Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit.
This story:
I'm happy for the story to be circulated uncommercially, intact
and with my name still attached.
Title - First Impressions
Rating - R (violence)
Classification - XA
Summary:
Patterson meets Mulder for the first time. Mulder is not yet an
FBI Agent.
Joann (jhumby@iee.org)
-----------------
Introduction / Background Info:
This one's almost a straight study on FM with some plot, a bit of
an X-File and no Scully. That was just the mood I was in.
We don't know much about Mulder prior to him joining the Bureau.
We do know that he's fresh out of Quantico when he meets John
Barnett for the first time. Plus in the UK, it's possible to have
completed a first degree by the age of 21 and a Doctorate by 24.
So this assumes that's what he did and that then he got into
academic research. It's a Patterson / Mulder story.
Violence and language level about comparable to a nasty episode of
the show.
Thanks to Ann and Vickie for the UK'ism checking and other advice.
============
First Impressions
Part 1 of 2
It was a strange situation. After all he was doing only what he
had always done, switch himself off, move himself out of the
equation. Yet these people were convinced that it was a good
thing. It hadn't been a good thing when he'd done it in class in
school, too bored to listen to things he already knew. It hadn't
been a good thing when he'd used it at home to tune out what
remained of his family life.
It had started out so well, so normal. Well, normal was relative,
but it had been a good week until they had arrived.
--------
Nick shared the office space with Mulder and it had been Nick who
responded to the knock at the door. There was tension in his voice
as he came back into the room. "Mulder. Seems your fame as
spread."
Mulder sat up a little, letting his chair rock five degrees closer
to vertical. "How's that?"
"You've got visitors, seems you've hit the FBI's most wanted
list."
"Hey, sounds good. Sharp suits and guns. I'm assuming they've not
sent a SWAT team else you would have been shot in the crossfire by
now."
A voice from behind Nick spoke up. "Sounds like you've not got a
lot of faith in us, Mr Mulder. That's right isn't it, you prefer
not to be called Doctor?"
"Now that's what I call a skilled detective, how'd you find that
out? Use the term Doctor and everyone wants to show you their
appendix scars."
"May I introduce myself. I'm Doctor Patterson, head of Behavioural
Science Unit for the FBI."
"There's a science to how the FBI behaves?"
Patterson ignored the facetious remark and introduced his
colleague and started to explain that BSU provided psychological
profiling services to the Bureau.
Mulder smiled. "S'okay, I go to the movies. So am I a match for
one of your profiles then?"
"We would like your help."
"How so?"
"We keep an eye on published work that may have a relevance to our
activities. We've been avid readers of yours for a couple of
years."
"Always nice to meet a fan."
Patterson decided it was time to take control and move the
discussion along. "We have seven dead bodies Mr Mulder. Excuse me
if I don't ask for your autograph."
"Then get to the point Doctor Patterson.
Patterson half smiled. Good trick, Mulder had style. A split
second to switch from flippant disinterest to ice cold intensity.
Wonderful interrogation technique, it had even caught Patterson
off his guard for an instant.
"You have produced some excellent work on phenomena such as
telepathy." Patterson said smoothly.
Mulder's reply was dismissive. "Excellent, but derivative, I'm
afraid."
"Not derivative, you've utilised other people's experimentation
but you identified and validated the good experiments and
identified the unreliable results."
"And the point is?"
"We have a serial killer loose." Patterson paused. "And we have
someone who claims to be telepathically linked to the killer."
"And?"
"He may be telepathic or he may be the killer. He knows too much
about the crimes for guesswork. The killings stop when we take the
telepath off the streets."
"So lock up the telepath."
"Mr Mulder, I know you aren't serious, but we are. No court would
entertain our case. We have no physical evidence against the man."
"So fabricate some."
Patterson decided not to rise to the bait. "We would like your
help. We can live without your sense of humour."
"Or anybody else's?" Mulder paused, he was intrigued, too
intrigued to miss the opportunity to find out more by aggravating
these people. He softened his tone. "Sorry. The bad jokes are part
of the package. How can I help?"
They sat and talked. At any rate Patterson talked, Mulder mostly
listened, only occasionally prompting for more information or
throwing in a remark to pull Patterson back on track when the
conversation was moving in the wrong direction or at the wrong
pace.
As the discussion started to peter out, Mulder closed his eyes.
Patterson studied him carefully, Mulder really did have great
style, wonderful interview technique. Mulder had drawn out not
just all the things that Patterson had wanted to say, Mulder had
also picked up on all the issues he was considering mentioning.
He'd even grabbed a couple of things from the list that Patterson
hadn't planned to reveal yet.
