustrated breath. He should have called first, let them know he was coming. Who knows when they'd get back?
He sent one last hopeful look at the door before turning to leave.
He paused.
He looked back at the door, ignoring the niggling guilt for what he was about to do then wrapped his hand around the doorknob and twisted. The door opened easily.
"Professor Langly? Miss Harlow?" He called out, just in case they were hard at work and hadn't heard him before.
No answer.
His conscience told him he should call later and set up an appointment.
Or he could just write a quick note letting them know he stopped by and found the door unlocked. But he had no paper.
He remembered the desk Yves had been working at had been cluttered with paper. This realization made him push the door open the rest of the way and walk in.
He stopped and stared at the room in disbelief. There were no papers, no desk, no filing cabinets, no nothing. The thought scrambled around his brain that maybe he was at the wrong address, the wrong warehouse. There were several and they all looked very similar.
Yeah, he thought sarcastically, and the New York Yankees hadn't won the World Series last year.
As he navigated the perimeter of the room, he saw the large, freestanding chalkboard Professor Langly had been scribbling his arcane equations on lying on the floor. Jimmy picked it up, careful to touch only the outer edges then stepped back.
Someone had erased everything. He grabbed the top of the board and flipped it over to examine the other side. It too had been cleaned off.
But they hadn't pressed hard enough. There were pale, faint impressions of numbers and other symbols. Some were smeared but others were still intact. Jimmy raised his camera and snapped several pictures.
"What are you doing?" A gruff voice demanded. "This is private property!"
Jimmy whirled around, his heart thumping in his chest. A burly, elderly man stood in the doorway glaring at him. A caretaker of some sort, Jimmy guessed.
"Well," the man demanded.
"I was looking for the people who work here," said Jimmy. "Do you know where they went?"
"You crazy? No one works here."
"But they were here," Jimmy protested. "A beautiful woman with long black hair, olive complexion, has an English accent. And a man. Thin, about six feet and long blond hair, wears glasses."
"Son, this is an empty storage building." The man said patiently, slowly, "has been for years.
"That can't be," said Jimmy with a shake of his head. "I talked to them just a few days ago."
"Let it go, son," the man advised.
"You do know then," Jimmy said with growing excitement. "It's ok. I'm a reporter. My name is…Jeffery Spender," Jimmy nearly tripped over the blatant lies but he rushed on, "with the D.C. Gazette. She called me." Another lie but it wasn't an absolute lie, he tried to reassure himself, since the professor had called the paper.
The man considered Jimmy as if sensing the kernel of truth in his words. "I don't know about a man," he finally said, "but the woman paid me to get rid of everything."
"Why did she do that," Jimmy asked puzzled.
"She didn't tell me," the man said, turning to leave. "I've got to get back to work."
"Wait," Jimmy exclaimed, hurtling questions at the man. "Did she say where she was going? Or why she was leaving?"
The man paused, turned part way to stare at Jimmy. The undisguised disgust on the man's face stunned Jimmy and his words more so. "She said she was leaving to end a bad relationship."
Frohike sat in his car outside the school grounds. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to do this. He was risking arrest but, today, he just had to see her to know that she was all right.
He'd been correct to assume that, with Molly's kidnapper still at large, most parents would be picking their kids up after school. He'd seldom seen so many adults milling around unless it was for an evening performance or similar activity.
He spotted his ex-wife, Michelle, standing among the waiting parents. She was still beautiful, still the picture of grace and self-assuredness that had attracted him all those years ago. He'd been pleased when she had first agreed to go out with him and when she said she'd marry him, he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
That is until Emma was born. He hadn't known what having a family could mean, how empty and pointless his life had seemed before then. But tragedy and an inability to deal with the aftermath had destroyed his happy life. He'd lost his wife's trust, then her love and with it, he'd lost the right to be the father of his child.
The bell rang signaling the end of the day. After a few moments, the front doors opened and young, pre-teen girls rushed into the waiting arms of their parents.
Word had spread quickly; Molly Jennings had been found dead. Some of the girls were crying as their mothers or fathers held them or led them away from the school campus. Frohike hoped that these girls were at least unaware of the torment and torture their schoolmate had endured before she died.
Mrs. Jennings was in the hospital. Her shock at seeing her daughter's body had finally pushed her over the edge. She had collapsed right there in the morgue; her husband barely managing to catch her before her head hit the floor. Frohike helped the man carry his wife into the Medical Examiner's office where Dr. Scully tended to the poor woman until the ambulance came to take her to the hospital.
Frohike had stayed with Mr. Jennings outside his wife's room for a while, but his need to see his own family had driven him to this place.
Most of the parents were gone but Michelle still stood waiting. A moment of pure panic gripped Frohike's heart. Where was Emma? Why hadn't she come outside with the rest of the girls?
He watched a few minutes longer uncertain what to do. If he gave himself away, he could get thrown in jail. Michelle had her back to Frohike so he couldn't tell if she seemed apprehensive or not.
