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Scavenger 

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Chapter Two


Everyone with a life went home on Friday night so that left 
Scully alone at her desk.  Six years in the basement had 
inured her to dark and silence, and now she had trouble 
working with voices and phones ringing all around her.  She 
felt naked in the bullpen, stripped of all her certainty and 
on display.  There was nothing left for her to put her back 
up against.  The X-Files were gone.  Now Mulder was gone, 
too, off on another solo adventure.

She took out her lonely sandwich and ate it by the light of 
her computer monitor.  Mulder chafed at their current 
restrictions, she knew.  She felt him testing the elastic 
bands, stretching, stretching, until one day he would fling 
himself somewhere she couldn't reach.  Maybe it would be for 
the best.  They weren't partners.  They weren't officially 
anything anymore.  He might go farther and faster without 
her.

Her computer beeped at the end of its search.

It's personal, he'd said as he'd left, which meant it didn't 
concern her.  Her concern felt otherwise, however, which was 
why she had stayed late to rifle through FBI databases and 
look at missing persons cases.  She found twenty-seven open 
cases in Massachusetts from 1995-1998.  When Mulder said 
personal, that was usually shorthand for "missing little 
girls," especially when the case originated in Massachusetts.   
The files showed six missing children under the age of 
fifteen, only one under the age of ten.  All six disappeared 
from Boston or the surrounding areas.

"Mulder said western Mass," Scully murmured, and narrowed her 
search.   Eight names remained.  She reduced it to those who 
had gone missing in the summer, then just July.  Three names 
glowed on her screen, one per year for the last three years.  
She clicked for more details.

Bea Nelson, aged 22, was reported missing by her parents on 
July 2, 1995.  A college student at Clark University, Bea had 
left to visit her boyfriend in Worcester.  Her parents found 
her car in the driveway in the morning but no sign of Bea.  
Bea's boyfriend, Derek Corbett, said she had left his place 
at midnight the night before.  No body found.  No one had 
seen Bea since.

Shannon Blessing, 36, vanished from her home on July 12, 
1996.  Henry Blessing, her ex-husband, reported her missing 
when she failed to pick up the kids from day camp.  Shannon, 
an avid knitter, had stopped in at the crafts store before 
lunch to pick up three rolls of yarn.  No one had seen or 
heard from her since.  No body was ever found.

Mark Roy was going fishing, but no one saw him at the pond.  
The 59 year-old married father of two disappeared somewhere 
between Gill's Tackle Shop and Hingham Pond on July 9, 1997.  
His car vanished with him.  Friends and relatives described 
Roy's behavior as somewhat erratic in the weeks before he 
disappeared.  With financial troubles and an extremely ill 
young son at home, Roy may have committed suicide.  No body 
was found.

Scully made hard copies of the reports, printer humming and 
spitting from across the room.  She didn't hurry to retrieve 
the papers, instead sitting in her chair with her hands 
folded over her belly.  Three unrelated adults of different 
ages and genders go missing at roughly the same time.  It 
didn't make sense on its face, and she couldn't see how 
Mulder would find it personal.

Scully pushed out of her chair and strolled across the room 
for the printouts.  Flipping through them on her way back, 
she halted.  They were linked, all right, by the last line on 
each page:  "For further information, contact Eleanor Kot, 
Pittsfield County Sheriff's Office."

On a hunch, Scully went back and ran Eleanor Kot through the 
FBI's databases.  The name Eleanor Kot brought up a series of 
links and she clicked them one by one, her mouth falling open 
as the ugly story splashed across her screen.  Digitized 
horror -- a butchered girl here, a lopped hand there -- in 
full color, the pictures showed a series of savage killings 
with only one survivor.  Eleanor Kot Wakefield stared out at 
her with dead eyes.  Her blond had been chopped at jagged 
angles, giving her an eighties punk look. Blood had dried 
around her right ear and under her nose.