Mulder opened his eyes and leant forward. "Ok. Where do we start?"
-------
It wasn't the kind of case Patterson would normally get personally
involved in, but they needed to work fast and they'd lost the
analyst who'd been working on this one. It had been another burn
out. He didn't blame them, didn't see anything wrong with them
buckling under the pressure. They were stars, the centre of
attention, centre of hopes on all the worst cases. They started
when good, honest police work looked like it wasn't going to
deliver. But most of the time they were treated like freaks. They
were on teams but not part of them. They were at their most
successful when they stopped thinking like law enforcers and
started thinking like law breakers.
Hard, very hard to do. There were patterns to understand,
predictable characteristics to learn, but that was all basic. Any
good agent could do that. A mix of deductive reasoning and
something called intuition. But the best of them went further. He
knew that because he went further himself.
He marvelled at the volume of applicants his division attracted
from established Agents with successful track records and from
genius students coming through the Academy. His analysts were a
race apart. The very top of the top percentile. He supposed that
was what gave the job its glamour. What gave a place on his team a
certain kudos.
It took more than just brains, training and observant eyes to make
an analyst. They had to live the job. Isolating. Getting to
understand the mind of killers just a little too well. Then they
were supposed to switch it off and go back to eating, drinking,
laughing, joking with the other Agents as if it was a nine to five
job. As if you could spend the day thinking like a murderer and
the evening thinking like a Fed. Some of them even tried to have
friends, lovers, wives and children. Incompatible, sooner or
later.
His job was to choose them, groom them, motivate them and try to
keep them on the rails for long enough to pay back the Bureau's
investment.
Of course sometimes they chose themselves, the sharpness of their
minds meant that the only grooming required was to give them
access to old case files. Their motivation came from deep inside.
Patterson drove Mulder to the Hoover Building.
Patterson was interested in his passenger, in fact he was another
reason why Patterson had got personally involved in the case. He'd
read Mulder's published papers and they'd been stimulating in
their own right. But the technique behind them was better. It cut
through the usual jargon of the researchers and got to the heart
of what they really did, what the test subjects actually said,
what was really proven and what was really just speculation.
The background work Patterson had done on Mulder when he first
came to their attention had been intriguing. His father had been a
senior government employee, a good background for the Bureau. Time
spent at Oxford, showed initiative and confidence. In good
physical shape, played college basketball.
Only one strange shadow in the biography. A younger sister killed
or lost and never found. A profound and traumatic event but no
sign of that having affected him academically or psychologically.
Patterson wondered about the man. Definitely a potential recruit.
Smart, sharp, good listener, strong analyst of data. Very
intriguing. So why was he in academia? Why research, why not
clinical work, why wasn't he chasing the good money. He had the
manners, the qualifications and the looks. He would have had a
waiting room full of young women within days of showing up in
private practice, so why hadn't he gone on to complete that kind
of training? Maybe he wasn't as confident as he looked. Maybe
research felt safer than dealing with real people.
Patterson started to talk. "Mr Mulder."
Mulder interrupted him quickly. "Just call me Mulder. Everyone
else does."
"Everyone?"
Mulder smiled in reply. "That wasn't an opening for you to
practice your psychoanalysis skills on me."
"Wouldn't dream of it. But I'm interested in why you moved into
research so early. More money in clinical work surely?"
"Money's not that big a motivator."
Patterson checked another box on his list of possible blocks on
recruitment and continued to talk. "You've got the style for
clinical work, the right bedside manner."
"I don't enjoy being at the bedside of people who are ill."
"Seems harsh, I'd have guessed that you like helping people."
Mulder breathed a little more heavily. "Based on the fact that I
said I'd help you?"
"No. Based on the questions you ask, the way you talk, the way you
listen."
"Sorry, that's just an act."
"Then, maybe you should go into the theatre."
-----------
Mulder sat and watched the interview videos of John Briggs. He
read the background notes.
Until twelve months earlier John Briggs had been a normal man,
with a normal job, a normal wife and a normal house. Then twelve
months ago he had stopped being normal. He'd seen a murder,
witnessed every detail. Every image and every sound was inscribed
indelibly on his brain. He thought it was a nightmare but it was
so real he could have sworn he was awake. Except that he couldn't
have been awake, because this was his house and it wasn't
splattered with blood. And this woman by his side was his wife and
she was alive.
The John Briggs on the interview tape was anything but normal. He
looked like a hunted animal. His wife had left him. He had lost
his job. And now he was prime suspect in an FBI murder
investigation.
Early on, Briggs had shrugged the nightmares off. Just a
particularly vivid dream that had carved itself into his brain.
But when he saw the second woman die he had started to get scared.
