Simon The Ripper’s Mental Musings
By Humbuggie
(c) 2003
san@sv-tales.com
Edited by Truthwebothknow1
A special thanks goes out to X-Phylia, with my utmost
thanks for (ab)using her scientific mind to get all the
complex details of this story in right order. I’m not a
scientist. Thank god for me that she is.
Written for Virtual Season 11, with a special thanks to the
team there that has created such a wonderful series. I’m
hoping that my efforts will contribute to the series’
continuing success.
Oh no, I see,
A spider web is tangled up with me,
And I lost my head,
The thought of all the stupid things I said,
Oh no what’s this?
A spider web, and I’m caught in the middle,
So I turned to run,
The thought of all the stupid things I’ve done
— Coldplay
Teaser
October 2003
Simon West liked to sing. No, he loved it. All the time. He
hummed at the office, even though the sound of music was
the furthest thing away from his ears. He chanted in the
car driving home, turning up the volume during Coldplay’s
Clocks, which he recited perfectly. He went wild on
Parachutes, too. At home, he was nuts on Dido. And when he
was in the shower, he preferred Sunday Bloody Sunday.
At school he was the boy you would always try to avoid in
the playgrounds. The one who was picked upon and teased
with his buckteeth, stupid grin and red hair above a
heavily freckled face. He was never cute, cuddly or even
slightly attractive: an awkward teen. He was off kilter.
Weird. Not the good weird, but the awkward type. Something
indefinable, something so strange, that it stirred in him a
pure hatred against women. What a miracle that he’d passed
all the psych tests to get his job; all forced upon him by
women. Women were everywhere: in the shops, the elevators,
the pharmacy, the office, the . . . well, everywhere!
A male teacher of his, one-day said: “Some people are
destined to become human
wallpaper. Just go with the flow, and you’ll be able to
live your life freely.”
Simon had taken that advice to heart; now he just sat back
and hated them all.
Today, Simon West no longer cared that women at the office
constantly took the piss out of him at work. Now he was
just the nerdy dude with the stupid Simpson’s-mug, who took
the four spoons of sugar in his coffee. The one who still
lived at his mother’s and liked her to make his lunch. In
fact, his mother was the only woman he didn’t hate. In the
end, he just learned quickly to become that unseen
wallpaper.
That night, on his way home from the office, Simon’s mind
had been made up. He had been researching all the details
for weeks online, imagining it all playing out inside his
rather large skull. He knew that he had all the equipment
now: the dark clothes, the gloves, the knife, the ropes and
“The Ultimate Guide to Ripping: A Full Companion for the
Future Serial Killer.” Lovely. He had also printed out all
the gruesome details he found described on a detailed,
known website, and also in books. He’d devoured every
single novel or reference book on Jack The Ripper; and last
week, he decided he would become him.
Jack The Ripper was his example, his god: the first serial
killer noted throughout history, becoming notorious through
his many gruesome acts and never caught. But Simon wanted
to get caught.
Perhaps he could commit one, two murders before anyone
would make the connection. Then, they would scream ‘murder’
and say that The Ripper had returned once more. At the turn
of the new millennium, someone needed to stir things up
sometimes. That someone was Simon West: Mister Ordinaire,
just like Jack The Ripper had once taken the innocence out
of London.
Simon scrubbed, shaved and dried while listening to
Radiohead’s OK Computer, and put on his black outfit.
Everything lay ready in the trunk of the car. Downstairs it
was quiet. His mother didn’t like to be disturbed after
eight, when she had cooked, cleaned and had dressed in her
satin nightgown that buttoned up to the top.
“I’m going out, mom,” he told her politely. “I’ll be back
in a few hours. Don’t worry about me.”
She didn’t respond verbally, but waved with her hand. He
locked the door from the outside and walked brusquely to
his car. His sedan waited for him. It was a run of the mill
trustworthy car, not an exciting one like most of his
colleagues drove. He left D.C. and headed for Baltimore. He
was a far cry from Victorian London, but he didn’t care.
There were plenty of alleys where he could find his whores
to kill. He had researched the areas well, and knew where
to go.
He pulled his car into an abandoned parking lot a few miles
outside of D.C. and walked over to the stolen RV he had
snatched three days ago. He’d replaced the license plates,
and paid some dude he knew to re-spray it black. It was
old, it stank strongly of dog piss but it suited the
purpose. He was in Baltimore in less than an hour.
He knew his way around quite well, having scanned the area
previously. He debated between Exeter Street, or Rhubarb
Road; deciding to pick out the latter. Plenty of working
girls hung out there, who would do anything for a dime. He
spotted groups of them on almost every corner, and a few
walking alone. He settled for the singletons.
He put on the Knicks’ cap that hid his thick red hair,
pulling it down low over his eyes. He cruised up beside a
woman dressed in black and red ass-freezer dress.
“A blow, baby?” she purred instantly, lingering
suspiciously near the RV.
“I’m looking for a girl named Mary Ann,” he whispered
hoarsely, and then felt totally ridiculous. Who in their
right mind would listen to this shit and not be put in mind
of a B-movie?
But the working girl smiled. “You’re in luck baby, I’m Mary
Ann.”
“No, you’re not. I need a Mary Ann. A real one.”
“I can be whoever you want, darling.” He watched her
chewing gum working back and forth through her teeth. In
his mind’s eye, he pretended to choke her, to shove that
gum as far down her gullet as possible, blocking off the
air in her windpipe and have her suffocate on it.
“I want someone named Mary or Ann, or both. Got it?” he
hissed menacingly.
She froze for a second or two, and waved out her hand
instinctively. “There’s an Ann standing right over there.
The blonde bimbo with the leather boots. But she doesn’t
blow as well as I do.”
“I’m sure she’ll die better,” he muttered under his breath
as he drove off, leaving the redhead dazzled. Before long,
he had reached the blonde and asked if her name was Ann.
“Yeah,” she replied broadly.
He was angry that her hair wasn’t the right color, but
hell, that didn’t matter. “Hop in.” He threw open the door
and allowed her inside.
“No way,” she said. “Around that corner there’s a small
motel. I’m not doing you in your car.”
“Get in then, I’ll drive you.”
She hesitated. He took off his cap. She relaxed. “You seem
okay.”
She stepped in gingerly and they drove around the corner,
not even that far from where her friends normally worked.
But instead of going inside the cheap, sleazy motel that
was a magnet for hookers and their customers, he parked the
car one block down.
“Do you know why you are going to die?” he asked in a
friendly, matter of fact manner.
She startled and went for the door. He grasped her wrist.
“Do you?”
“No,” she squealed.
“Because you’re a stupid bitch woman with a stupid name
like Mary Ann who can’t keep her legs closed, and just begs
to be killed in some equally stupid alley, slashed by a
Ripper knife. That’s why.” He ground out a sliver of anger
between clenched teeth.
“Are you stoned?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.
He smiled. “I’m high on life, baby.”
“I’m calling the cops!”
He laughed. “You do that.”
In a flash, he’d grasped her by the hair and pushed her
down hard, smashing her head against the filthy dashboard.
She was stunned instantly. He left the RV and dragged her
out from the passenger side, wearing his gloves. Strands of
her hair remained on his clothing. He pulled her to the
ground, and then onto the wet pavement glistening from the
night’s rain.
Then he worked swift and fast, summoning up the gory
details that he almost knew from the top of his head.
Within three minutes he was gone, leaving her carved-up
body for her friends to find. Blood flowed from underneath
her body, twisting like a dark serpent into the drains
beside her. The cuts were exactly as the real Jack would
have made them.
Simon West’s voice remained calm until he reached his own
car again. He had been careful not to leave a single trace
inside the RV, still wearing his gloves. The bloodied
clothing he had quickly replaced for another set. He would
wash everything and re-use them the next time.
His mother would be long asleep by the time he got home,
under the influence of her sedative, and leave him to his
grisly devices. He felt strangely calm and started humming
to himself without music. By the time he’d reached his own
car again, he was ready to sing.
The voice never trembled even slightly as it passed to
mimic Coldplay’s volume. He switched on A Rush Of Blood To
The Head and sang every word perfectly.
It was a rush indeed.
The following morning, Simon West left for the office as
usual, dressed in a decent gray suit, with shiny black
shoes and an old-fashioned, boring tie. He used his badge
to gain access to the building, to his department on the
first floor, and ultimately to his desk.
“You’re late,” his female boss snapped. “We’re already
running behind on all these case files. Assistant Director
Miles is not happy with us right now, you know. The VCU
needs to score quickly, and the backlog is not helping
matters. Where the hell is your analysis?”
He thought of killing her right there. Instead, his face
smiled bravely. “I’ll stay behind late today and make sure
he gets everything.”
“You’d better. It’s your fault entirely, Simon. You don’t
work fast enough. Your work is a mess.”
Simon stretched his back, switched on his computer, and
accessed the Bureau’s most sacred databases, before
glancing unhappily at the amount of paperwork piled on his
desk. He glanced at his watch, wondering how long it would
take before anyone would drop the file on his desk, and ask
him to start researching data. His file. His crime.
Now that would give him quite a kick.
Act I
“I see. I see … I see. I see Nachos. Hot dogs.
Basketball. The New York Knicks vs the Washington Wizards.
The MCI Center. I see … I see … I see us there. Sunday
night. Eight p.m. Two tickets.”
Dana Scully waited in barely contained amusement, until her
partner in every sense of the word, was finished hocus
pocusing before stepping into the basement office they’d
shared for so long. She never missed a beat while strolling
to the desk, placing her briefcase on top of it, and
crossing her arms over herself.
Mulder sat at his desk, a hand held over his eyes, and the
other over two tickets he’d no doubt paid a fortune for.
They were front row center court, right behind the visitors
bench, the most expensive seats he could lay hands on. He
opened his eyes. “Oh yes, that’s our future, baby.”
“I see us working on Sunday evening,” she retorted. “There
goes your prediction. Or did you get that from the
Stupendous Yappi?”
Mulder looked up in quasi-shock. “Working, Agent Scully? On
a Sunday? Besides, is Yappi still in business? Last time I
heard, he was living in Australia predicting the future of
Skippy the Kangaroo, after declaring to the world that Al
Gore would beat the crap out of Bush, Jr.”
“Yes, Agent Mulder. Working. And the last thing I heard is
that Yappi’s working in Caesar’s Palace, Vegas, where he
urges zillions of filthy-rich men and women to spend
millions of bucks on the slots; telling them erroneously
which one is going to pop at any second.”
“Oh please, no work, Scully. Not this weekend! Is this
coming from the woman who vowed a long time ago that her
weekends were sacred, and that no one in this world could
drag her into becoming a weekend working girl?”
“Don’t forget mentioning that I also said Easter and
Christmas should fall together.” Scully lingered around his
desk, before sitting on top of the two tickets, nearly
squashing her partner’s hand in the process. “I should add
that it’s not my idea to work, but unfortunately it needs
to be done. This weekend. I’m sorry about your tickets.”