There was text beside the photo, blurred in Scully's 
peripheral vision.  She shifted her gaze and words of 
unspeakable carnage popped out at her.  Brahm Michael Coben 
had hacked ten young women to death in the basement of his 
Chicago apartment building.  He was busy working on number 
eleven when one man stopped him.

At the bottom was his name.  Agent of record:  Fox Mulder.

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For years I only knew her face.  They were careful to keep 
her name out of the papers because she was still a kid when 
it happened.  I caught just a glimpse of her as she was 
hustled out the back door at his trial.  Reporters descended 
like jackals and the suits tried to protect her, but I saw.  
She saw me, too.  Our eyes locked across the street just as 
I'd done with him the year before.  But she doesn't remember 
now.  She doesn't know me anymore.  I am working to change 
that but it's important to go slowly.  I am nothing if not 
patient.  

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It wasn't his fault that he appeared in her nightmares.  She 
knew which team Mulder played for, remembered her rescue, but 
when her brain opened the closet door, only two faces waited 
on the other side and one was his.  She wondered if his brain 
opened the closet and saw a sixteen year-old girl.  

When he stepped off the plane and she shook his hand so tight 
he winced.  "Sorry," she said, jerking it back.  "Thank you 
for coming."

"You were quite persuasive on the phone."

"I apologize if I pressed an unfair advantage," she said as 
they walked, "but I needed to get you up here for you to 
believe me."

"What makes you think I don't already believe you?"

She smiled but did not slow down.  "The very fact that you 
asked me that."

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't believe you."

"You wouldn't have come if you didn't think there was a 
chance I was right.  A chance doesn't make you believe."

He laughed.  "Apparently you don't know my reputation."

"No, but it wouldn't change anything."

"You're sure."

"Yes."  She looked him swiftly up and down.  "I wouldn't 
believe it, if I were you.  You haven't even seen the case 
files yet."

"But I see you brought them with you," he said, indicating 
the folders under her arm.  There was an undertone in his 
voice, not quite amusement, not quite condescension; she 
recognized it from the men she worked with every day.  He was 
humoring her.  Well, she didn't really give a fuck what he 
thought of her as long as he looked at the damn files.

"Copies, yes.  As I mentioned, we're dealing with a narrow 
time window here.  His strike pattern is anywhere from today 
through July 12th.  If you can help it at all, it needs to be 
sooner rather than later."

"I don't work miracles, you know."  His tone grew softer, 
gentler, and she felt her cheeks flush hot.  She liked the 
condescension better.

"Just look at the files," she said as they reached her car, 
"and tell me what you think.  If you say there's nothing 
there, I'll have you on a plane back to DC tomorrow."

"So."  He held out his hand.  "Let me see them."  

No wedding band, she noticed, because these days she was in 
the habit of noticing.  She hesitated, looking down at the 
thick folders in her grasp.  The folders were worn around the 
edges.  Her fingerprints marred the tabs.  At last she thrust 
them into his waiting hand, relinquishing their awkward 
weight.  "They're in chronological order," she told him as 
they got into the car.  "Most recent case first."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she pulled 
out of the parking garage.  He yanked the last file to the 
top and flipped it open.  Of course, she thought.  Always 
start with the first victim.  

Her heart picked up and she gripped the wheel.  Finally she 
had someone -- no, an expert -- to listen to her.  As much as 
she hoped he could find a clue, she prayed it wouldn't be 
obvious.  How stupid would she look if the answer had been 
right in front of her for three years?

"Bea Nelson," he murmured.  "Lots of notes here.  Her file is 
almost twice as thick as the others."

Ellie didn't have to glance at the pictures to know what he 
was seeing.  She'd memorized them long ago -- Bea's single 
dimple, her dirty blonde hair so like Eleanor's own.  But 
Bea's sweet smile hid a darker side only a few people had 
seen.  "I didn't know that she was going to be the start of a 
pattern," she told Mulder.  "Once I made the connection, I 
went back and reevaluated all the evidence."

"Church girl, family intact, good grades -- she had her life 
together."