Maybe he was losing his mind, surely no sane man should see
something that horrific in their dreams. After the third he
started to read up on things. He checked the newspapers. His
nightmares had coincided with the murders of three women.
John wondered what to do. Go to the police and look like a crank,
or worse still, like a killer? It wasn't as if he could give them
any evidence, he hadn't seen the murderer, only the murder.
The FBI had taken over the investigation as soon as it crossed the
state line. Saturation coverage of the town at the centre of the
murders by the police and Bureau. And Briggs had stunned everyone
as he broke down and told his story. They ignored his words but
put him high on their list of suspects.
After the fifth murder they arrested him, but there was no real
evidence and he stuck to his story so in the end he had to be
released. When the surveillance team was called off, the sixth
murder had taken place.
Mulder quizzed Patterson on that. It was easy enough to explain,
the minimum team for around the clock surveillance would need six
Agents. Not something that could be maintained for extended
periods. And not always effective. And if it dragged on for too
long a possible basis for harassment proceedings. Even murder
cases had only limited resources.
Mulder listened and watched and read.
Patterson turned to him as he hit the stop button on the final
recording. "So. Mulder how do we find out if he's telling the
truth or if he's the killer. And if he's the killer how do we
convict him?"
Mulder leant back. "Well his polygraph says he's clean, so he
thinks he's telling the truth. But he's so disturbed by what's
going on I doubt that he's in much condition to tell fact from
fiction. How consistent are the killings? How well organised are
they?"
Patterson leant back, mirroring Mulder's body language. "That's
not normally divulged to civilians, even people we ask as
consultants on specific issues. I only need you to find out if
he's telepathic."
"And I can't tell you that. His skills, if he has any, seem to be
restricted to this one thing. Hell, if you could play the 'what
card am I holding' game with him and expect a result you would
have done it. You surprise me though."
"Why?"
"For believing there might be such a thing as telepathy. Is that
Bureau policy?"
Patterson's reply was matter of fact. "I don't believe in anything
except that things are being discovered all the time and that
policies change."
"I can't tell you if he's telepathic. Can you tell me if he's a
murderer?"
Patterson nodded and leant forward. "I can show you the profile on
the murderer." He handed Mulder a file.
Mulder leant back again and started to read the contents of the
manila folder. As he thumbed the first page he looked over at
Patterson, "I thought you said this stuff is not divulged to
civilians."
"Policies change."
Mulder nodded.
Patterson watched as Mulder read. The emotions Patterson read in
Mulder's face impressed him. They were all there. The horror, easy
to spot, no shell of 'seen it all before' cynicism to hide it
behind, but shells can be grown. The faintly academic,
intellectual curiosity was there. And so was a look of intense
concentration and absolute determination to resolve the problem.
And a look that Patterson could only describe as sorrow mixed with
profound disappointment that there were really people in the world
capable of such things.
Patterson left Mulder to it. From time to time he looked through
the window and saw the same mix of emotions running over the young
man's face. Then he noticed a change, pure concentration stepping
up a gear to animation. Mulder was playing with some snack food,
what, sunflower seeds? And he was looking at the ceiling as if
there was a film being played over it.
Patterson returned to the room and handed Mulder a coffee. "So.
What do you think?"
"That the analysis is incomplete."
Patterson almost started to argue but decided to listen first. He
was glad he had. A scalpel had been turned on the case, chopping
away at assumptions, labelling guesses with probability ratings.
But more dramatic was the highlighting of those aspects of the
evidence that had been ignored.
Mulder turned the attention on Patterson. He started pushing for
the known mappings between certain behaviours during murder and
the behaviour of the killer during social situations and under
stress.
When Mulder finally seemed satisfied with the information,
Patterson asked the question. "So is Briggs the killer?"
Mulder leant forward, elbow on the table, head resting on his
hand. "Don't know. I'd have to talk to him. Doubt it though." He
paused and returned Patterson's gaze. "Eighty percent confidence
level."
----------------
Patterson's interest was rising by the hour. There really ought to
be a reward for capturing someone like Mulder for the Bureau. Ok,
so Mulder wasn't cynical enough, cold enough. He wasn't enough of
a diplomat. He was too flippant to survive long against the attack
of the more military discipline minded management. But he was
smart enough to learn. Quite a prize for anyone who taught him.
Worth it. Time to try some covert recruitment.
Patterson decided to get Mulder talking by moving them to neutral
ground. So, they sat in a quiet corner of the comfortable but
smart, downtown restaurant. Mulder flirting casually with the
waitresses. Patterson playing the role of father figure. They
talked of important and unimportant things, of the past and the
present. Mulder relaxed despite himself.
Patterson pushed the questioning. "Why did you go into research?