“Okay, where’s the fire?”
“We’ve had that already. It’s AD Henry Miles.”
“The new guy in VCU? I heard he was a hard ass, but since
when does he get to order us around?” Mulder groaned, “Did
he get lost on the way to his office?
Or is he attempting to replace Skinner who’s enjoying a
peaceful weekend in the City of Angels?”
“Well, actually, Skinner did tell us he would replace him
during his absence.”
“Which means that we have to obey the New Big Bad Boss. I
know,” Mulder sighed. “Ah well. So, what does he want?”
“I’m guessing he’s shooting under Skinner’s feathers. He
wants an evaluation of all our cases of the last year,
going meticulously over all the details from A to Z. Even
though you have an eidetic memory, I don’t see how we can
pull this off in less than a day. We are lousy admins,
Mulder. We both put it off until the very last moment. This
place is a mess, too; the cabinet is sloppy, the dust
bunnies will start an uprising soon. The cleaning lady
hasn’t been here for ages.”
“Says who?” Mulder smiled.
Scully ran a finger in a slow line through the grot on top
of that filing cabinet, pursing her lips with a hint of
annoyance, and lifted her finger up, shoving it under
Mulder’s nose. “Says my finger. Anyhow, it’s Friday and he
waited until eight a.m. this morning, while I stood in the
elevator with him, to throw this at me. Perhaps he’s
psychic too, and remote-viewed the tickets lying around on
your desk.”
“Tough.” Mulder leaned backwards, almost losing his grip on
the chair, dangling between empty space and the desk.
“He’ll get everything that’s in my head and that’s it. If
he wants a complete evaluation he can go run it by that
analyst guy they have ensconced in dust on the first floor.
I’m sure he can stump up all the crappy details that AD
Miles gets off on. Remember him? The Freckle Dude. He knows
it all, and it’s right there in his computer, sitting next
to Miles’s office. I’m sure he’s got no plans for the
weekend.”
“Are you really going to tell him that?” Scully smiled.
“The Freckle Guy will get all the blame, while you’re
shouting out obscenities from your top notch seat in all
your juvenile glory?”
“If he doesn’t like it, he can serve my head on a platter,
after we’ve seen the game. Now, grab your coat, Agent
Scully and take a walk with me.”
“Where to?”
“Starbucks. I’m thirsty. Didn’t have my CafŽ LattŽ this
morning, as you well know.”
“Oh Mulder.”
“What?” He stopped at the door and turned towards her.
“It’s not like we’re swamped with work right now. I’m
actually thinking of reopening up the Titanic case to see
if they didn’t crash into a UFO instead of a boring
iceberg, so at least we can go do a little sea trip, and do
something useful for a change. Hell, I’ll even watch the
movie with you for the twenty-fifth time, while running
back and forth serving you peanuts and cola. Anything’s
better than opening the Weekly World News for the umpteenth
time, hoping that one of the fake anal probing stories is
not so fake after all. Do you know that an eighty-year-old
man claimed he was probed and prodded for the use of his
sperm, to create alien-human hybrids? He’s suing the mental
institution he’s lived in since 1986, because they forgot
to lock their doors at night.”
She laughed. “If you put it that way, I’m fairly certain
that there’s a reason why you’re suddenly so keen to check
out the new flavors at Starbuck’s. They have great
frappucino’s there by the way, and I wouldn’t mind trying
one.”
“Yes. Thank you God!” Mulder exclaimed, waving his hands in
the air. “Agent Scully finally saw The Light, and is no
longer sucking down tofu crappy thingies.”
The second he opened the door; he was halted by a man
trying to enter at the same time. An almost inaudible groan
came from Mulder’s mouth, when he realized that the one man
he didn’t really care for right now stood before them.
Assistant Director Henry Miles.
“Coffee, sir?” The agent asked, broadly smiling.
“You can have that at the VCU, Agent Mulder. From what I
hear, they have excellent hospital-taste blend that will
open up your sinuses for the next two days. Walk with me.
Now, if you please.”
Miles marched off around the corner, before the X-Files-
agents could utter another word. Mulder threw down his
coat, glared at his partner and exclaimed, “Dead man
walking!” before sashaying after the Assistant Director,
shaking his ass. Scully trembled with laughter, muffled
only with the back of her
hand when Miles turned suddenly, and threw them the most
poisonous glare he could muster from his sizable
repertoire. Where was Skinner when you needed him?
The VCU was buzzing with activity as it always was. Mulder
saw people chatting, talking, discussing, and laughing.
Here, the most gruesome cases in the world were handled.
People who were ten times worse than Hannibal The Cannibal
were being sought, taken down and readied for trial.
Laughter was natural in the bowels of the VCU: it was a
safety valve; their way of ridding themselves of the
anxieties one experienced on a daily basis.
There were a lot of new Special Agents there now, and
plenty of profilers, Mulder thought. The VCU had expanded
quite a bit after 09-11, when suddenly the world seemed to
be filled with more danger and serial killers than ever.
Some said that the New Millennium was actually the cause: a
lot of weirdos out there thought they were the new Jack The
Ripper, or Boston Strangler and wanted their five minutes
of fame. Jerry Springer didn’t cut it anymore. The only way
to get publicity now was by slaughtering and killing.
It had been a while since Mulder was asked to profile a
case at the VCU. They had been quite busy lately with their
own cases, which also involved a number of strange
killings. So why were they here now?
Miles ordered the two newcomers to sit down in the room
filled with FBI colleagues, and walked up front.
“Revenge,” Mulder hissed at his partner. “We probably
forgot to clean his toilet.”
Scully leaned relaxed into Mulder’s side, as they perched
sitting on the edge of a desk, before whispering back, “If
this has to do with your little trip to the Rock and Roll
Hall of Fame in Cleveland a few weeks ago, you know, the
one that you tried to reimburse through your expense
account, I swear I’m impounding your desk right here and
now, and throwing your name plate in the garbage. I told
you he wouldn’t go for the ‘Elvis was an alien’ angle.”
He smiled and turned to her. “If I were ever abducted by
aliens, I’m sure that’s the first thing you would do
anyhow. My name plate wouldn’t survive a fortnight.”
She showed him the broadest of grins, just as Miles turned
towards them and voiced coldly, “I hope the joke was funny,
Agent Scully because I can assure you that this case is
not. The details I’m about to tell you are not so humorous.
Keep that in mind when I show you the following photos. I
hope none of you had a large breakfast of bacon and eggs,
or any other cholesterol-laden junk you might chow down in
the local diner. This is not good for the appetite. You
have been warned.”
Before Mulder could quip, gruesome photos of four carved up
bodies were passed around the room, silencing the eight men
and women gathered there. Scully and Mulder, who were the
last to receive them, watched how their colleagues faces
became red and then pale, and how some balked and looked
away. A young woman, who obviously was brand new at the
VCU, rushed out of the room, taking deep breaths in an
attempt not to spew out in the hall. Miles ignored her.
“What is it?” Mulder asked as the photos were handed to
him. He too became very silent when the photos lingered in
his hands. He had seen a lot of gruesome stuff in his
lifetime, but this really took the cake. His eyes took in a
morass of flesh, blood, and the remains of other various
human tissues, as yet undermined. There was simply nothing
really that could easily explain the intent behind such a
vicious crime. This wasn’t done by a human, but by a
monster. He had seen such photos before: more blurry and
out of date, but definitely in the same manner.
“We’re not looking for Hannibal The Cannibal this time,” he
groaned as he handed Scully the photographs. “More like the
MO of Jack The Ripper.”
“Indeed.” Miles looked straight at his agent. “You hit it
on the nail, Agent Mulder. It seems that we might.”
“Sir?” Scully asked, swallowing back the disgust at seeing
such gruesome details.
Miles stretched his back and looked around the room.
“The agents I have in here are top notch, and the very ones
that I need to resolve this matter quickly and silently.
That’s why you are starting immediately; you will drop
everything else you’ve been working on. You will work on
this case non-stop, until we find the killer who butchered
the four women I’ve just shown you.”
Miles paced through the room; satisfied that he was
grabbing the attention he sought.
“The bodies you have just seen belonged to four working
girls in the Baltimore area. They have been noted as
professional hookers for at least four years. All of them
were sliced and diced over the past three nights, with
every subsequent act becoming more gruesome. Last night
there were two bodies discovered in the same area, only a
hundred feet from each other. None of these women have any
connection to each other, or to anyone else. Different
pimps, different areas, different features, different
names. Yet they were not taken randomly. They appear to
have been taken because of their names. Names that concur
with the prostitutes that Jack The Ripper killed in London
during the late 1800’s. The method of murder is also the
same. Since the case of Jack The Ripper has become quite
notorious over the years, all these details can be found in
abundance on the Internet and in books.”
“How did you make the connection, sir?”
“The killer made it for us,” Miles continued in stiff tone,
and then looked at Mulder. “Agent Mulder, I happen to know
that you studied the case of Jack The Ripper during your
time at Oxford. I am sure you could convey the particulars
of the story to your colleagues.”
Mulder stepped forward feeling as if he were back in
school, and had been asked to draw a mathematical
calculation on the board, slightly uncomfortable because it
was Miles’s scrutiny he was most under.
“I don’t recall all the details anymore, sir. I can give
you a summary.”
“Go ahead.”
“I believe the murders occurred sometime in the fall of the
year 1888. Jack The Ripper selected prostitutes from
Whitechapel, a London District, and murdered them in a very
vicious way. He was considered the very first serial
killer, and even though there are plenty of ideas of how
and why he did it, in the end it became clear that every
murder became more gruesome, as though his anger escalated.
They knew of at least five murders he actually committed,
but there were constant rumors of a total of eight or nine
murders. He left a message written in chalk on a door at
one point, which led people to believe he was a Freemason.
Since chalk was quite expensive in that time, the only ones
who would have afforded it were doctors, carpenters,
butchers or craftsmen.”
“Do you recall what that message was, Agent Mulder?”
I smiled and looked at him. “Of course I do: ‘The Juwes are
the men That Will Not Be Blamed for nothing’. Interestingly
enough, for an educated man, he miswrote the word ‘Juwes’.
The murders stopped after he almost totally decimated the
body of one young prostitute. He then disappeared. He also
sent letters to the police, taunting them to catch him, but
they never did. Oh and I personally believe it was the
doctor sir, even though I have seen the movie, From Hell,
where they claimed the killer was conspiratorially linked
to the royal family.”
“Very good, Agent Mulder,” Miles muttered with a wry grin
on his lips; taking a photo that had been tucked inside the
map he was holding. It was a photo of a sentence written in
chalk on a green, old door.
“The Juwes are the men That Will Not Be Blamed for
nothing,” he repeated aloud. “That’s our link, ladies and
gentlemen, the sign that our Ripper wanted to leave us.
We’ve got a copycat killer on our hands, and only one more
murder to go before he finishes his grisly spree, if he’s
true to Ripper form. If he is stopping, that is.”