Just as he was seriously considering going into the school to see what he could find out, he saw Police Chief Skinner exit the building. He was holding Emma's hand. That is until she saw her mother and ran on ahead into Michelle's protective embrace.
Frohike watched in frustration as Michelle comforted their daughter. He felt useless. He hadn't been able to save Molly and now he couldn't even reassure Emma that nothing of the sort would ever happen to her.
As far as she knew, he didn't love her anymore and didn't care what happened to her.
Michelle said something to Skinner. Then, with her arm around Emma holding her close, they walked off presumably to where Michelle had parked her car. Frohike watched them until they were out of sight.
When they were gone, Frohike looked to see where the Police Chief had parked his car. Too late, he realized he'd been seen and that Skinner was cutting across the school grounds towards the spot where the private investigator was parked.
Deciding not to postpone the inevitable, Frohike unlocked the passenger side door. Skinner opened it and got in.
"Go on. Drive!" said Skinner. "You know you're not supposed to be here."
Frohike started the engine and pulled away from the curb. "Where am I going?"
"Take me back to headquarters."
"What about your car?"
"I'll send a couple of my boys out here to get it."
Frohike headed for the main precinct. "You're not going to bust my chops over this, are you?"
"Not this time," Skinner replied.
"Thanks, Buddy," said Frohike.
"Don't thank me. Thank Michelle. She's the one who saw you and told me you were here. I asked her what she wanted me to do about it. She said she didn't want me to do anything because she understood."
"But I'm warning you," Skinner continued, turning to look directly at his former partner. "You can't keep doing this. You know DA Byers would love any reason to throw your sorry ass in jail."
Frohike kept his eyes on the road. "I had to see her, Walt. I had to know she was all right. After a short pause, he asked, "Is she?"
Skinner shook his head. "Not really. She took it very hard. I called Michelle after you confirmed the dead girl's identity and she asked me to come out to the school. She figured word would spread quickly, which it obviously did. She knew she couldn't get here until after school."
"You told her about Molly?"
"Yes, I did and I tried to reassure her we'd catch this guy but I don't know if I was very convincing."
"You didn't give her all the gruesome details, did you?"
"Of course not, " Skinner said none too patiently. "Just…just that Molly was dead."
Frohike felt a pang of jealousy. This was not the first time Michelle had asked Walter Skinner to stand in for Emma's missing father. And he figured it would not be the last. Skinner was Emma's godfather but Frohike didn't need to be told that there was more to his friend's relationship with his ex-wife and daughter than just an old friend trying to help out.
There was nothing more to say until Frohike dropped Skinner off at headquarters. "I know this case has really gotten to you, Mel," Skinner said holding the car door open. "Go home. Take a couple of days off. You really look like you could use it."
Frohike said nothing as Skinner got out of his car.
The Chief watched silently as his friend drove away and only after his car was out of sight did he turn and enter the building.
Jimmy had a headache and the cacophony of the Gazette bullpen wasn't helping. He went through the maze of desks trying to ignore the ringing telephones, clattering typewriters and the buzz of conversations.
After his trip to Langly's lab he was more confused then ever. He needed to talk to Carla and ask her advice. And maybe, he hoped, she could recall what she knew about the Professor without his pictures. God, how could he have lost his only pictures of them? His hand closed protectively over his camera. At least he had the photos of the blackboard though he doubted that would help figure out where Yves and Langly had gone.
"Ah, hell," Jimmy muttered when he saw Carla Mason's desk. It was empty.
"Jimmy! Buddy!"
Jimmy turned to see Dylan Walsh walking toward him, a wide smile on his face. He was holding the afternoon edition of the Gazette. "Dylan, have you seen Carla?"
"You made the front page, buddy," Walsh said with a wealth of pride in his voice. "And," he paused for dramatic affect while he held up the paper. "Not one but two pictures!"
"What?" Jimmy took the paper from his friend. Sure enough his picture of the female hostage and another photo, the one of several clearly exhausted policemen, were on the front page. The cops had been about to go off shift when the call for the bank robbery had gone out. They had stayed for the duration of the hostage situation.
"I heard," whispered Dylan, "that the only reason the story made the front page was because of your pictures. Kicked the Blitz beneath the fold."
Jimmy felt the first tug of a smile on his face in hours. He couldn't believe it. It was the best news and now Spender was sure to cut him some slack.
"Congratulations, Buddy. I gotta run. Hot date tonight with that gorgeous blond from Metro."
"Wait." Jimmy dropped the paper on Carla's desk and grabbed Dylan's arm. "Do you know where Carla is?"
"Yeah," Dylan replied. "She got a call from her snitch. Apparently the cops found that little girl's body."
Jimmy looked sharply up at his friend. "Molly Jennings? Jeez, I hope they get the guy that did that."
Dylan's face darkened. "Guy oughta be strung up."
The two men were silent as they thought of the little girl. It was then Dylan noticed Spender surveying the bullpen. He nudged Jimmy and nodded at their boss's son. "The Lesser looks as if he's got a mouth full of lemons."