From some of the things you said I guess you looked at clinical
work."
Mulder hesitated but decided to talk. "I could only cope with
people who didn't need help. I could deal with people needing a
confidence boost, or a shoulder to cry on. But if they were bad,
if they were actually sick, I couldn't help. They'd be in tears or
throwing up or hysterical or suicidal. I'd get them to explain why
they felt like that and an hour or so later I'd be feeling the
same way."
"I thought it might be that."
Mulder gave a nervous laugh. "Recognise the symptoms?"
"Of course. The best of the Bureau analysts are like that.
Outsiders can find it frightening the way my people can get so
close to how a killer is working, thinking, planning. You could
help a lot in our work."
An embarrassed smile flicked across Mulder's face. "By getting
hysterical?"
"We'd train you. We'd protect you. You could make a difference.
Save lives." Patterson let his voice drop a tone. "You know when
someone dies or goes missing, most times it's not just the victim
who dies. Most times it's the family around them as well, maybe
not physically but mentally, emotionally."
Mulder suddenly recognised the path Patterson had brought him down
and felt a flash of anger over the emotional blackmail that was
being used. He kept his voice cold as he replied. "You know about
my sister's disappearance don't you?"
"Of course. I wouldn't be much of a Federal Agent if I didn't know
basic things like that."
The lack of pretence in the answer calmed Mulder. He smiled and
muttered softly. "Bastard." But there was no rancour in his voice
as he said it.
Patterson nodded politely. "So I'm told."
----------
It was one in the morning and Mulder's mind was still racing. An
interesting day, a very interesting day. A strange day. Mulder had
sensed the ambivalence from Patterson, the amused interest in his
approach, the abrupt and offhand way his ideas and remarks were
treated, yet the attention that Patterson gave them. And, of
course, the fact that Patterson could see things in him that he
almost wished weren't there.
Mulder had never spoken much to anyone about the academic research
versus clinical practice debate. He hadn't wanted to, it was too
personal. Most people took his 'I don't make a good nursemaid'
speech at face value, tied it in with his sardonic remarks and
thought it added up to cynical or uncaring. Patterson had forced
him to open up, 'the I in FBI', he mused.
Could he really do something useful, useful in that kind of direct
way? He had few illusions about himself, he knew his weaknesses
but he knew his abilities too. He was observant, he could see the
wood for the trees, he could generalise but he could also dissect
information down so that only the facts remained. Cold, detached
on one level and hopelessly over involved on another.
< We'd train you. We'd protect you. > An attractive idea, he had
spent too much time out of his emotional depth when he tried to
help people before.
Of course, he loved the idea of being a detective, what kid
didn't? Sherlock Holmes was a childhood hero. Even Phoebe Greene
had joined the police. Except he'd never been tough like her. He'd
thought about it before, considered it, rejected it.
When Nick had said the FBI were there to see him he had almost
jumped with excitement. He hadn't of course, his acting was better
than that. When they'd asked for his help, he'd almost blushed,
he'd wondered if he was dreaming. When they had taken him into the
headquarters building and handed him the tapes and the files he
was sure it was a really weird joke someone had set up. And when
Patterson gave him that not very well disguised job interview
tonight, it reminded him of that embarrassing High School dance
when the prom queen had abandoned her beau to come out stargazing
on the veranda with him.
He tried to visualise the work. A lot of paper pushing and a lot
of waiting around, like any other job, he guessed. But to do
something useful. This was the head of one of the teams that
worked at the leading edge, who was telling him that he could do
it. Applied psychology. Applied to saving lives. He'd thought
about joining the Bureau before, but he'd always talked himself
out of it. Not tough enough, not brave enough. Physically he was
up to it and he'd never lacked physical courage. He could risk his
life for other people, he knew that, he'd saved a kid from
drowning. Mentally, well he'd looked at those pictures today, that
autopsy report. It hurt, it made him feel dizzy with nausea, but
he knew that he could see through the horror and find the things
that had caused it. Emotionally though, that was the weak link.
There were so many times when his emotions ran too close to the
surface, but Patterson had said that they could help with that.
Certainly he'd learned well enough for himself how to shut them
out in most situations. He knew how to block them. And, he knew
how to let his mind free wheel so that he tuned himself out of the
picture.
He thought of Samantha, stolen from his life and the efforts of
the police and then of the Agents who followed them. It had taken
a lot to keep moving. He had never understood why he couldn't
remember and he had never forgiven himself for not remembering.
Some psychologists would claim that he was deliberately repressing
an unpalatable truth. Maybe he was. But he was more terrified of
that explanation than he was of finding out what had really
happened.
He'd always wished that the police could have told them the truth.