Miles focused on the faces of his agents. “This man is
eager to get the slashings over and done with. In the real
Ripper-case, the killings happened over a period of nearly
two months. Our killer has killed four women in the past
three nights, and I’m fairly certain he’ll go for his fifth
victim tonight. This means that we only have this afternoon
to solve this matter. By tomorrow morning, it could all be
over.”
“With all due respect, sir,” an agent from the back asked.
“But why didn’t we know about this earlier?”
“The Baltimore police didn’t really seem to care much about
hookers being offed,” Miles retorted coldly. “Until it
turned out that the last victim was the estranged daughter
of one of their most famous surgeons. He has threatened to
inform the press over the lackadaisical police behavior,
and also slam Baltimore PD if they didn’t contact us. So
now their blood is on our hands, so to speak.”
“What did they do wrong, sir?” Scully asked curiously.
“It’s what they didn’t do: like sending samples of the
victims’ clothing to the labs, non-prioritized. It takes at
least a week then before the results to come back. I am
certain we can do much better than that.”
“Does that mean, sir, that we didn’t have that evaluation
on Monday?” Mulder suggested. Miles didn’t laugh.
“I want feedback on this quickly. The local press is
starting to catch on now that the rumor about the surgeon’s
daughter has made its way onto CNN, and they’re not happy
that the Baltimore P.D. has been treating this case as a
couple of unrelated murders. We need results, and we need
them fast. Agent Moore, you are in charge of this
investigation, because you’re the senior agent in VCU. I
want everyone to report to you. You in turn, will report to
me. Set up shop here and move quickly.”
Moore smiled in a self-assured, quite cocky way. He was an
agent with the mental agility of a goose, Mulder thought.
Of all the people in the VCU, why did Miles have to pick
him? Why not Kenny Andrews, who was a much better profiler?
It wasn’t even as if Moore had the brains to solve such a
case. Or was it because Miles knew Moore would never get
much press coverage?
“Agent Mulder, why are you still lingering about? I suggest
you take your partner and your awe-inspiring brain to the
morgue and get an idea of what these photos really look
like up close and personal. Since you’re the resident
Ripper-expert, I want you in the field. Let someone else do
the profiling. Hell, we’ve already got the MO/profile. Just
go to http://www.casebook.org and scan the information at hand.”
With that, the AD Miles disappeared down the hall to his
office and slammed the door, startling most of the agents
working on the floor.
Mulder’s eyes followed Miles, catching a glimpse of the
Freckle Guy who sat at his desk typing furiously away,
while a woman waved hand gestures over his head; obviously
shouting at him. The redheaded man didn’t even seem to
notice, stuck in his own world.
What was his name again? Mulder tried to remember,
concluding that he didn’t even know it. Ah well. He
shrugged and turned towards Scully. “It seems that the
slicing and dicing has already been done for you. But how
about we take a look?”
She pulled a face. “No frappucino’s today. You’d better
sell those tickets too. We’re never going to make it.”
“Wanna bet I can solve this case tonight, and we’ll still
make the tip-off?”
“You’re on, Mulder, for two frappucino’s.”
“You’ll choke on them, Scully. Your insides will freeze up
and you’ll have an ice cream tofutti frozen yogurt
headache.”
She smiled, and whispered for him alone to hear. “Who says
I’ll drink them?”
The morgue had always been an eerie place for Mulder, but
not so for his partner, who somehow always managed to get a
certain sparkle in her eyes, betraying her excitement. This
was her territory and he felt awkwardly out of place.
Give him psychic abilities any time. Or a profile to
create. Or Jack The Ripper. Even though he wouldn’t admit
it to anyone, he did know the whole case by heart,
including all the names of the victims. He had read at
least a dozen books on the subject, and knew all the
theories by heart. It was one of the reasons why he became
so intrigued in psychology in the first place. That, and
novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes
made solving crimes seem so easy and inspiring.
Back in Oxford, he’d started to get acquainted with all the
details of the case, even jotting down his own notes and
theories. He had done the Ripper tour in London, and walked
through Whitechapel to get a feel for the place, as it
would have been a hundred years ago. Unfortunately the
streets were no suburbanized, and there was nothing left of
the old town, except a few churches and original pubs here
and there. He knew the Casebook website well, and had even
contributed theories to it. He had the special edition of
From Hell, and loved to theorize that Jack The Ripper had a
connection to the royal family; as suggested in both the
film and popular myth. He didn’t care much for the monarchy
anyhow.
The notion that there might be someone out there
copycatting The Ripper was more than exciting for Mulder.
In fact, were it not for the deadline, he would be looking
forward to going head to head with a Ripper-copycat.
Perhaps, if he were lucky, the killer might even be a
reincarnation! How cool would that be?
Mulder’s resolve lessened slightly, as his eyes took in the
remains of the washed bodies of the three victims. Good
thing he’d passed on that Starbucks Coffee. It probably
would have shot back up his throat. It really was gruesome.
No, more than that. It was horrific, disgusting and very
much an act of pure misogynistic hatred. Whoever did was
mentally deranged. Either that, or had a real hard on for
The Ripper.
“They were all slashed across the throat,” the coroner
started to explain. “But from there come the differences.
Entrails are missing. This victim is missing a nose. She -”
Mulder found himself swaying off, as the monotone voice of
the coroner droned on and on, with gory detail after gory
detail, of the final moments before the women all met their
deaths. Good thing The Ripper had thoughtfully slashed
their throats first, before committing his gruesome deeds,
he thought. One cannot imagine what it must have been like
to die in such a manner: alone and abandoned by the world
that lived and breathed only a few seconds away.
Mulder didn’t need to know all the details. He knew them,
as well as he knew the first names of the women who lay
here. He looked at their distraught, ghastly pale faces and
suddenly it struck him, that there was only one night and
one victim left. The clock was ticking.
“Scully, I’m going to head back to the office,” Mulder cut
in, interrupting the discussion. “I have to talk to Moore
about where to go from here.”
“How am I going to get back?” she asked, surprised.
“I’ll drop you off,” the coroner proposed. “I’m heading
there for a couple of meetings in an hour anyhow.”
“Oh. Okay.” She looked at her partner. “You go then. Don’t
go anywhere without me, okay?”
“Yes, boss.” He winked and left the coroner’s office
hastily. Outside, he gulped down a few deep breaths,
grateful for the fresh air that filled his lungs. His
stomach still felt queasy, but already he was gathering
thoughts and formulating ideas on what to do next.
“But lunch first,” he muttered under his breath, and
crossed the street to buy two, extra ketchup laden hotdogs
from the vendor.
Simon West was a man without nerves. He’d learned to forget
how to be nervous, while growing up being pestered by just
about anyone. He had taught himself not to show any
emotions.
Yet, the second he learned his file had opened at the FBI
he felt excitement grow inside of him. This was better than
sex! Not that he knew what sex was, of course. This was how
it felt to score a goal or touchdown, or have a number one
hit in the charts. It felt so good. Fabulous. Orgasmic.
His boss, Vera Thompson, threw a thin new file on his desk.
“I want you to look up all the data you can on Jack The
Ripper. File all the information under the name “John Doe
Ripper”. We need it now instead of tonight. Mandatory
overtime.”
“Yes.” His fingers lingered on the label stuck onto it.
John Doe, he thought. How he wished he could announce that
his name was Simon. Simon The Ripper. Now, didn’t that have
a cool ring to it? Oh, if only someone would figure it out.
He was growing tired of murdering, anyhow. Good thing
tonight was the last one, even though it would be the
hardest one of all. The original Jack really had his way
with that last hooker; almost turning her inside out. His
stomach clenched in anticipation. Ah well, he was used to
the blood already. In his mind, he was merely butchering
pigs and chickens, not humans.
If only they would find his little hint. He had hoped the
Feds would have been on the case two days ago. Stupid
Baltimore cops. Why had they dithered so long? Simon
started scanning the Net; stored and then printed out data
on The Ripper. He knew all the websites by heart.
He looked up again to find Fox Mulder standing at his desk.
With one startling gesture, Simon brought his index finger
to his mouth, nibbling on his fingernail; a habit he’d
nurtured fifteen years ago. Pieces of the nail stuck on his
tongue and in his mouth; he flushed a scarlet red.
“Do you mind if I take what you have already?” came the
agent’s friendly request.
Simon, for the first time face to face with the man he had
admired for so long, just nodded quietly. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks eh -”
“Simon. Simon West.”
“Thanks, Simon.” Mulder turned around and walked to the
conference room reserved for the agents working on the
case. Simon’s eyes followed him until he closed the glass
door. The data analyst sighed deeply. If only he would be
the one to find the little lead Simon had planted for them.
Mulder had one of the most astute minds in the FBI. It
couldn’t be that hard to catch him, now could it?
ACT II
“How many cops are guarding the area?” Moore asked his
partner, Lane, a feisty female, who looked more man than
woman. Mulder smiled because he knew Lane. A long time ago,
before Scully breezed into his office, rumor had it that
Blevins had earmarked either Lane or Scully for the job of
Mulder-Watch. Good thing they picked Scully. He couldn’t
possibly imagine himself working day and night with this
volatile creature.
“According to the Baltimore P.D.? Too many already.”
“They still don’t give a shit, do they?”
“If it hadn’t been for the surgeon, they would have passed
on this case. They see hookers every day. They feel this
guy is probably just doing them a favor by cleaning up the
city.”
Mulder smiled while continuing to scan the photos and
coroner’s report that had been e-mailed to them earlier. He
had the original Ripper’s coroner’s reports next to him, as
well as the original photographs that were printed out by
Simon The Freckle Guy.
“Something’s off,” he finally said after half an hour of
intense reading, startling most of the agents who were
working just as intently, on their share of the
information. Moore left his desk and walked over.
“What? What do you see?”
“The last victim has been killed differently. If he
followed the original Ripper MO, her body would have been
much more severely decimated than it is. He left it pretty
much intact, and I’m wondering why.”
Mulder looked up at Lane. “Didn’t the Baltimore cops say a
man almost caught him in the act?”
“Yeah, an eyewitness heard a scream, went to look and found
her dead.”
“Yet he still had to time to carve up bits and pieces of
her, but not everything. Interesting. Now tell me, if you
were a serial killer, Agent Lane, would you still take your
time slicing, when at any point in time you could be
disturbed by a sailor, or pimp?”
“I would get the hell out of there.”
“Quite interesting,” Mulder muttered. “Especially since the
Ripper liked
to cut his victim’s throats; severing the vocal cords in
one drag. Assuming he took his time to carve into her, how
could the victim have screamed without a voice?”
“So -?” Moore asked.
“Our guy left a chalk message on a door, and he didn’t
follow the full procedure on the Catherine-victim. That
means he wants us to believe he was nearly caught in the
act. In truth, I believe he might be leaving us a clue, and
perhaps that is, that he wanted to get caught.”
“If he wanted to get caught, he would have waited.”
Mulder smiled. “Agent Moore, the first thing you learn
while studying serial killers, is that most of them have an
unspoken urge that needs to be fulfilled. They almost dare
us to stop them. The duality is that they want to get
caught, but don’t want to. You know?”