"Turn the page."

He scanned the print.  "Sex games," he said.  "BDSM."

Just the words made her tingle.  It had been hers for the 
taking, but she'd said no. "You can imagine how that played 
out in small-town Woodsbury.  Every cop on the case thought 
the boyfriend had gotten too rough and killed her by 
accident."

"Derek Corbett," he said, lifting the page.  "I see you 
looked at him long and hard."

"Of course.  He was the last one to see Bea alive.  But 
they'd been out together with friends at a bar that night; 
witnesses saw them kiss goodbye and Bea drive away.  Besides, 
if he killed her during rough sex, how did her car end up 
back in her parents' driveway?  His prints were in the car 
but only Bea's were on the wheel."

He made a low noise in his throat as if he weren't really 
listening.  She looked over and saw that he had pulled all 
the photos of Bea's car out and was holding them up to the 
light.  "These were taken right after she was reported 
missing?"

"Yes, the next morning her parents found her car but not Bea.  
They called us in immediately."

"No blood in the car?  No evidence of a struggle?"

"None."

He put the pictures back down.  "I don't know what happened," 
he said, "but Derek Corbett wasn't the last person to see Bea 
alive."

"What are you talking about?"

He slid a photo of the dash across to her.  "The gas tank is 
nearly full.  She stopped somewhere between Worcester and 
Woodsbury."

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His end of the state was the sea, pounding surf and salted 
rocks.  He'd grown up with sand between his toes and gulls 
calling overhead.  Here, not too many miles away, was a 
different world with the same name.  Western Massachusetts 
was about the earth, solid, rolling hills and trees thick as 
bear's fur.  He cracked his window and let in the sweet smell 
of the passing meadows.  On his lap, the papers flared in the 
breeze.

He was glad she'd brought them, got straight to business 
rather than making senseless small talk.  The bright summer 
sun showed off the faint scar near her right ear.  Time 
healed all wounds but it didn't make them go away. 

"We're almost to the Sheriff's station now," she said, her 
eyes on the road.  "Or I could take you to a hotel if you 
want time to freshen up."

Mulder looked down at his rumpled suit.  "I think this is as 
fresh as I get."

She smiled.  "The office it is, then."

"You said on the phone that your coworkers don't seem to 
think that these cases are related."

"That's right.  Their knowledge of serial murder comes mostly 
from TV shows and Ann Rule books.  If it ain't a bunch of 
dead white prostitutes, they're not buying."

"Even the Sheriff?"

"Sam?  I think deep down he knows something's off with these 
disappearances, but he's a 'letter of the law' kind of guy.  
Without any bodies, he won't put any detectives on the serial 
murder angle."

"He has you."

She put the car in park and gave him a wry look.  "Most of 
that I've collected on my own time.  Sam, as you're about to 
find out, has not been the most approving."

He followed her up the cement stairs and into a modern-
looking brick building.  Air conditioning blasted them as 
they walked through the glass doors.  Eleanor led him behind 
a tall counter to a row of desks.  A young man in uniform 
jumped up and hurried over to Eleanor.  "Ellie, Sheriff's 
been looking for you since lunchtime.  We caught a lead on 
the Caughlin St. break-in."

"Thanks, Jimmy.  I'll handle it."

"But he said--"

"I'll deal with Sam.  It's okay."

The office door at the rear was open and Mulder could see a 
large man standing over his desk.   What looked like photos 
spread across the top and the man was talking to an Asian 
woman about them.  Eleanor braced her shoulders inside her 
blue uniform.  "Let's go," she said to him in a low voice.  
"I'll introduce you."

The Sheriff looked up as they approached, a quick, assessing 
glance, then returned to his work.  "Nice of you to join us 
here, Deputy," he said when Eleanor reached the doorway.  The 
dark-haired woman to his right bit her lip and backed up a 
step.  Eleanor removed her hat.  Mulder could see the dark 
blonde hairs slicked to her neck.