Not just a maybe, or a probably, he wanted a definitely. But, even
a percentage probability backed up by something real would have
been better than no idea at all. If he could save other people
that would be some compensation for what he'd done or failed to
do. If he could give some people certainty, maybe that would atone
a little more for his failures.
He was terrified and exuberant. It was an intoxicating mix. Going
back to his normal work would be dull, couldn't fail to be too
dull.
End of 1 of 2
Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the XFiles writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit.
Title - First Impressions
Rating - R (violence)
Classification - XA
Joann (jhumby@iee.org)
Part 2/2
----------
Patterson smiled as he saw his visitor arrive. Yesterday's chinos
and leather jacket replaced by today's grey suit. The potential
FBI Agent was taking over from the casual psychology researcher.
Mulder spotted Patterson's appraising glance. "Felt a bit out of
place yesterday. Thought I'd wear a disguise. Stealth clothing."
Patterson gave him a cold look in reply, he might as well start
getting Mulder ready for his new job immediately. "Mulder. Our
suspect is waiting for us at the Baltimore field office. I suggest
we get moving."
Mulder tried not to laugh, he recognised the one-upmanship and
mentally chastised himself for dropping the psychological equality
of having Patterson call him Mr Mulder. Still he knew that the
little mind games were probably par for the course, so he might
just as well get used to it. That was, if he was seriously
contemplating joining these people.
--------------------
Their arrival at the Baltimore office had been anxiously awaited.
As soon as Patterson gave his name to security he was given the
message. Another murder victim had been found. Patterson turned to
Mulder. "You needn't come to the scene."
As if. As if he hadn't already gone too far to back off now. As if
Patterson didn't know that.
As they drove, Mulder thought of the photographs he'd seen and
tried to prepare himself. Though, of course, he knew that he
couldn't prepare himself from them. Photos are always dead things.
Two dimensional. Static. They could be manipulated and faked and
therefore they could be ignored and forgotten about. This would be
very different.
He considered his options, analysed appropriate and acceptable
responses to the novelty and horror of the situation.
He considered how the police and Bureau people would respond.
Mostly they'd defend themselves by acting cynical, matter of fact,
businesslike. None of those reactions would be appropriate for
him. He wasn't cynical and he had no reason to feign cynicism for
their benefit. The experience would be too new to be matter of
fact. He had no business here. That was the problem really, he
didn't have a job to do. No routine tasks to fulfil. No place
amongst them. No default actions to carry out. No standard
operating procedures to provide a safe rhythm to fall into.
What would be acceptable.
The question of what would be acceptable to them didn't really
arise. It was what was acceptable to him that mattered. How to
protect himself from what he was about to witness, but without
betraying his own humanity. He thought it through and started to
close down the unwanted thoughts and feelings.
Patterson stole casual glances as they drove. He had been prepared
to give his usual pep talk to his passenger. But he noted the
intensity of Mulder's concentration and decided not to break the
spell.
As they got out of the car, Patterson confined himself to two
remarks. "The scene of crime specialists will still be working so
keep well back. If you want to throw up, try and get further away
before you do."
Mulder nodded.
Mulder hung back a few yards from Patterson. When Patterson got
called away by one of the Agents, Mulder didn't follow, just
stayed where he was and tried to get his bearings.
He stepped back a couple of paces to some slightly higher ground
and leant against a tree. The body was ten yards away. Neatly
presented, arms extended to offer a crucifix appearance. Blood
strewn like paint around the woman.
He had wondered about that, about whether when he looked he would
see an it, a dead thing or if he would see a her, a dead woman. He
was grateful that he was seeing a person, an it would have been an
insult to her.
The birds were singing, a strange incongruous thing. He remembered
a man's description of how he turned to his wife who had fallen
asleep watching her favourite TV program and how he realised only
then that she had died there, died peacefully in her sleep, making
no sound, and how the TV program had kept on playing despite her
being dead. Mulder hadn't watched television for a week after
that. And now the birds just kept on singing.
The specialists worked, taking photos, measuring distances,
looking for something. A practised drill. A depressing and
frightening thought, that this kind of thing might happen so often
that people could make it look like they were working to a well
worn routine.
It was an odd feeling but not an unfamiliar one. One after another
the unwanted and unnecessary systems were closing down as energy
was diverted to more important or immediately useful areas. He
almost laughed as the analogy formed, just like Star Trek,
essential life support, shields and photon torpedoes only. Odd the
way the brain thought of stupid things at inappropriate moments,
side effect of the shields he supposed.
So he looked again. Knew that the woman was beyond help. Knew that
nothing could be done. Knew that he was just looking at history.