“Agent Mulder, I’m sure your theory will amount to
something but -”
“All the other victims were killed in the exact same manner
as the original ones, Agent Moore. Meticulously up to the
smallest detail: the way the bodies were placed, the way
they were carved up, the entrails that were missing, …
everything. Only, in 1888 it was the third victim that was
left in one piece, because the Ripper got caught. The
theory was that he killed a second woman that same night to
satisfy his blood lust. But here, our Ripper was killing
his fourth victim, while the police had already found the
third. Yet, he left her in one piece too. Why would he do
that, if not to leave us a breadcrumb?”
“Aren’t you reading into details too far, Mulder?” Moore
smiled nervously.
“I don’t think so. I’m wondering – could I have that
description on the victim’s clothing again?”
“Leather skirt, black panties, high black heels, short top,
push-up bra,” Lane read out in detached monotone. “Just
enough to leave some skin covered.”
“And enough clothing to leave smudges or traces on the
leather. A fingerprint or DNA, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be
great? I mean, I know the clothing has already been
examined for prints, semen and all that, but we know that
we can do better. Do you know where it is?”
“At the coroner’s, I’m sure. He would have picked it up,
had the killer used his bare hands, Mulder,” Moore said.
“You’re looking for things that aren’t there.”
“It won’t be on the clothes then. Whatever trace he left of
himself, it must be on her body somewhere.”
Mulder grasped his cell phone and dialed Scully’s number.
“Hey, traitor,” she said, picking up.
“Hey, are you still at the coroner’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you do me a favor, and ask the coroner to go over
the last victim’s abdominal area again, to find any
possible residual tissue or semen from our perp?”
“Mulder, she was a hooker. I’m fairly certain there will be
DNA from more than one person on her body.”
“Do you?” he winked.
“But I should check the clothes, too. I have this hunch our
killer might have left behind a few clues there.”
“You’re right,” Mulder agreed. “Get on it.”
“Yes, Mr. Bossman.”
After Mulder hung up, he turned to find Simon West, staring
across at him from behind his desk. The redheaded man rose
up and walked slowly over to him. Mulder leaned back in
anticipation, as the other agent handed more printouts to
him.
“Is it true you’re looking for a Ripper copycat?” Simon
asked quietly.
“Yep.”
“Great. I mean, fascinating. If there’s anything I can do –
”
“How are you fixed in the coffee department?” Moore yelled
over his shoulder, then grinned broadly at his own stupid
joke.
Simon turned crimson, and left before Mulder could utter
another word. The agent stared at the other man’s slumped
walk, realizing who West reminded him of: Rain Man.
Minutes later, Mulder’s phone rang.
“You were right,” Scully spoke excitedly over the phone.
“We picked up enough tissue to get a DNA-sample, and should
have it analyzed within the next twenty-four hours.”
“We don’t have twenty-four hours, Scully. If our theory is
correct, he’ll be slicing before midnight. That’s in about
seven hours. You’re not giving me much of a window here. In
fact, if the analysis is that late, it will not help one
bit.”
“Mulder, have you got any idea how complicated it is to
perform a DNA-test? In normal circumstances, a person has
to wait two weeks to find out if he fathered a child. So be
glad they can rush this through in a day.”
“Yeah but we have a great, big and beautiful lab in the FBI
that can do this in a matter of hours. We need you to pull
some strings here, Scully. Your Quantico-colleagues will do
you a favor, right? I’m sure they can speed things up a
little bit.”
“Right,” she sighed. “I’ll head over there myself. So, what
are you going to do?”
“Me? I’m going clubbing.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Seriously. Since ‘Field Marshall’ Miles wants me as a
field agent on this, I am going to the area myself to check
out some bars. There might still be a remote possibility
our John is killing off the competition, even though I
don’t think so. I’ll probably be home late tonight,
darling.”
“Mulder, you’re not going by yourself, are you?”
“Of course not. I’ve got Agent Moore to keep me company
even though he looks more like a Fed than most of those
stereotypes on Die Hard. Plus, he isn’t as gorgeous as you
are. I’m telling you, this guy has F.B.I. written all over
him. I’d be better off alone.”
“Don’t you dare do that, Mulder, I’ll go with you.”
“Nah. We’ll need you as a decoy later on to play Mary
Kelly.”
“Who?”
“The last victim. She was a redhead too, did you know
that?”
“Funny, Mulder. I’ll talk to you later.”
Mulder smiled as he pocketed his phone, and then looked in
shock at Moore for a second as something hit him. The agent
lived only a block down from the office, and had gone back
and forth to change for their night out. And there he
stood: dressed in the most overtly, flashy colors ever. He
looked like a Hawaiian pimp. The shirt screamed
‘Undercover’ all over it.
“Oh.my.god.” Mulder couldn’t help but muffle his laughter
at the sight of the cowboy boots, and greasy slicked black
hair combed back on his head.
“What?” Moore asked innocently. “Don’t I look okay?”
“Moore, how long as it been since you’ve been in a bar?”
“Hmm, about fifteen years.”
“And before that, you mirrored yourself on Magnum P.I.? You
even have Tom Selleck’s chest hair? Jeez, the only thing
missing is the mustache.”
“Actually, I have a fake one -”
“Save it, Moore. Come with me, I’ll help you out.” Mulder
got up and patted his colleague on the back. “I’ll
transform you into a sexually obsessed forty-something in
no time.”
As the other agents shared instructions on their duties for
the following hours from Moore, Mulder caught Simon West
hanging around his desk looking quite bored. He didn’t know
what it was about West that somehow made him feel sorry for
the man. Was it because he really was the garbage bin of
the office? Because no one seemed to give him a break? He
didn’t know.
Yet West seemed to be the type of guy that actually
belonged in a sleazy bar, seated on a stool while some
bimbo danced around a pole for a buck or two. With him,
they would definitely look undercover.
“How’s Miles on lending out people?” Mulder asked, turning
to Moore. “I’d like to take The Freckle Guy as our third
man.”
“Who? West?? Mulder, he’s a first class loser. He’ll do
nothing!”
“Indeed, that’s what I’m looking for. He’ll fit right into
those bars we are going to visit. Better than you faking it
as Magnum P.I. and ready for the karaoke club.”
“Miles will never allow this.”
“He’s not here right now, right?”
“No, he’s in a meeting with the new Deputy Director.”
“Goodie.” Mulder walked over to West and tapped on the
desk. West looked up in sheer awe, surprised that once
again he was called upon.
“How about a night on the town in Baltimore?”
West suddenly smiled broadly, revealing a set of perfect
white teeth. “I love Baltimore! But can I call my mother
first and tell her I’ll be late?”
Moore groaned loudly.
With Simon West sitting quietly as a little boy in the back
of the car staring outside, Mulder started a conversation
with Moore, who seemed to admit there was a slight issue
between the agents.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mulder,” he said. “You don’t
think I can handle this case.”
“I don’t care either way, Moore. To be honest, I’m just
here to do a job, and then on to the MCI Center to catch
the game.”
“Yes, you do care. You’re like a kid on a playground. You
feel right at home in this kind of world. Is that because
you’re dealing with monsters every day?”
“The human psyche is a monster, Agent Moore. It doesn’t
matter if you chase human weirdoes or whatever. In the end,
it all boils down to one thing: everything happens for a
reason. Find that reason, and you find your killer.”
“Does a creep like that need a reason to murder?”
“They never do. They act on their instincts.”
From the rear came a sound. Simon opened his mouth and
caught Mulder’s glare in the rearview mirror. He cleared
his throat, and stretched his back a bit. “Don’t you think,
Agent Mulder, that someone can kill just to get rid of some
desires, but for no particular reason at all?”
Mulder smiled sympathetically. “They all do that, West.
Every single one of them. We humans are a veritable
cornucopia of desires and urges. It’s just the question of
if you act upon them.”
“And what if that man doesn’t know how to stop anymore?”
“Then he will be stopped, one way or another. That’s where
law enforcement is vital.”
Mulder never took any of his colleagues home, save for
Scully and Skinner, but he wasn’t about to let the Hawaiian
Shirt Agent become the cause of any them getting hurt. So
the two agents followed Mulder into his apartment, the two
of them looking around curiously. Moore, because he’d
always wondered if Spooky Mulder was actually a freak that
kept alien fetuses on his dresser; and West because he
wanted to know how his favorite agent lived.
They were both disappointed.
“Your apartment looks normal. Boring even,” Moore
complained. “This sucks, Mulder.”
“Sorry.” Mulder disappeared into the bedroom, and returned
with two sets of clothing. One pair would fit Moore
perfectly, albeit a bit small around the waist, but West
would drown in them.
West changed in Mulder’s bathroom, taking his time to nose
around for special things while biting his fingernails. No
female stuff here, nothing out of the ordinary. Just
shaving gear, soap and all the necessities of life. What a
drag.
He bit his thumbnail, and dropped small pieces of it on the
tiles; not even aware of what he was doing. His mother had
tried to break him out of the habit, but even as an adult
he couldn’t shake it off. He did it everywhere, even in the
stolen car that waited for him outside the D.C. area.
Simon West felt troubled. He knew he had to kill tonight,
but how he was going to do that, when he was undercover
with his idol and another agent? Should he just go with the
flow and play it by ear? Perhaps he should ask Mulder to
come join the party. He was certain that Mulder must have
the murderous streak in him too. You had to be a little
crazy if you were a field agent/profiler. It was almost a
requirement to get in the heads of perps. Perhaps Mulder
would even be in awe that he, Simon West, had fooled them
all. Just wait and see, he thought as he hummed The
Scientist.
When he walked outside, he looked like a regular guy. Clad
in jeans with rolled up pants, a sweater with rolled up
sleeves and his hair combed neatly, he was ready to go.
Moore actually looked human again, too. Mulder looked suave
dressed in jeans, dark sweater and leather jacket.
“All right, boys,” Mulder smiled broadly. “Let’s go catch
us some fish.”
The night before, Simon West had made himself a case file
that he kept at home on his computer. He had started to
gather information on Fox Mulder ages ago, but had never
done anything with it. The frustration had struck when he
realized that after three days of murdering, no one at the
FBI seemed eager to take on the case. During one very long
restless hour, he had thought he would never get Mulder’s
attention.
But in the morning, when he learned about the fresh cases
at hand being probed, he knew he was in luck. They were
interested and alarmed now. And yes, soon enough Mulder
showed up. Simon had instinctively known that Miles would
drag Mulder into it.
Simon couldn’t even explain why he liked Mulder so much. It
probably had something to do with the fact that he lived a
very mysterious professional life in that basement office.
West had seen cases pass by his desk that were about
aliens, government cover-ups, freaky people, monsters, and
misfits of science; just about running the gamut of
everything imaginable.
The case that really caught his interest was Luther Lee
Boggs, the serial killer who claimed he was psychic. From
then on, whenever he could, during the dreary working hours
he maintained, West would study cases of the X files agents
had solved or not solved.