Jimmy chuckled and was about to say something when Spender looked straight at him. Spender glared with unsuppressed fury then stalked into his office. The man slammed his door so hard the glass rattled.
"Wow!" said Dylan. "Just what did you do to get on his bad side?"
Jimmy stared at the door, deeply troubled. "I wish I knew."
Dr. Dana Scully was working late. The others had gone home hours earlier but she was still going through paperwork making sure that everything was done correctly. As the first woman to hold the position of Medical Examiner in this county, it was important to her to do a good job. She didn't want to give anyone the opportunity to say that a woman was incapable of doing what should be handled by the 'stronger sex'.
She'd made it through medical school: the only woman in her class to complete premed, medical school, internship and residency. The other six women with whom she'd started out either gave up in frustration or got married leaving their dreams of becoming a doctor behind.
While working at the hospital in which she'd done her residency, she became fascinated with forensic science. And after doing a rotation in that department, she had decided that it was the specialty she wanted to pursue. Her friends and family tried to talk her out of it but they'd been doing that since she first announced that medicine was what she felt she needed to do with her life.
And she had landed the job as Chief Medical Examiner. Her years of working in the hospital morgue gave her the experience necessary to overcome the fact that no woman had ever held the position.
She glanced at the stack of files still on her desk then at the clock. She sighed, so much for a good night's sleep. But she was almost done and a few hours of sleep were better than none.
She picked up the next file and opened it: an accidental drowning, no sign of foul play. A noise distracted her. It sounded like someone was in the hallway. If the police were bringing in a corpse, they would take it directly to the admittance bay, where the night clerk would take all the information. And the clerk knew not to disturb her when she was working late.
Stepping into the hallway, Dr. Scully noticed a figure in a trench coat and fedora leaning at an odd angle against the wall. "Hello?"
The man glanced up at her and took a hesitant step in her direction before once again slumping against the wall.
The quick peek she'd gotten of his face was enough for Dr. Scully to recognize the man. She hurried to his side. "Mr. Frohike, what's wrong?" she asked taking his arm to steady him when he tried again to stand up straight.
His response was nearly incomprehensible but she got the answer to her question. The smell of stale whiskey on his breath was all the information she needed. "Come on," she said straining to pull him away from the wall. "I'm prescribing a large dose of coffee for you."
Putting his arm around her shoulders, she walked him back to her office. Once there, she settled him into a leather high-backed chair Judd had left in the office when he vacated it.
Dr. Scully pulled off Frohike's hat and tipped his head back to study his face. He smiled at her but she could tell he was having difficulty focusing and she wasn't sure he realized who she was.
She knew so little about him. She'd only met him that morning and in that short time he insulted her then flirted with her. But she'd also watched the pain and horror on his face as he identified the body of his client's child, a child who was also his daughter's friend. She'd seen his compassion for his clients as he brought them in to view their little girl's body and watched as he tried to comfort and console them.
Leaving him in the chair, Dr. Scully poured him a cup of coffee. She liked it strong. Before her residency, she'd been a tea drinker but the long on-call hours had necessitated something more invigorating and she'd learned that strong, black coffee did the trick.
Although he seemed to be half asleep, she wrapped Frohike's hands around the cup then guided it to his lips. He took a sip and grimaced. "You're trying…to poison me," he managed to say as he pushed the cup away.
"No, I'm not," the ME insisted as she encouraged him to take another drink.
He complied but further complained. "It tastes like…bilge water."
"And I'm sure you know precisely what bilge water tastes like." She couldn't resist teasing him. She figured he wouldn't remember any of this anyway. She pushed the cup to his lips once again.
"I'm telling you," he said after a large swallow, "it tastes better than this."
Dr. Scully had to laugh at him. He grinned in return and sat up a bit straighter finally holding the cup on his own.
She stood by him as he finished the first cup. She refilled it and gave it back to him. Then she poured one for herself and settled back behind her desk. He drank the second cup in silence as she read through the reports.
After a while, she glanced up to see him watching her over the rim of his coffee cup. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.
"Talk about what?" He was sobering up pretty quickly.
"About why you came out here in the middle of the night?"
He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "I had some vague idea about taking you up on that offer for lunch but it looks like I'm too late for that."
The doctor nodded. "At this point, breakfast would make more sense." She scanned the untouched files on her desk. There weren't that many left and they could wait. "What do you say? Are you up for it?"
Frohike was quiet for a few seconds obviously considering her offer. "Yeah, sure. Breakfast sounds good."
Dr. Scully stood up to get her coat. Once she had it on, she turned to see Frohike's rather unsteady rise from his chair.
"I'm driving, though," she said in a tone that broached no argument.
"I made it out here in one piece," Frohike said in his own defense.
"Only by the grace of God," Dr. Scully replied. "And I don't think it's wise to push his good graces too far."
Frohike looked like he was about to protest, but thought the better of it. He held the door for her to exit the office then waited as she locked it.
Their progress down the hallway was rather slow as Frohike was still a bit unsteady on his feet. Dr. Scully finally put her arm through his to help him walk a little straighter.
At least that's what she told herself.
