TITLE: CHICAGO STORIES: MULDER INTERLUDE
AUTHOR: WPAdmirer@aol.com 
ARCHIVE: Yes, but please write me and tell me where.
CATEGORY: Slash Crossover (XF-ER) Skinner/John Carter
SPOILERS: SR 819 (X-Files), None (ER)
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: What's a Mulder to do when Skinner won't let him investigate the events of SR 819? And what was that name that Skinner gave Mulder?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I got tired of waiting for some good John Carter  slash, and there's never enough Skinner fic to suit me. The full set of stories (thus far) can be found at the ER nfic site:
http://www.oocities.org/TelevisionCity/Studio/5437/wpadmirer.htm   and my own site (which is slower to catch up to the stories, but has a nice photo each of Walter and John) can be found at:
http://chateauke.simplenet.com/chimerical/chicago/index.htm
DISCLAIMER: It's not the author's intention to infringe upon or profit from the characters created and owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions or the Fox Network, nor Warner Brothers and NBC. Skinner and Carter were borrowed temporarily and returned almost immediately. Mulder is visiting.
SPECIAL THANKS: To KiMeriKal and ewade for beta reading and friendship.
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CHICAGO STORIES: MULDER INTERLUDE

by WPAdmirer

Skinner lied to us. He recognized the man in the photos. But he got that closed off, tight-assed AD face on and refused to talk to us. Scully was stunned. She couldn't talk about it afterwards. She just looked at me and then left. Walked right out of the building.

I went back to my desk in the bull pen and tried to figure out why he'd lied. This time. I scanned through Kersh's private e-mail just to occupy myself while I did my thinking. Kersh is one boring son-of-a-bitch. I'm willing to bet he fucks his wife on Saturdays, and only in the missionary position. The guy has no imagination at all. Reports, e-mail to his kids. Jesus! I can't imagine having that lying piece of shit for a father.

Well, maybe I could. Shit.

Skinner, though, is still a mystery to me. Just when I think I've got him sussed, he does something that is so unexpected it makes my head spin.  Yeah, around and around, like that possessed little girl in The Exorcist. Any time now I'm going to start spitting up pea soup and levitating above my desk.

Dr. John Carter. Cook County General Hospital. Chicago. That's the information Skinner gave me when we were all sure he was going to buy it. I remember the look in his eyes. And he didn't want Scully to know about this guy. At the time I was so obsessed with finding a cure for him that I didn't really think much about it.

But now, especially after he pulled that bullshit of "there will be no investigation" on us, I feel like everything in his life is fair game.  I pop off an e-mail to Frohike. 'Dr. John Carter, Chicago, Cook County General. Everything you can get.' The response is almost immediate.

'Two videos, a six-pack of the good imported stuff, and pizza.'

"Jesus, Frohike. I didn't ask you to hack into the DOD." I answer him. 'One video and a pizza. Buy your own damn beer.'

'Cheap bastard,' is the reply.

Just as I'm getting ready to leave for the evening I get an e-mail from the three amigos. 'Bring the video and the pizza. See you at 8.'  Efficient and fast. You gotta love it.

So, after the usual rigamarole at the door to their hovel I get inside. I've got a large pepperoni and sausage pizza and my copy of Candy Stripers. It's a classic, but I know that Frohike has the correct artistic sensibilities to recognize that. Anyway, I've seen it so many times I have all the positions memorized.

They have to bullshit for a few minutes, check out the pizza, Frohike immediately throws the tape into a vcr, then they're ready to give me the information.

"Candy Stripers! Now this is a classic, Mulder."

"I knew you were a man of eclectic taste."

Frohike smiles and offers me a beer. I take it and they settle back to give me the scoop.

"Dr. John Truman Carter. Second year resident in emergency medicine.  Works out of the emergency room of Cook County General Hospital. He's the son of Roland Carter, number eight on the list of wealthiest men in Chicago.  Dr. Carter, however, is penniless. Walked away from the family fortune to be a doctor," Byers reports evenly.

"Obviously a moron," Langley interjects.

"Actually, an idealist," Byers continues. "He didn't even pick a specialty that makes money. His academic record was outstanding. His evaluations as an intern and then a resident have been excellent. He's considered an aggressive trauma physician with unusually good patient skills."

"He's had a run of bad luck since the family money fountain got turned off," Frohike says through a mouthful of pizza. "Financially he's fucked.  Doesn't even have a credit card. But, and this is an interesting tidbit, he's been flying in to D.C. for little 24 and 36 hour stays. No record of him being in a hotel. He flies in, disappears, then flies back out. He's done it three times in the past month and a half."

"How's he paying for the airline tickets?"

The three have big shit-eating grins. This must be good.

"The first ticket was paid for on a credit card in the name of Dr. Kerry Weaver, also of Chicago," says Langley.

"Our delightful Dr. Carter's landlady, by the way," says Frohike.

"But the last two were paid for by cashiers checks to a travel agent here in D.C."

They continue to smile. Obviously this is not where the trail ended.

"Okay, guys, give."

They look at each other, then back to me.

"It took most of the day, but we finally traced the cashiers checks back to a local bank. With a little bit of creative computer work we were able to discover that the checks were sold to one Walter Sergei Skinner."
Byers is smiling big now.

"You know, Mulder. The big, bald guy that used to kick your butt on a regular basis?" Frohike is laughing.

"Skinner's paying for this guy to come to D.C.? Why?"

They all three shrug. "That's all we could get."

"Where would I find this guy if I went to Chicago tonight?" I ask.

Thirty minutes later I'm at the airport handing over my personal credit card and trying not to cringe at the amount I'm being charged for the ticket. This is crazy. Flying to Chicago with a name and an address, and no real idea what the connection is with between this guy and Skinner. But he was the name on Skinner's lips when he was dying. And if Skinner won't talk to me, maybe this guy will.

****

I make it into Chicago, but I realize after the plane lands that I may not make it back out. It's snowing like fucking hell. I have never particularly liked this city, and after ending up in a psychiatric hospital strapped to a bed, it's become even less a place I want to be. The feeling is apparently mutual, because the city looks like it's trying to make my life difficult again.

When I finally get a cab, and it finally makes it into town, sliding sideways down the road at two different points, causing me to probably leave several shades of brown on my nice clean shorts, I get let off in front of a house. There are still lights on. According to the terrible trio, John Truman Carter was supposed to be getting off work shortly after eleven. With any luck at all, he's getting ready to tuck himself into bed.

I knock at the door and after a long time the door is opened. The guy standing there is about my height, brown hair, brown eyes. He's got on a robe over a t-shirt and boxers. He also has the most amazingly saggy pair of white athletic socks on the skinniest pair of legs I've seen in a long time.

I flash my badge. "I'm Agent Fox Mulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm looking for Dr. John Carter."

His eyes go huge. "Mulder?!"

"Are you Dr. Carter?"

He nods dumbly.

"May I speak with you?"

He nods and steps aside. I walk in. The room is nicely furnished. It looks kind of like Scully's apartment, female. Nice.

"What's this about?"

"Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner." There's no doubt he recognizes the name. His eyes kind of flash, and his face flushes. It's kind of like the reaction that Scully gets when I catch her eying some good looking guy, like that Sheriff in Texas.

John Carter pulls his robe tighter around him, as though he's trying to hide himself.

Oh, shit, I think. Oh, shit, shit, shit. It's exactly the kind of reaction that Scully gets. And under that robe he's hiding...oh shit!


The End