He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to step
into Mulder’s shoes, facing danger every day of his life.
It would sure as hell take the edge off the boredom and
dreariness he felt right now.
Perhaps that’s why I do what I do? West pondered as he
jumped into the backseat of Mulder’s car. To kill the
boredom. So far, he hadn’t really found another reason.
Should there be one then? Perhaps not.
They arrived in Baltimore around seven p.m., after stopping
at a deli to pick up sandwiches, ice tea and coffee.
“So what now?” Moore asked, as soon as Mulder parked the
car outside The Inn, a dreary old place that looked like it
belonged in old London. “Are you going to stand around
outside, and look for working girls who are named Mary?”
Mulder glanced in the rearview mirror. “West, what do you
think?”
“I’d go inside that bar, and check to see if there are any
pimps who have girls named Mary, and get them off the
streets. And then see if they have noticed anything odd.”
“And why do we not ask that as FBI-agents?”
“They’d pack up their bags and go. They won’t talk.”
“West, are you sure you’ve never been out in the field
before?” Mulder asked grinning.
“Actually, I have -” Simon stopped, knowing he would be
giving out too much information. He didn’t want Mulder to
know the truth about his reasons for wanting to work as a
data analyst.
It was too late. Moore laughed loudly. “Yeah, he fucked up
his first case, didn’t you know? That’s why Miles has
banished him to the office permanently. He killed his own
partner, the sucker.”
Simon knew when he was being toyed with and when he didn’t
like it. He felt his face Contract, his cheeks turn red and
his entire beings thrum with anger. This was exactly what
he’d been trying to avoid for so long, the reason why he
became Simon The Ripper in the first place. He needed to
release pent up steam. He needed to show that he could do
it.
He clenched his fists, and chewed on his lip until it bled.
And he would have rushed forward in that anger, for the
first time in his life forgetting his exterior meek
appearance, when Mulder suddenly spoke in a harsh, angry
tone towards Moore.
“Don’t ever call anyone a sucker for getting hurt, okay? Do
you want to lose your partner?”
“No, but -”
“Do you?”
“No!”
“Then have respect for your colleague, and don’t ever treat
him like garbage again, okay?”
“Geez Mulder, get off your high horse.”
“I’m sure you mean ‘Spooky Mulder’.”
“Whatever,” Moore shrugged, throwing his sandwich on the
ground. “I’m going inside. You can follow in ten minutes.”
“Don’t do anything stupid like blowing your cover,” Mulder
hissed after Moore rammed the door shut. “Sucker.”
Suddenly Simon did something he hadn’t done in ages. He
laughed. He could feel it starting deeply from his insides,
becoming harder and harder until a flood of mirth rushed
through him, until he heaved with escaping laughter. He
could not recall having laughed this loudly before. Ever.
And when he looked into the mirror, he discovered that
Mulder was laughing too. In fact, he was roaring along with
him, instead of at him, like most people did.
“Here,” the agent said. “Have a seed.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Simon replied, spitting out the piece
of fingernail stuck inside his mouth. “Thanks.”
“Gross, West.”
“I know. Call it a bad habit.”
Mulder just smiled and chewed on a seed, wondering what
Moore was up to inside the bar.
“So, what happened to your partner?”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sure you do. You were eager enough to come when I invited
you along. Now spill, while you look around for anything
out of the ordinary, like guys trying to lure girls
outside, that sort of thing.”
“My partner and I were supposed to backup a couple of other
field agents, who were going after a bank robber at his
apartment. We walked in and he started shooting at us. We
ducked away, inside the apartment. I ran, Agent Mulder. I
ran into the bathroom and shut the door, while they kept on
shooting back. He was hidden behind the couch that stood in
front of the bathroom door, right there. All I had to do
was open the door and shoot him at point blank range. But I
panicked, uh… chickened out. I fired three times through
the door. I heard shouts. When I opened the door, I saw
that Larry was dead as a doornail. I had accidentally shot
him through the door. After that, they laughed at me.
Everyone thought it was a great joke. Horrible really. Just
awful. Agent West shot his
partner and peed his pants. Funny, isn’t it? Since then,
the closest I’ve come to a case is by putting the data into
the system.”
“Well, just don’t shoot me,” Mulder smiled as they walked
to the bar door.
The next one to enter the bar was Simon. He insisted on it.
Mulder watched him leave as he grasped the cell phone to
call his partner.
“Thanks for making this case quite boring, Agent Mulder.”
“You’re welcome. What’s new?”
“Nothing yet. Results first thing in the morning. Did you
get hurt yet?”
“Oh thank you.”
“Come on, I’m waiting for a call from either Miles, or a
hospital to tell me you got kicked in the balls for asking
pimps too many questions, when they want to protect their
goodies. Where are you?”
“The Inn. Nice place for a pimp-gathering, don’t you
think?”
“Very nice. Are you alone?”
“No, I’ve got colleagues here.”
“Have fun with the ladies, Mulder.”
“Do I sense a bit of jealousy there?”
“Oh no. I’m happily discussing boring science crap with my
colleagues. You see what you made me say? Since I’ve met
you, I’ve come to frown on science now and then.”
“Must be my good influence.”
“Har har. Get back to me soon, Mulder. Okay? And stay in
one piece.”
“I’ll try. I know a great overnight store where they sell
grapes though.”
“Night, Mulder!”
Mulder laughed as he hung up his cell phone and left the
car.
“Rock ‘n’ Roll, baby,” he muttered underneath his breath,
when he opened the door for what was obviously a working
girl, who smiled at him broadly underneath fake lashes that
looked like huge spiders – and walked inside the barrier of
noise that was the bar.
Simon West didn’t even wink when Mulder stepped into the
bar, and quickly scanned the area. Moore sat in the back,
talking to a bulky African American who roared with
laughter every time the agent said something. A blonde sat
on his lap rubbing her tush on his leg.
“He feels right at home,” Mulder groaned, walking over to
the bar where West sat. Simon wondered what he had to do
now, but he shouldn’t have. Mulder leaned a bit into him
and whispered, “Anything weird yet?”
“At least four pimps. Look at the guy to my right.”
Mulder leaned forward to order a drink from the bar,
catching a good glimpse of the man sitting next to West. He
was tall and draped with at least four gold necklaces like
Mr. T on ‘The A team.’
“Now that’s got money written all over it,” Mulder said.
Mulder then looked caually around the bar, spotting a
couple of men clad in dark clothing. The bar was thick with
cigarette smoke. Only a few looked up. In the back a couple
of pimps were fighting; more notable by their fancy
clothing and golden attire.
“Talk about clichŽs,” Simon smiled.
“Martini,” Mulder ordered.
The bartender pulled up an eyebrow.
“Shaken, not stirred?”
“Do I look like James Bond to you?”
“When I’m drunk, probably.”
“Just the Martini.”
“This feels cool, being undercover,” Simon whispered too
loudly for Mulder’s liking. The agents both bristled
inwardly, when the bartender placed his drink before him at
the exact same time.
“Oh. I’m a fucking things up, aren’t I?” Simon cringed
quietly.
“Just shut up and let me do my thing, Simon. You carry your
piece.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Simon sighed. “Not that I’m that keen
on it. I mean I shouldn’t be allowed to carry a gun at all,
should I?”
Mulder looked aside. “You are still a Fed, Simon. Everyone
makes mistakes. Just keep it ready but don’t do anything,
okay? Just follow my lead when I need you.”
With that, Mulder left Simon seated on his stool and
wandered through the bar looking for working girls who
might be willing to talk to him. He knew that in order to
do that, he’d have to get past their employers.
He stopped at a table in the far corner, where four girls
were chatting loudly with someone who was obviously a pimp,
and his bodyguard. Nearby at a table, sat three
transvestites: three bulky men were dressed up like
gorgeous women. And they were gorgeous, Mulder discovered
in awe. With their slim shoulders, and long legs they could
easily have been walking down the catwalk, pretending they
were female models. But as soon as they opened their
mouths, a dark male voice came out and gave them away.
Ouch, Mulder though. Such a shame.
He sat down without asking, but was immediately seized by
the shoulder, by the bodyguard who grumbled, “Get lost.”
Mulder didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure your boss would like
to help me preserve his women. Wouldn’t he?” The bodyguard
stared at him for more seconds than were comfortable to
Mulder. This was a big no nonsense guy.
With that, the pimp waved with his hand, and allowed Mulder
to sit. The agent slipped into a chair. “You a cop?”
“No, I’m a man with business interests, just like you.
Rumor has it that there’s a new Jack The Ripper out there
slashing women. I’m looking for him. I want to protect my
interests, if you know what I mean.” He winked
conspiratorially.
“You don’t look like a pimp.”
“I prefer not to think of myself that way. I’m a
businessman.”
“New in town, hey? So, are you going to steal my
territory?” The pimp flashed his teeth dangerously.
“No. I just want to find out if this Ripper guy is going to
kill off my girls.”
“I don’t care what he does. He hasn’t touched any of my
ladies yet. But you look like the sort of low life guy who
would love to step onto my turf and fleece my money. I
don’t like that. I think you deserve a warning.”
Uh oh, Mulder thought wearily. “I don’t care about your
territory. Gotta go.”
Before he could move an inch, he was grabbed by two bulky
transvestites who dragged him backwards. From the corner of
his eye he saw how Moore was still talking animatedly to
another pimp, and the girl sitting on top of him. West did
see it. He stepped up from his stool, but didn’t move an
inch.
Before he knew what was happening, Mulder was dragged
outside into the cold air.
“Hey, we can talk about this, right?” the agent asked,
ready to take the first punch. “I’m sure you are nice girls
and all but -”
Before he could even react, his right arm was twisted
firmly up behind his back. So firm indeed, that it knocked
the wind out of him. Two strong sets of hands grabbed it.
Suddenly, Mulder realized what they were going to do.
“Hey, stop it!” he shouted. “Don’t – !”
A sickening pop came from his shoulder as the ball joint
neatly separated from the socket. Mulder screamed in pure
anguish and agony, feeling the shoulder muscles try
unsuccessfully to self-repair the damage. He had been there
before, when they busted up his little finger a long time
ago. The pain was so acute it nearly sent him off into
oblivion.
Through a haze of red hurt, he saw the doors open, and
people rushing outside, but no one helped him. He couldn’t
see West or Moore. Then the punches followed, sending
explosions of pain through his ribs. By now they had him on
the ground kicking him, and kept on kicking him. He was
fairly certain they kicked him in the balls too; it sure
felt like it.
“The kneecap too?” one of the ‘girls’ asked.
“No, that’s enough. Let him walk back to the dirt he came
from.”
By the time they kicked him on the side of the head, he was
too far-gone to notice, still clutching his dislocated
shoulder, his arm plastered protectively against his chest.
Then he heard shouts, but he wasn’t capable of doing
anything but groaning, and stayed down for the count on the
cold concrete only a few feet away from his own car.