"Sheriff Parker, I'd like you to meet Fox Mulder from the 
FBI.  He's generously agreed to help us with our missing 
persons cases. Agent Mulder, this is Sam Parker, Sheriff for 
all of Pittsfield County."

Parker frowned at them.  "CiCi, I'd like copies of these 
three, if you don't mind.  That will be all for now."

"Yes, sir.  I'll have them by this evening."  She slipped out 
of the room, and Parker stared hard at Eleanor. 

"Come in and close the door."  He shook Mulder's hand.  "FBI, 
huh?  You out of Boston?"

"No, sir, Washington.  Deputy Kot phoned me this morning and 
told me about the situation you have here."

"And what situation is that, exactly?"

Mulder held up the stack of files.  "This one.  Three people 
missing in three years."

"Eleanor's got her own pet theory about those cases.  I 
suppose she's shared it with you."

"She has."

"And what do you think?"

Mulder felt Eleanor's eyes on him as he answered.  "The 
victim profiles are quite varied but there is a definite 
pattern to the timing of the disappearances.  It's worth 
exploring the possibility that they could be connected."

"I have explored it.  Lord knows Eleanor here has just about 
exhausted herself with that angle.  What makes you think 
you've got the answer?"

"I asked him to come," Eleanor said.  "Just to look."

"That so."  Parker leaned back in his chair and put his hands 
behind his head.  "What sort of FBI work do you do down in 
Washington, Agent Mulder?"

"He's a profiler."

"Not anymore," Mulder cut in.  "I work different departments 
these days, as needed."

"I see.  Eleanor calls you up with three cold cases and you 
just drop everything to run on up here.  What part of this 
story am I missing?"  He looked from one to the other.  

Mulder said nothing.  Eleanor sighed and stepped forward.  
She set her hat down on the chair beside Mulder and turned 
her head to the left.  "This," she said, showing off the scar 
by her ear, "is not from a bike accident.  And this--"  She 
held out her right arm, exhibiting a long, jagged white line.  
"--is not from falling out of a tree."

Parker's brows knit together in concern.  "What are you 
trying to say?"

She walked around his desk to the bookshelf in the back, 
where she retrieved a recent textbook on criminology.  "Page 
one twenty-two," she said as she pushed it in front of 
Parker.  "His name was Brahm Michael Coben."

"I know the case."  Parker didn't open the book.  "He killed 
ten girls in Chicago back in the late eighties."

"It would have been eleven," Eleanor said, her voice uneven. 
"Agent Mulder caught him."

"My God, Ellie, are you telling me...?"  He reached for her 
arm but she shifted away.

"I knew if anyone would believe me about these cases, it 
would be Mulder, so that's why I called."

"What didn't you tell me?  All these years, why didn't you 
say something?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't--of course it matters!"

"Not to you," she said.  "Not here.  Unless now, maybe you'll 
believe me when I tell you I am sure these cases are 
connected.  Bea Nelson, Shannon Blessing and Mark Roy are 
dead, and soon he's going to take another one unless we find 
some way to stop it."

"Okay.  Okay, I'm listening."  He scrubbed his face with his 
hands, then looked at Mulder.  "What have you got so far?"

"I've barely glanced through the files but one thing jumps 
right out:  if these kidnappings are the work of one 
individual, he's extraordinarily organized.  You don't get 
away this clean without doing your homework.  He would have 
stalked these people for weeks, even months before he took 
them.   All of this is to say that, if there's going to be 
another one, you can be sure he's already selected his 
target."

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CiCi Lin borrowed the nearest desk corner, ostensibly to mark 
photographs, but her eye was on the office window.  July in 
Woodsbury meant three things:  fat blueberries in her 
backyard, humidity that could curl the hair on your arm, and 
Eleanor Kot raving about missing people again.  Cici just 
took the pictures.  She didn't ask questions and she didn't 
answer them either.  Still, after last year, no one would 
blame her for being jittery -- no one who knew, which was to 
say, no one at all. 