But knew that if he could learn the lessons of that history then
the story could end here. Sorrow for friends and family, but
closure too. And no more dead bodies, at least, not from this
source.
The scene changed, not a group of people swarming around a corpse
but a set of information to be studied. Observations to be turned
into analysis. A snapshot to be turned into a story. He let his
eyes and mind wander and started to pick over the evidence. An
academic discipline on a flesh and blood problem.
Patterson had spoken briefly to some of the key players and had
done a first pass scan of the crime scene. But mostly he had been
watching Mulder. He liked the way he'd faded into the background,
as if he belonged there, but as if he was different from the
others.
Patterson liked the reactions he saw. No attempt at bluffing
indifference or feigning confident bravado. Instead a resigned
sadness and horror followed by a calm, calculating intelligence.
As the team around the body started to disperse, Patterson walked
over to Mulder and asked him if he wanted to look at the corpse.
Mulder's reply surprised Patterson as much as it impressed him,
"does it help?"
Patterson nodded and told him that it did.
The men walked to the body, Mulder a couple of steps behind
Patterson to make sure he wasn't standing on the wrong things.
Patterson was pointing out the wounds, indicating which were
superficial, which ones damaging. Mulder nodded and understood why
he had to look.
As they moved back to the car Patterson asked Mulder what he'd
seen.
Mulder stopped at the door of the car and leant against it. "The
woman was brought here unconscious but alive and killed where she
lay. She was moved to that pose after she was dead."
"How do you know?"
"She'd been dragged to the site, you can see her heel marks in the
ground, but she isn't struggling so she's got to be unconscious."
"Or tied up?" Patterson quizzed carefully.
"No marks from ropes."
Patterson continued to score Mulder's performance against a mental
checklist. "Not dead already?"
"The blood is where she lies, not on route to it."
"But she died of strangulation, she could have been dead when he
brought her here."
"No. If she was dead the blood wouldn't have spurted from the
wounds like that, her heart was still beating when she was
stabbed."
Patterson was impressed, he would have expected that much from an
experienced observer, but from someone who was looking at a murder
for the first time it was good going. Usually all they saw was
blood. He suggested they get in the car and talk about the killer.
Not a big man. A taller or stronger man would have found it easier
to carry her than drag her.
The crucifixion imagery wasn't his, it was something about the
victim. The other bodies had their own images to present.
Patterson listened as Mulder worked steadily through the list of
things that Patterson had intended to feed into the profile.
What surprised Patterson was when Mulder came onto the things that
weren't already on Patterson's own intended list.
"The killer probably looked in that big puddle of water as he
dragged her from the car."
"Why?" Patterson asked, slightly bemused by the comment.
"Because he likes to put on a show, hence the way he presents the
bodies. He wanted to see himself in control."
"The puddle was too muddy to see a reflection in."
"That was because we were there, all those feet churned it up. It
would have been clear when he got there. The other puddles, away
from where we were working, were clear."
Patterson acknowledged the possibility and asked if it mattered.
Mulder looked taken aback by the question. Of course it mattered,
if the killer looked in the water the telepath would have seen the
killer's reflection.
Patterson smiled. "That only matters if he's telepathic and not
the killer."
Mulder was even more confused now. "Doesn't make any difference.
He's convinced he's not the killer so he'll be happy to describe
the face he saw."
Patterson thought about that for a long time. All the way back to
the Bureau office in fact.
------------
John Briggs was in the interview room. He had arrived for his
appointment at the designated time but had been kept waiting for
three hours while Patterson was studying the latest crime scene.
Anxious and scared when he arrived, he was climbing the walls now.
The whole basis for the interview had shifted. Patterson had
originally intended to let Mulder interview Briggs however he
chose because the real investigative interviewing had already been
done. Now though, they had a fresh murder to focus on and a
professional's touch would be needed.
But an hour later, the temperature was not still falling, Briggs
was still not opening up. Patterson decided to ignore
professionalism and take a flier. He turned to Mulder, "could you
take over for a while." Seeing the nervous question in Mulder's
eyes, Patterson confirmed with a nod that this was a deliberate
action. He whispered that he would be in the observation room and
left.
Robert Barker was Special Agent in Charge. He knew the score with
Patterson. You didn't argue with him. His staff were terrified of
him. Mistakes, insubordination, lack of commitment were all nailed
without pity, yet there were always more potential recruits.
Recruits who ignored the burn outs like the analyst who'd dropped
out of this case. A reputation for success. No, you didn't argue
with Patterson.
But sometimes it was hard not to. Barker had kept quiet when
Patterson had told him that he would conduct the interview
himself. But then Patterson had left the room and left the
interrogation to, well, who was that man anyway, not even an
agent. Not even some professor of criminology or one of those
other fancy titles who the Bureau employed as consultants using
the kind of money in a month that his Agents got in a year.