Eventually, the hurt became a non-stop thunder inside his
head, and strobes of pain hit his entire body in waves.
“Sucker.” The group split up and left him alone writhing on
the tarmac, in the first trickles of rain. He hardly felt
the numbing pain going through his shoulder and ribs,
wondering instead how to pick himself up and get help.
Until out of the darkness, a body stepped forward and a
hand reached for him. He opened his eyes and saw Simon
West.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to hospital.”
“Where’s Moore?” Mulder groaned.
“He’s dead.”
Act III
“So this is what it’s like to be field agent, is it?” Simon
asked, staring in awe at Mulder’s beaten and bruised body
while they jacketed his chest up with bandages to protect
the cracked ribs. His right arm was already in a sling
strapped around behind his back. The dislocation had been
reduced upon his arrival at the ER and fortunately didn’t
require surgery. Just a couple of weeks of rest and
healing.
“Yep. Some sight, hey?” The agent winced, gingerly wiggling
the fingers visible beyond the blue cotton sling. “Not
exactly what you were expecting, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve got some babe on the side
who finds it very interesting that you’re a Special Agent.”
First silence, then Mulder muttered painfully: “In my
dreams.”
“So eh, what now?”
“Now? Now I go home, get some rest, good. …Ouch…pain
meds and forget about our Ripper until tomorrow.”
“So you’re not going to bite into the investigation and
move forward? I thought you’d be pissed at everyone and the
world. And what about Moore? He’s dead, you know. Shouldn’t
you be out investigating his death?”
“No. Someone else can pick up those pieces. Besides, Moore
died of a gunshot wound during a bar fight. Not exactly the
most glamorous way to go, you know. I’ve given my statement
of what happened. Not much else I can do tonight like
this.”
“But don’t you feel guilty?”
West knew he’d struck a painful chord when Mulder winced
loudly. “Of course I do. I dragged his ass in that joint,
didn’t I? What’s the use of going back there and dredging
it all up? I can’t handle that, Simon. I’ve been stuck on
guilt trips all my life. Moore knew what he was doing. His
death was a shitty exit, but I cannot focus on that right
now. I’m still hazy on the details that led up to this. I
was having a few problems with breathing at the time,
getting used as a punch bag. There are still seven agents
working on the case and I guarantee you that by now Miles
will be itching to haul my ass anyhow. Plus, I am not
exactly in good shape here, Simon. I mean, look at me. Let
someone else pick up the pieces for once.”
“Then what about The Ripper? He’ll kill again tonight! You
have to stop him, Mulder.”
“I’m not of any help to anyone right now, am I? I’ve got a
bump on my head the size of New York, a dislocated shoulder
and several cracked ribs. Should I even talk about my nuts
here? Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase: blue balls!
No, let Miles handle it before he fires my ass. He didn’t
need me in the first place. Finding The Ripper is just
plain old police work. He can comb the area with a
toothbrush for all I care. I won’t be there tonight. Geez!
Be careful with that, will you? You’re kind of hurting the
hell out of me here.”
That last part was directed to the nurse and doctor still
strapping up his ribs.
“You shouldn’t give up like this, Agent Mulder!” West
exclaimed frantically, knowing he was losing Mulder’s
interest quickly. “This is still extraordinary, you know.
You are still looking for a serial killer. Let me help save
your career. I could help you with all the data. I know all
the cases by heart. Your lovely partner could help too.
She’s on her way, isn’t she? You could have your killer by
tomorrow, just like you wanted. This shouldn’t have been
for nothing.”
Mulder was about to retort, only to be stopped by Scully
breezing into his treatment room. Even though she obviously
tried to keep her cool, he could tell she was quite
distraught.
“I told you, didn’t I?” she sighed, gently touching his
chest where it was not taped. He winced at the coolness of
her fingers, and then at the look that Simon gave the two
of them. Scully’s fingers lingered there a bit too long.
“Oh, you are -” West stopped and turned his usual crimson
red. “Never mind. I’ll wait outside.” They watched him as
he shuffled off in an embarrassed gait.
The door closed quietly. Scully carefully embraced her
battered partner, who groaned in agony. Somehow she almost
got stuck between the tape and his chest, managing to catch
his sore arm in the process.
“Oh sorry. How bad is it?” She directed that question to
the doctor.
“Two cracked ribs, a dislocation, now reduced. That is,
shoulder separation in human language, Agent Mulder. A raft
of bruises just about everywhere, it could have been
worse.”
“Don’t forget the bruised ego,” Mulder completed. “Two
‘girls’ took me down, Scully. Of course they were guys
dressed like girls, but still. Could you see Ru Paul
winning a fight over you? It was like something out ‘Too
Wong fu’.”
“You’ll live. Now tell me, Mulder. What in god’s name
possessed you to take Simon West out there? Are you crazy?
Miles is going through the roof! You should have told him.”
“He was busy sucking up to the big bosses. I thought it was
quite a good idea really. Somehow West seemed to belong in
the part. He didn’t fall out of place for undercover. That
was me, unfortunately.”
“Busy asking too many questions?”
“At least they believed I was a pimp.”
“You should be very proud of that. Now tell me, what the
hell happened to Moore?”
“I don’t know. One moment he was inside the bar talking,
and probably asking questions. The next, West told me he
had been stabbed to death. It was weird, Scully. I didn’t
have time to ask questions. I was out of it after getting
my ass kicked. West shoved me in the car and called for
backup. By that time, the bar had emptied. So tell me, did
they find a body yet?”
“Moore is in the morgue, Mulder.”
“No, not him. A hooker’s.”
“Not yet.”
Mulder sighed. “Just take me home, Scully. It’s no use. I’m
fading fast here.”
She sat at the side of the bed and stared at her partner.
The doctor finished up. “Going home is probably out of the
question for the night. You should be under observation at
least for the next 12 hours or so. You might want to stay
here and rest a bit. We’ll give you nice painkillers.”
“As tempting as the offer is, I must decline. I just want
to go home.”
“It’s your choice, Agent Mulder. Let me just remind you
that you have to watch those ribs for the next few weeks.
They are quite near to your internal organs. If you got
into another bar fight again, you might damage something
more severely. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Mulder replied meekly. Then the doctor and
nurse disappeared and left them alone. Scully pulled that
face she normally made when she didn’t believe her ears.
“Mulder, what are you up to?”
“Moi? Nothing! I just want to go home, Scully.”
“That doesn’t sound like you. In fact, it’s so unlike you
that I’m almost suspicious. You have a plan, right? You’re
going back to find your killer. You’ll end up getting into
another situation and get even more hurt.”
“Scully, why is it that you believe I have danger written
all over me? I’m not interested. Miles didn’t need us in
the first place. He didn’t need a profiler, just a stupid
agent who would get someone killed. I’m fairly certain he’s
writing his report to the Director on me as we speak. So
why should I even bother?”
“Mulder, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? You actually made the
right choice throwing yourself into the field like that. We
had a deadline. We had to do something. It was a good idea
at the time. It just backfired, that’s all. Happens all the
time. Since when did that stop you?”
Somber faced and in pain, he stared at her, eyes shouting
defeat. “I’m…”
“Stop that nonsense right now, and get your ass back in
gear. I’ll be your eyes and ears. Hell, I’ll dress up like
a bimbo, and become Mary Kelly the Second; how’s that?”
“Are you going to wear a flimsy little black leather skirt
then? Shake your tush?” He asked with a familiar leer
breaking through the pain on his face.
“Of course.”
“And loads of make-up?”
“I’ll even ruin my hairdo. Satisfied? Now let’s get out of
here, and get you to the office. It’s early evening yet. We
might find a way to catch him before the morning. At least
we can try to stop him from slaughtering a fifth victim,
and disappearing into back into the woodwork. I’m not eager
to let you go back to the office, Mulder, but I know you’ve
got your mind set to it. I’ll be your twenty-four medical
staff from now on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mulder eased himself off the bed carefully,
aided by his partner; grinning broadly yet painfully. “Have
I ever told you that ‘angry Scully’ is quite a turn on?”
“Have I ever told you that a man clad only in boxers,
carrying his business to the left, with a strapped up chest
is a real kick too?” She smirked, one finger straying to
stroke his bandage.
“Oh please. You sound like a groupie.”
“I am your groupie, Mulder, and don’t you forget it. Here,
I’ll help you get dressed.”
Scully leaned down to help Mulder step into his jeans. When
her face came eye to eye with the bulge in his boxers, he
groaned and laughed. “Scully, are you coming on to me?”
“Not now, Mulder. Think ice cool frappucinos.”
Outside Simon West was still waiting. Nervously chewing on
every single nail that still he still had left. His face
was distraught. “Please don’t give up,” he started
immediately when he saw the two agents: Mulder looked quite
pale and in pain, Scully’s arm around his back, eager to
help.
“Don’t worry, I’m back. Now, you said you could help me
with that data, right? Let’s drive back to the office, and
go over everything again. Perhaps there’s a way of
establishing a profile. I created one out of my own
curiosity on Jack The Ripper a long time ago. Maybe I can
come up with one on this man with a similar MO.”
“Would it help if I told you that the DNA tests will be
ready in about an hour?” Scully asked, grinning proudly.
He turned to her with a leer. “If we weren’t in a hospital
right now and I didn’t feel like I’d gone ten rounds with
Tyson, I’d take you right here, right now.”
“Mulder…”
“Oh, I forgot. Sorry, Simon.”
“‘S’Okay,” the Freckle Guy smiled. “I’m happy to see there
is at long last, someone who treats me as if I’m here.”
“Simon, why do you put yourself down like that?” Scully
asked as they walked to the elevator.
“Because I’m wallpaper, Agent Scully. I don’t exist. I’m a
grey appearance. Nobody cares about me, and I don’t care
about anyone. That’s my life. Dreary, isn’t it? It’s always
been like that.” Simon suddenly stopped, realizing he was
confessing how he felt for the very first time in his life.
“I guess I don’t matter,” he finally added.
Both agents stared at him. Then Mulder suddenly realized
that West was right. During all the years he’d worked for
the Bureau, Simon had been there, sitting in his corner
near the Assistant Director’s office, dutifully typing away
at the data, which every Special Agent used for research
and information. They all received input from West, but
they didn’t even care where it came from. He could have
been a computer. Press Enter to print.
Mulder had seldom met anyone before who could blend in with
the furniture the way Simon West did. Then why had he lured
West along into this adventure? Because he had sensed that
West was a very lonely man, eagerly looking for some
excitement in his life. Because somehow, he’d finally and
suddenly connected with this man, who seemed all too happy
to be dragged into a mess made by his peers; because Simon
was a man with no past, no present and no future. Because
he could even blend into a bar filled with pimps and
scumbags, and no one cared he was there. Invisible in plain
sight.
So . . . odd.
The three agents drove back to the office in silence.
Mulder and Scully could not know how much Simon The Ripper
suddenly felt at ease in this strange situation. They were
looking for him, and all he had to do was go with the flow.
