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Hot Wax
Gina Rain/ginarain@aol.com

*******************************

Part 2

May 4, 1975
New York City

Ryan had decided to kill his father a few months after 
his mother died. 

He had always been a hard man to deal with on a personal 
level. He had been tough on Ryan. Very tough. Ryan was 
nothing like him. And he was still somewhat of a child. 
Bill Wilkins had wanted a short version of himself who 
would immediately skip over the inconvenience of 
"growing up." Every indication that this was not yet 
fully accomplished was met with harshness. With cruelty. 
And Ryan no longer had his mother as a buffer.

 The deciding moment came on what would have been his 
mother's fortieth birthday. He had spent most of the day 
with his maternal grandmother, reminiscing with the only 
person left who understood. When he returned home, his 
father informed him that they would no longer speak of 
his mother in their house. Tears sprung to Ryan's eyes.

"Stop it. Now," Bill said. He would not abide tears 
coming from a man. 

Ryan felt more moisture collect as he tried to will 
himself not to cry.

"Listen, you mother-fucking little pansy. You will stop 
this right now or I'll. . ." Bill stopped. He looked at 
his son. Dark blond hair, longer than it should be, 
curling at the ends. Patterned shirt. Fucking hippies. 
Turning everyone into little queers. Well, Janice may 
have wanted her son to be one of them, but he'd be 
damned if he'd have a little fairy running around the 
house. The kid needed discipline, and by God, he was 
going to have it. He went to his desk and picked up a 
pair of scissors. Ryan's eyes widened in fear.

"Come here."

Ryan stood back, afraid to move forward.

"Come here. Now. Right now." Ryan walked toward his 
father. As soon as he was close enough, his father  
reached out and grabbed  him by the hair. He snipped off 
a two-inch lock in the front of Ryan's head. Ryan let 
out an exclamation of protest. He had no idea what he 
was even trying to say to his father. He just wanted him 
to stop. 

"Now. You will march in front of me, Ryan. Straight 
back, eyes forward and they better be clear. Clear as a 
bell. Not one tear in them or I'll cut off more of your 
hair."

Ryan was scared. Terrified. Part of him wanted to run to 
his mother, but she was no longer there. Part of him 
wanted to yell for the housekeeper, but knew she could 
ultimately do nothing if she wanted to keep her job.

He tried walking in straight lines, but his shoulders 
slumped.

Snip.

He bit his lower lip, almost drawing blood, but the 
tears not only made his eyes glisten, they made his 
cheeks wet as they spilled over and onto his shirt. 

Snip.

He would be the laughing stock at school tomorrow. His 
hair all messed up. Some of it long, some short. He 
already had a hard enough time fitting in.

Snip.

He lived through that night. He had prayed he wouldn't. 
Shortly after that evening, his father made the decision 
to send him to military school. Ryan went quietly. 
Almost relieved. But he made a promise to himself. He 
would return after graduation and come back and kill 
this man. His father. The man who killed his mother. The 
man who tried to break his spirit. 

Ryan kept his promise.

Rino's Diner
Washington, D.C.
March 15, 2000

Ed pulled out a thick file from the briefcase on the 
floor. 

He put a crime-scene photo on the table. A pale woman 
with long black hair looked lifelessly at the ceiling. 
She was dressed in a short oriental style orange baby-
doll pajama. Mulder stared at the photo. Something was 
very odd about it.

"I came into this case in 97. Murder of a Manhattan 
woman. By her husband. Cut and dried. A little odd--but, 
hey--we're talking  New York, you know? Elizabeth 
Bentley. 42 years old. Husband a big shot  in real 
estate. Plenty of cash there, I can tell you.  Man 
confesses to the murder as soon as we're stepping 
through the door.  She was laying on the bed, dead of an 
overdose of injected morphine. Hypodermic lying on a 
nearby table. Husband's prints all over it. Something 
didn't quite sit right with me, but all loose ends 
seemed to be tied up, so I just stored it in the back of 
my mind as something I wasn't 100% satisfied with--along 
with about a thousand details on a thousand other cases, 
and moved on."

He pulled out another photo. There was a tall blonde 
woman lying on a bed in a sheer turquoise nightgown that 
barely covered  her genital area. Head to the side, eyes 
half opened. 
 
"Next year--and I mean a year to the day, same thing 
happens. Jessica Rogers. 37.  Husband babbling his 
confession as they're getting ready to bag the body. It 
was the same scenario. Same fucking scenario. So now, I 
did some checking. There was one murder in 96 with the 
same M.O."