Barker decided to speak. "I'll go in there and take over if you
need a break."
"No."
"Then I'll send one of my Agents in, if it's just a holding
operation you need."
Patterson just kept looking through the window. "Mulder's got an
Agent in there with him as guard."
"No. I mean instead of that kid, Mulder, whatever."
"Absolutely not."
"He's a civilian. It's not right."
"That's why he's got a guard."
"What if he screws up the interview?"
"He won't."
Barker tried to avoid sounding irritated. "It's a job for a
professional."
"Like the professionals who've already let eight women die?"
Barker breathed in a little more heavily and kept his voice
steady. "You sure he can cope, he looked pretty out of it at the
crime scene this morning."
"Who's the psychologist here, me or you?" Patterson's tone of
voice made it clear that it was the end of discussion.
"Yes, Sir." The SAC said nervously.
Mulder took a deep breath and moved his chair so that he was
sitting at right angles to Briggs, looking at him across the
corner of the table, instead of from the opposite side. Briggs
squirmed as Mulder spoke.
Patterson paid little attention to what Mulder was saying, it
scarcely mattered, Patterson doubted that Briggs was hearing it.
All Briggs would hear was the almost hypnotic tone of voice, all
he would be conscious of was the body language inviting him to
believe that he was safe.
Briggs was becoming less agitated, his shoulders were no longer so
round and hunched. He no longer looked as if he was trying to curl
up into a ball and he actually looked aware that someone was
talking to him.
At some point the words Mulder was using had changed from just
words to questions. At some point Briggs had started to answer
them. Mulder slowly brought Briggs back to this morning and to
what had happened at around dawn. Brought him back to his latest
nightmare.
Patterson slipped quietly back into the interview room. From the
viewing window he hadn't been able to see the way Mulder's hands
under the table were slowly closing into fists then flexing back
straight. Nor the way Mulder's knee pressed against the leg of the
table as if he was bracing himself against some pressure that was
threatening to push him over. Nor the grey pallor that was
colouring Mulder's skin as the last of his blood drained away from
his face.
Mulder turned to Patterson. Patterson acknowledged the silent
request and moved his own chair forward. Patterson took over the
questioning as Mulder sat back and tried to get a rhythm back into
his breathing. Patterson used Mulder's lead in. "When you saw the
reflection you saw the man and the woman."
Briggs nodded.
"Describe them to us."
Briggs hands shook as he replied, "he looks like me."
Mulder could hear what was being said but it was as if he was a
million miles away watching the whole thing on a TV screen. He
listened to Briggs description of the killing and of the killer.
And then he wasn't in the interview room, he was on that hill
watching the woman being dragged from the car. Watching the killer
and his knife. Watching the blood come from the unconscious body
as it first pulsed out under pressure from her heart and then, as
the strangler's grip on the tie around her neck tightened,
watching the blood slow to a trickle.
He felt something on his hand, he looked down and realised that
his nails had dug so deep into his palms that he'd drawn blood.
Patterson stood up and put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. With an
effort that seemed unreasonable and an energy he thought he didn't
have, Mulder pushed himself to his feet. The room was swimming.
Patterson leant out an arm again to steady him and led him through
the door into the next room. Mulder slumped into a chair and
closed his eyes.
When Mulder opened his eyes again, he was alone. He sat for a long
time feeling nothing except numbness. There were no voices, no
sounds. Silent, except for the screams and he knew that they were
in his head. Dead women couldn't scream.
Why was he alone? They said they'd protect him from this.
Patterson came out a few minutes later. "Good work Mulder. He'll
end up with some kind of psychiatric verdict but you got him."
Mulder didn't look up at the voice in the room. "He didn't do it."
Patterson prepared to argue, but didn't. He heard no uncertainty
in Mulder's voice. "You are sure?" Patterson knew the question was
unnecessary but he had to use something to get some more words
from Mulder.
"He is either telepathic or he knows the killer, but it isn't
him."
"The face in the water." Patterson pushed gently. "His own face."
"Either planted in his head by the killer or something else."
"Something else?"
"Is he a twin?"
"Not that I'm aware of but that doesn't mean he's not. He was
adopted."
Patterson walked out of the room and his urgent query sent the
Agents next door into a frenzy of activity and Mulder was alone
again. Very alone.
--------------
It was a strange situation. After all he was doing only what he
had always done, switch himself off, move himself out of the
equation. These people were convinced that it was a good thing. It
had never been a good thing before.