He could help them track down himself. He could only hope
that the DNA he’d left lying around at crime scenes, was
evidence enough with which to find him. His fingerprints
were stored within the FBI’s databanks with links to the
NCIC.
And then he could only pray they would stop him before he
had to return to Baltimore and finish the job.
Simon The Ripper didn’t want to kill anymore. He’d got what
he wanted: Mulder’s attention. But the urgency inside him
told him he had to finish what he had started. And then
what? Strange, he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. He
would take the punishment the way it came. No matter what
it was.
Find me, Mulder, he prayed in silence. And explain to me
why I am what I am.
ACT IV
“Mulder!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Miles’s booming voice filled the room as soon as the agents
walked in.
“Here we go,” Mulder whispered to his partner as he
straightened his back, causing flashes of pain through his
body. He felt like crap. His arm and shoulder ached
severely in the sling. The stabbing pains in his chest
prevented him from taking deep breaths, and he had the
mother of all headaches that would have send anyone into
oblivion.
But the really cool drugs that the doctor gave him before
leaving the hospital were starting to kick in nicely.
Mulder heard how his own voice started to slur and felt
strangely happy. The pain would soon subside to just a
nagging ache.
“I love drugs,” he muttered underneath his breath as he
wiggled his way to Miles’s office.
Then he plonked himself down in the leather seat that stood
behind the desk, squirming to find the right position. But
somehow, it didn’t work. He just couldn’t get the right
seating height. “Yjou’ve got a lovely chjair,” he muttered
incoherently when Miles turned his back on him; waiting
impatiently for the others to come in.
He got up and moved behind the desk, throwing himself back
into the big brown expensive leather chair. “Whjy don’t I
hjave a chjair like this?” he whimpered as he started
wiggling back and forth. The chair squeaked in unison with
his movements, alarming Miles.
“Mulder, what the hell are you doing in my chair? Get your
ass out of there and get Scully in here! And the other one
– the Freckle dude – what’s his name again? North or
something?”
“West, sir. East, South, North, West.”
“Don’t be funny, Mulder, or I’ll hand your ass over to my
superiors. Move out of that chair, now!”
Very loudly Mulder started pumping up the seat height,
using his left arm and hand with all the might it had.
“Hjeight njot gjood enjough. Captain Kjirk to the rescjue,
sjir!” he giggled inanely, still bouncing up and down.
Miles sighed and gave up, taking the seat opposite his
desk. Every time Mulder inquisitively grabbed something
from the desk, Miles leaned forward and snatched it out of
his fingers. Mulder couldn’t care less anymore about the
consequences of his actions. Who would when the best
painkillers available to mankind made him giddy with overt
goofiness?
“Mulder, are you sick?”
“No, sjir,” he slurred as he picked idly at the ink blotter
in front of him.
“You look like shit.”
“You alwjays djo, sjir.”
Miles first turned pale, and then bloodred. Oh god Mulder,
Scully cursed underneath her breath. Stop talking.
But Mulder was on a roll. “Isj thjat a njew sjuit sjir?
Thje coljour sjuits you.”
“Moore is dead, Agent Mulder. Have you got anything to say
for yourself?”
Mulder smiled and closed his eyes, leaning happily
backwards. “I shjot the shjeriff, but I djidn’t shjoot thje
djeputy.”
“Agent Scully, what the hell is wrong with your partner?”
“It’s njot – erm, I mean – not his fault, sir. He’s in
severe pain and the doctor gave him heavy medication.”
“So why is he not in the hospital then?”
“Agent Mulder insisted on solving the case, sir. Since our
copycat is still walking about, he wanted to give the best
of himself to aid in the search.”
“Thanks to Agent Mulder, the Ripper will not show his face
tonight. The entire Baltimore area is covered with cops and
Feds.”
“At ljeast wje’ll hjave sjome tjime ljeft to booglie
thjen,” Mulder bounced precariously in his seat.
“Shut up, Agent Mulder. Or better yet, tell me why you
dragged a bleeping data analyst from his desk job, and put
him out in the field with no experience at all!”
“Sir, if I may -” Simon whispered from his seat, but his
words fell on Miles’s deaf ears.
“If yjou wjould stjop trjeating thjat mjan ljike a kjid,
hje wjould djo a ljot mjore than plus a pren,” Mulder
garbled. “Sjimon djeserves bjetter.” Mulder suddenly seemed
to realize that a trickle of drool had escaped his mouth,
and lifted his right arm to try and wipe it off, only to
realize it was strapped to his chest and no use to him.
“Djamn it,” the agent whispered loud enough for everyone to
hear. “I cjan’t ewen jopen my fly. Hjow am I gjoing to
wjipe my assj?”
Miles at least had the decency to ignore that remark.
“Well, next time you drag your colleagues out into the line
of fire, you’d better ask me first, Agent Mulder. Or I
swear I’ll kick you out faster than the speed of light. Now
what are you going to do next?”
“Agent Mjulder – pardon me, Mulder – is going to try and
set up a profile now, sir. Based on the gathered data we
have, we might determine who’s been committing these
heinous acts, while we still have time. We’re also waiting
for further DNA results and will compare them with known
criminals in the database.”
“Go to work then. And Agent Mulder, please don’t drool on
my chair in future. It’s hard to get the stains out. Go
drool on your own.”
“Yjes sjir.”
Mulder somehow managed to swing himself up and out of the
chair, and sprung into salute mode. “Gjoing boldly tjo the
fjinal frontjier, Captjain Miles!” and waddled towards the
door, stopping, momentarily confused.
“Hey, wje’re baldly gjoing now. Here’s Skinman.”
Walter Skinner stood agape in the doorway, staring at the
spectacle of his doped up agent. Ignoring Mulder, he turned
to Scully. “Is he on medication again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh brother.”
Mulder pushed himself past his boss, and wobbled drunkenly
back into the hallway.
“I’m njot sjacked!” he exclaimed for the remainder of the
crowded VCU to hear, giggling away to himself. Then,
suddenly loosing his equilibrium, he slid straight into
Skinner’s arms and drooled on the A.D.’s suit.
“I love you, Scully, I do.” he slurred, before slithering
bonelessly into a drug-induced stupor.
“Are you sure he’s okay? He looks like shit,” Miles
remarked in amazement.
“Oh, that’s normal. He can’t stand his medication. This
stuff makes him as wiggy as all get out.” That was Scully.
“And this man’s going create a profile tonight? I don’t
think so. Get him home and out of our way.” Miles again.
“No, he stays.”
“Grrrrrrroan.”
From the couch in Miles’s office came the unmistakable
moaning of a man waking up from a medicated stupor, and
back into his world of pain. As much as the medication
affected Mulder, it also wore off quite quickly.
“Mulder, it’s me,” his partner soothed, as soon as he
managed to open one eye.
“Yes, I know,” he retorted, trying to turn on his uninjured
side, only to realize he was stuck between Scully and the
seat. ” Ouch. Oh brother.”
“You drooled again. Here, try to sit up. You okay?”
“Oh no. Err, I’m okay. What happened?”
“You did a little dance, made a little love and went down
tonight. Oh yeah, and Miles is having his chair cleaned.
Your spittle was all over the place.”
“Huh?”
“Well okay, skip that little love bit. You’ve got another
bump but you’ll live. Here, drink some water. We need you.
Something happened while you dreamt your little dreams.
I’ve got some shocking news.”
“Skinner’s back with a vengeance?”
“Well no. You actually passed out in Agent Lane’s arms,
calling her Skinner, and then Scully. Skinner’s not here,
Mulder. You dreamt about him, that’s all. Is there
anything, I should know about the two of you?”
“Funny, Scully. Very funny. Now tell me what you found.”
“First of all, I forgot to tell you that we’ve found DNA on
both the Catherine-body, and the woman that died before
her, Elizabeth. The lab examined both of them. And get
this: they are two different types of DNA!”
“So?” Mulder grumbled. “You said so yourself: they could
have been with any number of guys at any time.”
“Mulder, you don’t get it. One of the DNA samples belongs
to a man… and the other to a woman!”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, huh. Exactly!”
“A lesbian hooker maybe?”
“Yeah right. Mulder, there’s more. The DNA test shows that
there is a definitely close blood relationship between both
subjects.”
“Like in a brother and a sister? We’re looking for a duo?”
“Most likely.”
“Oh joy.” Mulder downed a cup of water, only to suddenly
find Simon West staring at him in total shock. The man
became as pale as a sheet, and suddenly had to lean on
Miles’s desk. Nah, he had to have imagined that. Mulder
shook his head to clear the cobwebs.
“Did I really call him Captain Miles?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Crap.”
“Don’t worry about that now. There’s more. When Moore was
killed, the knife was missing. The killer took it with him.
But get this: the coroner is a hundred percent certain that
the same knife was also used in the slayings. Moore was
killed by the Ripper, Mulder. Your theory was right. He was
in that bar, probably searching for a new victim.”
“But a new victim hasn’t been found yet.”
“No, everyone’s on the lookout for any possible missing
working girl. Only, there are so many runaways working the
streets, that she could be long dead; lying in some alley
without even being reported missing.”
“No, Miles was right. The Ripper would not be stupid enough
to kill her with so many cops and Feds crawling over the
area. The red light area is small in Baltimore, and he
would want to kill her right there, where he took all the
others. I think we may have some time left.”
“Simon is running a data analyses on the DNA, comparing it
right now.”
Mulder felt his mind come back to his senses, and shook off
the last bit of confusion. The drugs had worn off and the
pain was back with a vengeance, but anything was better
than calling Miles ‘Captain.’ With utter embarrassment, the
agent spotted the VCU-members muffling their snickering as
he walked in.
“Where are we so far?” Mulder asked, ignoring the wry grins
and tittering. “Can I help?”
The profilers gathered in the room groaned and moaned
because the night passed
quickly, and they were no further ahead. All they had so
far was the possibility of a Bonnie & Clyde type of duo,
which went out killing people ˆ la Jack The Ripper. That
was if the female DNA actually even belonged to the
killers.
“It must have been,” Mulder surmised. “The first two bodies
didn’t have a trace on them. However this time, the killers
deliberately touched the bare skin of their victims, and
they left a hint for us that we can use to look for them.
So what gives?”
“What if the female DNA belonged to one of the hookers
finding the body?” Lane asked.
“No. Two men, who didn’t touch her, found her. Can’t be.
Autopsy showed she was washed and scrubbed everywhere – and
I do mean everywhere – so she probably didn’t do a John
before she was killed. Of course women could have touched
her but even so, I’d like to think we’re talking dual
killers here.”
That in itself, Mulder found very odd. “We’re obviously
looking for someone with
misogynic tendencies.”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone with a profound hatred of women. I established
that in my previous profile on Jack The Ripper that he was
a misogynistic. No one in their right mind would do this.
The man carving into the bodies, mutilating them in such a
fashion, is most likely to suffer from this mental
disorder.”
“So a woman can’t have this disorder?”