"Who's that guy with Eleanor?"  Jimmy Tipton, bright shiny 
new Deputy, appeared at her elbow.

"I don't know."  She collected her photographs and stuck them 
in a brown envelope. 

"Well, you were in there with them.  You didn't even get his 
name?"

"Listen, Jimmy, I'd love to chat but Sam wants copies of the 
Caughlin St. break-in by the end of the day."

She sneaked one last look at the man in Sam's office.  His 
gray suit screamed government, which meant Eleanor had 
finally brought in the big guns.  She just hoped he didn't 
come around pointing at her.  CiCi fled the station before he 
could emerge again.  The time to talk had long passed; she 
would take her secret to the grave.

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I am not the only one with patience.  She has shown such 
faith and persistence that I'm certain I have picked the 
right one.  I trust her completely with our dance, and her 
actions tell me she wishes to pick up the pace.

I have no choice but to follow.

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On Saturday morning Eleanor got up with the sun, eager to 
start a new day of investigation.  By noon, she would have 
walked Agent Mulder though each of the suspected crime scenes 
and maybe he would have a lead.  She took her coffee mug out 
onto the old porch, screen door banging shut behind her, and 
sat down to watch the dew burn off the grass.  She squinted 
at the familiar shape starting up the end of her long 
driveway.  "Shit."

"Eleanor!" he called, waving.  He held something brightly 
colored in one hand.  "Figured you'd be up."

"Sam, it's early.  What do you want?"  

"Just to talk to you is all.  You wouldn't answer your phone 
last night."

She stood.  "I was out."

"With Agent Mulder?"

As he reached her porch, she saw he had a box wrapped in 
balloon paper and a gay pink ribbon.  She hated pink.  "Sam, 
what have you got there?"

"This?  I found it at the end of your drive."  He smiled and 
held it out to her.  "Early birthday present, I guess."

"Sam, you really shouldn't."

"It's not from me."  He held up his hands.  "I swear."

Her stomach sank and her knees gave out.  She sat with the 
box on her lap knowing she shouldn't open it but knowing she 
couldn't stop herself.  

"Ellie, listen, I was reading about the Chicago case last 
night, and I just want to tell you..."

The ribbon fell away.  She lifted the lid.  "Oh.  Oh, God."

"Jesus!"

"Call Mulder," she said.  "Call him now."

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"Hello?"  She curled under the covers with her eyes still 
closed.  If she didn't open them, it wasn't morning yet.

"Hey, Scully, it's me."

Her eyes snapped wide.  "Mulder?  What time is it?"

"Six-thirty.  Sorry to roust you so early, but I need to know 
if you can get away from Kersh long enough to come up here 
and help me with something."

Massachusetts, she remembered, and Eleanor Kot.  "Oh, so you 
have a body for me to poke at after all?"

There was a pause on the other end.  "Not a body.  Just a 
hand.  Female, from the looks of it, and well preserved.  
Someone's been sitting on this one for a long time."

"I'm on my way."

"Great, let me know when you get here.  If this guy's mailing 
body parts now, we don't have much time."

Time, she thought.  Yes.  "Mulder--"  She stopped him before 
he could hang up.

"Yeah?"

She felt him hanging there, waiting, and wondered how much to 
confess.  "I read the reports on Eleanor Kot last night."

"I don't have time to go into that now.  Call me when you get 
here, okay?"

"Mulder, wait.  That case broke the second week of July, just 
about the same time all these people have disappeared.  Now 
you've got a chopped hand..."

"Coben was executed months ago.  You're thinking copycat?"

She reached a hand in to turn on the shower.  "I don't know.  
Maybe.  You're not thinking it's a copycat?"

Silence stretched on his end.  "I'm trying not to think about 
it," he said at last.  "If you read the files, you know why."

"Yes."  She shed her robe.  "I'll be there as fast as I can."

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End chapter two.  Continued in chapter three.

See?  I wouldn't leave Scully out of all of the serial killer 
fun for very long. ;-)

Feedback always welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com