Mulder was concentrating hard on ignoring the shivers that were
running up and down his spine as he saw Matthew James, twin
brother of John Briggs being led into the interview room. It had
taken a couple of days to trace him but as Mulder sat in the
observation room and watched, he knew that they had the right man.
All they had to do was find the rest of the evidence. He couldn't
help them with that. Right now, he couldn't even pour out a cup of
coffee, his hands had been shaking too much.
----------------------
Mulder shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He wasn't asleep but then
this scarcely counted as awake either. If he closed his eyes he
got a replay of the murder, with 3D vision and stereo sound and
something worse. He'd expected the images but not the rest of it.
So he watched the TV screen. Well that wasn't strictly accurate,
his eyes saw moving images on the TV screen but watching would
have suggested that his brain was processing the information and
it wasn't.
He had known that Briggs hadn't killed the woman, had known it
because he knew the way the mind of the killer worked. Knew it
because he'd felt the killer's emotions run over him.
He didn't want to know the way a killer's mind worked or the way
they felt. He didn't want to know that he could make himself know
those things, feel those things.
< We'll train you. We'll protect you. > Sure. Like they had after
that interview with Briggs, by leaving him alone in an empty,
silent room. They'd probably protect him by lining the walls with
thick rubber if he asked nicely. But there would be no more deaths
now, not from that source. And a sleepless night wasn't a high
price to pay for that.
He added it to the list of things that he was good at and didn't
want to be good at. The silliness of the idea of such a list
lifted his spirits slightly. Most of the things he was good at
served only to isolate him. Too smart, too analytical, too
intense, too imaginative.
Was he actually good at anything that he wanted to be good at?
Basketball, his brain suggested helpfully. The banality and
incongruity of the thought made him laugh.
----------------------
It was another week before Mulder got a call to visit Patterson at
the FBI offices. Mulder had tried to go back to his work in the
university and his real world but he couldn't. No concentration. A
span of attention that could only be measured in seconds, images
of dead bodies interrupting every attempt at conversation.
Patterson didn't come to the entrance to meet him this time.
Didn't escort him to his office. Security showed him the way and
left him in a waiting area outside Patterson's room. A secretary
told him that Patterson would call him in when he was ready. Forty
minutes of waiting and brooding.
Finally the secretary announced that Patterson was ready to see
him. Mulder swallowed hard and walked into the office. A bright
halo of sunlight behind Patterson's head, so that Patterson
himself looked as if he existed only in silhouette. A deliberate
trick, Mulder knew, not even a very subtle one, but hard to
ignore.
Patterson motioned for him to take a seat. Mulder chose with care
to minimise the glare from the windows. Patterson started to talk.
"Thankyou for coming to see us. I'm pleased to say that we believe
we have enough evidence to take Matthew James to trial. The Bureau
is grateful for your assistance."
Mulder leant back, the Bureau is grateful. As if they could pick
him up and discard him with a few words of dismissal. He wasn't
sure what he'd expected them to say or even what he wanted them to
say. But at least he was learning the rules of their game. His
reply was careful, measured. "Thankyou for the opportunity. Is
that all Doctor Patterson?"
"For now."
Mulder nodded politely and left.
So very alone. And as he filled in the FBI application form he
felt even more alone. But at least now he knew he was only bowing
to the inevitable.
END
A Truly X-Files Postscript
< Cue: Twilight Zone theme music >
"First Impressions" was written a few weeks ago and has been
waiting for me to stop messing around with it since then. It uses
a character called Briggs and as you know if you've just read the
story, its X-File theme was telepathy.
A few days ago, while Ann and then Vickie were checking the story
over for me, a story called Inferno appeared on the news group. If
you've not seen it, it's well worth reading. It's also from a
British author, Pellinor, it featured telepathy and a character
called Briggs.
Don't know why. There haven't been any major UK TV series, news
items etc about someone called Briggs. And whilst we've had quite
a rash of television programs about the paranormal recently (the X
factor at play here) nothing that majored in telepathy. I'm just
relieved that the plot was different.
C'est tres Spooky, n'est pas?
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
PS:
I also finished a story that used a Russian roulette scene the day
before Pusher appeared on US TV - and no, I never did have the
nerve to post it. And I finished Ancient Powers / Ancient Dreams
which featured a prehistoric monster a few days before Quagmire
screened - but for that one the plot was different enough that I
did decide to post. Serves me right for not writing and posting
quicker I guess.
PPS:
You still here?
Ok, then I've got some news. On or about the 17 September, along
with my husband, my X-Files videos, my car and my PC, I am moving
to Spain. I will be back on line, my work and my obsessions demand
it, but don't know when. So for now. All Done. Bye, Bye.
(
geocities.com/earthworm1013)