"Each woman was killed by a massive injection of 
morphine. Each went fast. They were each bathed and. . 
.shit, how do I even put this. . .primped. . .post 
mortem." 

"Primped?" Scully asked.

"Yeah, you know. Like you ladies do when you go out or 
something. Sorry, if that's being sexist, Dr. Scully. 
But, hey--I never said men didn't do it, too. You know, 
like when we've got a wedding to go to or something.  
They were each dressed in these rather bizarre 
nightgowns and had a full face of makeup on, hair in 
place, perfume on, lotion on their hands and feet. 
Primped."

That was it, thought Mulder. That's what was wrong with 
the photos. The women were made up. Almost as if they 
were waiting for their very last snapshot on this earth 
to be taken.

"That's still not the really odd "coincidence." Each 
husband said they remembered going to bed and suddenly 
waking up knowing they had to kill their wives. They got 
up, did the deed, gussied  up the dead bodies,  wrote a 
note--the same bloody  note in each case--"die young, 
leave a beautiful corpse"--and then went back to sleep 
next to their wives. Each woke up in the morning, after 
a good night's sleep and remembered what they had done. 
Each called the authorities. Tell me all that is 
coincidence." It was a challenge. Apparently, as odd as 
the circumstances were, he had heard those very words on 
more than one occasion.

"What about last year?" Mulder asked.

"That's where the pattern breaks a bit. Another murder 
but this time, even though all the circumstances were 
the same, the husband denies doing it."

Mulder was reading the files as they lay upside down on 
the desk.

"But your report indicates his prints were on the 
hypodermic needle and he wrote the same note."

"Yes, and he has those memories. But, he says he just 
'knows' he didn't do it."

"And you believe him?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because I know who did it. I don't know how, but I do 
know who. And I know he's going to do it again. Very 
soon, since the day is coming up. I even know who his 
next victims were supposed to be. A couple that 
completely fit the profile of the other victims.  I 
managed to convince them to take an extended vacation to 
Europe. Amazing how people--even workaholics--will agree 
to that type of thing when you tell them they are the 
next possible targets of a serial killer".

"So we're supposed to just step in and take their 
place?" Scully sounded more than skeptical.

"He's got to be desperate. He needs to do this. I'm 
convinced of it.  The people he's been plotting to get 
to help him are gone. So a new couple that also fits the 
bill would be a virtual gift from whatever higher power 
he believes in."

"I don't know." Scully was frowning, looking at the 
picture of the fourth victim. A lovely brunette in a 
psychedelic polyester short pajama.

"What?"

"You've questioned the suspect, right?"

"Yes, once. It was right after the fourth murder and I 
made it seem as if I was just questioning him in order 
to get more information to convict the victim's 
husband."

"Still, don't you think this couple up and leaving and 
our sudden arrival will leave him suspicious? If he's 
smart enough to pull off this crime, in front of 
everyone's noses with no evidence against him--it seems 
he would be smart enough to smell a rat."

"He might.  He doesn't have much of a choice, though. I 
know these killings are not random. Not just anyone will 
do in a pinch. They have to fit a certain profile. He 
believes he's got a mission. I'm certain of it. Look, 
you'll understand all of this as you read the file and 
then--of course, when you meet the suspect." While he 
didn't intend to sound dismissive, he knew everyone 
understood that this was not an optional assignment in 
any way. Until the agents had all the facts he did, 
further discussion would be rather confusing. "I'm 
setting up an ordinary phone number for you to reach me 
if you need to. Day or night."

Detective Johnston looked out of the window and watched 
people passing on the street. 

"I'll leave the number with the front desk of your 
hotel."

"Hotel?"

"You are going to be a married couple in town for six 
weeks on business--William and Katherine Fox. Walt told 
me you hate your first name, Mulder. . . so, we decided 
to rearrange  a bit.  You're both quite well-off, by the 
way, so you can afford to stay in a nice hotel for that 
length of time. Those types usually write it off as a 
business expense anyway."

"But of course," Mulder said, getting a jump start on 
his role.

"Anyway, we'll talk when you get into town. On the 
slimmest chance that he will actually do some background 
checking on the two of you, I want your arrival in New 
York to seem completely true to the scenario--right down 
to your driving into town with your very own DC license 
plates--just the two of you."


3 PM
I-95

Scully leaned back against the headrest. It seemed like 
the longest day of her life. She had been up since 4 AM, 
gone to the hospital, gone to the office, had the 
strange coffee "lunch" at 9:30, hit the road at 12 and 
was driving toward New York and reading files at the 
same time. There was a lot to absorb about this case. A 
lot.  She was so tired, she really just needed a short 
nap. Mulder was switching the stations on the radio. 
Maybe he wouldn't notice if she just slipped off. 

"Scully! Hey, don't fade out on me here. It's the shank 
of the day."

"The what?" She should have told him. He'd leave her 
alone if he knew she really needed the rest.

"You know. . .the shank. . .the juicy part of the day 
when a whole bunch of facts could be passed on from one 
agent to another. An almost mystical transference of 
information from one warm body through the lips of the 
other. Say something Scully. . .I'm turning myself on." 
He gave a mock wiggle as if someone had just slipped an 
ice cube down the back of his coat.

She had to smile in spite of the fact that it only 
encouraged his behavior. 

"Okay. What do you want to go over now?"

"The killer."

"The suspect, Mulder."

"How very p.c. of you, Scully. Okay, the suspect. Tell 
me about him."

"Well, okay. Ed Johnston got suspicious after the third 
murder, which was only the second he was aware of at the 
time. The wording of the notes is what really got to 
him--it was a butchering of a James Dean quote: "live 
fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse." The 
exact misquote is on all the notes.  Another thing that 
bothered him--and this is from the personal notes he 
gave us, not from the official file, was that the 
husband of the first victim he was aware of. . 
.Elizabeth Bentley's husband, Joseph. . .while he had 
confessed to the murder readily, when he talked about it 
in detail during questioning, he used terms such as "I 
saw myself picking up the needle, I saw myself putting 
makeup on Elizabeth." It bothered him and the husband 
seemed completely unaware that he was even doing it."

"Mmmmm. . ."

"What?"

"Well, I can see why a small flag could come up on that 
one but it's not uncommon to distance oneself from one's 
crime by the use of impersonal language."

"Ooh, Mulder the skeptic. Be still my heart," she said 
in a completely flat tone of voice. He took the bait 
anyway.

"Scully the flirt. Is there anywhere we could pull off 
this road for. . .oh, say ten minutes or so?"

She shook her head with a smile. This was what she had 
been aiming for right after the doctor's visit. It was 
silly and obviously meant very little but it made her 
feel good. It made her feel alive. Plus, the little 
tingle of anticipation over extreme possibilities 
possibly becoming reality someday was very, very 
pleasant. 

"Anyway, the second time he saw this same scenario, he 
was convinced there was more to it. A third party who, 
at the very least, was using some form of mind-control 
to compel these men to commit these crimes. At the 
worst, he was killing the women and having the husbands 
believe they did it. And when he found out there had 
been a first victim. . .before the two he knew about, he 
started an all-out  investigation. Now, it should be 
noted, Mulder, that the NYPD is not exactly thrilled 
about this. They weren't really backing him up much at 
all until he managed to get this fifth couple out of 
town. Apparently, they are well connected to government 
officials in New York and praised Detective Johnston for 
the remarkable work he did thus far and encouraged the 
further investigation and capture of the suspect. That's 
the only thing that is allowing this case to go forward. 
But, as you can imagine, if he fails this time, they 
will be more than happy to feed him to the wolves. They 
have three confessed murderers in jail and they aren't 
happy with the prospect of being very, very publicly 
wrong about it all."

"Three? There were four victims."

"Yes, but the husband of the. . ." she shuffled papers 
around a bit trying to find the information ". . . third 
victim committed suicide while out on bail awaiting 
trial."

"Ah, I see."

"So, Detective Johnston looked for common bonds. All 
were couples married ten years or longer. Not highly 
unusual. All currently living in New York, but that 
seemed incidental since some were native New Yorkers and 
some were not. No children. Common bond. Ages. . .well 
there is a good age range but no one over 50. After a 
great deal of investigation, he found one common link 
between all of them. They all --husbands and wives--had 
gone for massages and facials to the same esthetician. 
One Ryan Wilkins. "

"Ooh. . .kay."

"Colorful past, Mulder." Scully said, rifling through 
more pages. She had already read through some of it but 
the prospect of rehashing it for Mulder's sake did not 
appeal to her at the moment. She was feeling more than a 
little lightheaded.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm waiting."  He threw her a quick side-long glance.

"Mulder? I'm. . .can we stop for a bit. I need to 
freshen up."

Nice euphemism. Well, maybe not. He stared at her a bit. 
She looked very pale, very tired. And here he was making 
her read during the long, bumpy car ride after running 
around all morning. 

They had another thirty-six hours before they were 
scheduled to meet the suspect. There was plenty of time 
for a rundown on his past later. 

He stopped at the nearest rest stop. It was time to get 
out of the car.

End of part 2