“I don’t know. I guess that in the case of a woman with
something like this, we would just call her a psycho
bitch,” Mulder grinned. “I’m not excluding the possibility
that the killer was a pimp and one of his working girls.
The people in that bar seemed to belong to that profession
anyway. There was a girl sitting on Moore’s lap, and he was
talking to a big bulky African-American.”
“Most serial killers are white.”
“Play that funky music, White Boy.” Mulder groaned and
rubbed his eyes with his left arm. He felt useless and
awkward without the use of his trigger arm. He’d dislocated
his shoulder before but this time it hurt like hell. What
if he could never fire a weapon again? Nah, the doctor said
it would mend perfectly.
Suddenly Simon, who’d been sitting quietly behind his desk
sifting through the DNA data, stood up and looked at his
peers. “Why are you so sure it’s two people doing this?
It’s not possible. I mean; it doesn’t make any sense. I . .
.”
The room became quiet as everyone stared at Simon.
“A maso-whatever you called it wouldn’t be using another
woman to kill women, would he? That doesn’t fit his
profile. It must be a mistake.”
“He’s right,” Mulder agreed after an awkward silence.
“Unless of course his sister is the only woman he doesn’t
hate. I’m going with Simon’s theory. We’re looking for one
man. Lane, did the police find anyone who was in that bar?”
“Nada.”
“Okay, then I’ll go scan the database for all the pimps
we’ve arrested in that area lately. I’ll never forget the
face of that dude busting me up.”
Mulder winced painfully as he moved to a computer next to
Simon’s, and opened the massive database that held the
arresting records, and photographs of every criminal in the
state. “Here we go,” he sighed, as he started searching his
way through it on the lookout for the ladies’ man that had
beat him up.
Fifteen minutes and a hundred photos later, Mulder found
his guy.
“Got him and an address,” he exclaimed in triumph. “Let’s
see if he’s still not willing to talk, shall we?”
It was past four a.m. by the time Michael “Mighty Mike”
Chandler sat firmly ensconced in the Bureau’s bowels. He
was not allowed to have a cup of coffee, but Mulder and
Scully were at their sixth cup in the past three hours.
Mulder’s aches and pains seemed to worsen considerably as
his body started to stiffen up.
“I knew you were a cop,” Mike grinned broadly, taking in
Mulder’s pale bruised features. “You couldn’t hide it for
the life of you.”
“That’s funny because I’m a Federal Agent. Don’t insult
me.”
“Whatever.” Mike shrugged.
“So, did you have fun killing my colleague?”
“Excuse me?”
“You were there, Mike. You killed Agent Moore with a single
stab wound. You’re the copycat Ripper, aren’t you? Might as
well admit it because I’ve got witnesses.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Mulder banged loudly on the table with his good hand. “Is
it? I can put you at the scene. You beat me up. You decided
to punish the other FBI-agent in the room too, didn’t you?
Forgetting that the knife you used would link you to the
killings.”
“I didn’t kill anyone! What, do you think I’m stupid?”
“You look stupid. You assaulted a federal officer. That
makes you stupid. So, what’s it going to be, Michael? Are
you going to help us, or should I drag your ass in front of
a judge and lock you up until trial? The D.A. is eager to
get his hands on you. You can help yourself here. Men like
pimps in prison, did you know that? They know you love to
play pet.”
“Okay, okay.” Michael shuddered. “I’ll cooperate. On one
condition: you don’t charge me for assault on you either.”
Mulder smiled. “Hmmm. Let me think. Okay I thought about
it. No deal.”
“Okay okay. Just cut me a deal then. A punishment of some
sort. Whatever. No hard time. Okay?”
“We’ll see what we can do. Now, you know who killed those
women, don’t you?”
“All I know is that it’s not someone from our crowd. It’s
an outsider. Several of our women have seen him. I can tell
you what make of car he drives, and what clothes he wears.”
“What about his face?”
“They see so many faces. I’m having a hard time protecting
them as it is, without an asshole driving around
slaughtering them. They are all scared shitless. The
Baltimore cops did shit to help them, you know. Nothing.
They didn’t care.”
“Well, we do care,” Scully cut in with sincerity. “And we
are going to stop this. So tell us all you know.”
After ten minutes they had all the details on the RV,
including a partial license plate number.
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Scully smiled as she rushed
over to Simon to run the latest info through the database.
And Simon? He just smiled. He felt itchy inside. It had
been a long night, and he was glad he wasn’t out there
slaying his last victim. Let them find me. Let them find
me. Let them find me.
The RV was found abandoned in a supermarket parking lot
outside of Baltimore. The vehicle had been reported missing
by its elderly owner, who obviously didn’t have anything to
do with the murders. It was towed to the nearest lab around
seven in the morning.
Scully lay restless with her head down on her desk at the
VCU, red rings underneath her eyes, and very tired. Mulder
slumped exhausted next to her.
“I told you you should have sold those tickets,” she
mumbled. “Even if we still make it, I’ll be dead as a
doornail.”
“We’re nearly there, Scully. I can feel it in my bones.”
The agent stretched his back, jarring his aching ribs in
the process. “Oh god. I wish I were somewhere on an exotic
beach right now being pampered by hula-girls.”
“Hula Mulder. And moi?”
“You can have hula-boys, Scully.”
“Oh. Okay then. What now?”
“Now we wait for the lab results to see if they find any
fingerprints, more DNA samples and lovely little thingies
that we can use to establish our killer. Simon, stop eating
your fingernails. It’s annoying.”
Simon West looked up and flushed. “Sorry, Agent Mulder.”
“Go home and get some rest.”
“I prefer to stay here.”
“It’s the weekend. Don’t you have anything to do on a
Saturday?”
“Except taking a shower? No.”
Mulder’s interest was peaked. “Simon, don’t you have a
life? I mean you must have something to do. Somewhere to
go. Do you have a wife, a girlfriend or anyone who can keep
you company?”
“No one, nada, zip. It’s just me and my mom.”
“Your mother must miss you.”
“She doesn’t care about me.” Simon couldn’t prevent his
voice becoming bitter. “It’s just me, that’s all. I don’t
like women. Never have.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“They laugh and tease you, and tell you you’re too
insignificant. Make you feel too small for this world. They
don’t see you, treat you like wallpaper, and choose someone
else all the time.”
Simon abruptly stood up, the blood in his veins alive with
the anger he’d kept under control for so long. He was
tired, weary, and suddenly sick of hanging around the
office in a futile attempt to deny his goals. He had to go
out now and kill. It had felt so good to kill those women,
to put his knife into them, and run it through their skin
and muscles. Yeah, he had to feel that again.
“He needs a good lay,” Scully muttered from her seat.
“You know what?” he said. “I have to go. I’ve been here for
too long already. You’re right, Agent Mulder. I do need a
life.”
“That a boy. Go out and have fun. And thanks for your help,
Simon. We appreciate it. We’ll keep an eye on the rest of
the results.”
“Goodbye, Agent Mulder. And thank you for . . . well, for
all of this.”
Before Mulder could say another word, Simon was already
rushing towards the elevators.
Scully groaned, and turned her face to her partner. “Do you
really like this guy, Mulder? He’s just downright weird.”
“Yep. I know. And yes, I kinda like him.” The agent stood
up, stretched his back again, and almost passed out as a
tremendous pain shot through his chest. “Oh god, I really
should stop doing this. I’ll be busting a kidney soon.”
“Then sit down and get some rest. You look like hell.”
“I love you too, Scully. When are we going to hear from the
lab?”
“Anytime soon,” Scully said as she stared at Agent Lane
snoring at her desk. Most of the agents had fallen asleep
as they waited for more information to come in. The two of
them were the only ones remaining awake.
“I hate Miles,” Mulder mumbled. “Ten to one he’s sleeping
in his own warm soft bed right now.”
“How do you know?”
“Scully, shuddup. Hey my phone is ringing. Yeah Mulder.
Okay, yes. Okay, what? Huh? Okay. Thanks! Bye.”
Scully forced herself to pretend to be interested, as
Mulder looked at her and became suddenly very pale.
“What?”
“They found stuff in the truck. Fingernails. They’re
comparing it now to the DNA.”
“Fingernails? Cut off?”
“No, bitten off. Oh my god.”
“What? Mulder, what is it?”
She followed her partner as he rushed to Simon’s desk, and
watched him pull up the database that held all fingerprints
and DNA on every Federal Agent in the Bureau.
“Damn it, I can’t open it. Does anyone have the password of
this database?”
“It’s private. No one can access that but the A.D.’s and
D.D.’s,” Agent Lane yawned sleepily from her chair.
“Get Miles on the phone, and ask him for the database pass,
Scully.”
“Mulder, why in god’s name? Do you think it’s someone
here?”
He turned to her, breathing heavily with pain and
disbelief, and whispered, “It’s Simon.”
“What??”
“He always bites his fingernails. He doesn’t like women.
He’s a loner. My spooky sense is almost shouting. It’s
him.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“What do serial killers crave for, Scully? Satisfaction
they cannot get in any normal way. Simon left us deliberate
clues, I’m sure. He wants us to stop him. That’s why we
found the DNA. That’s why he reacted so oddly at times. The
killer wants to be caught. Geez, I’m so dumb I didn’t see
this before!”
“I’ll get Miles here,” she spoke, “but you are seeing
ghosts, Mulder.”
“I hope I am, Scully. I really do.”
Miles was not a happy trooper when he strolled into the
office, and opened the FBI’s most sacred database for his
agents. He was quite familiar with data analyses as it was
one of his jobs to ensure that all data was utilized
properly.
“Simon West, huh?” he growled. “The Freckle guy sitting at
his desk all day looking dead? Come on, Mulder. That’s a
stretch even for your questionable machinations.”
“Sir, he saw himself as wallpaper all the time. The most
important thing a killer does is to blend in with the
crowd. That’s what he did. It’s him.”
“If that’s the case, you had your killer underneath your
nose all the time. Too bad, Mulder.”
“If that’s the case, he could be out there right now
looking for his next victim. He left in a hurry, sir.”
“You’d better find him then. Because it looks like you’re
right.”
“Oh god,” Scully muttered as she stared at the proof in
front of her on the computer screen. “Mulder, that can’t
be.”
“It is. Simon’s our guy. He’s the one.”
“Much more than that, Scully. I think he’s an X-File. He
doesn’t have a sister, yet that DNA says he does.”
“Then let’s find out the truth.”
Mrs. West was a skinny, frumpy old woman who didn’t seem
too happy about the intrusion in her house.
“Simon?” she asked. “Not here. Didn’t see him since last
night.”
“Do you know of places where he might hang out?” Scully
asked wearily. “Bars, friends…”
“Friends? Simon?” The woman laughed loudly. “He hasn’t had
a single friend in his entire life. He’s a loser, ma’am.
Nothing more, nothing less. He shouldn’t have existed, you
know. I should have gotten rid of him from the start. He’s
a nothing, just like his daddy.”
“He is a man with talents, Mrs. West. It’s a shame you
never figured that out.”
“Talents? Hah.”
“Do you have other children, Mrs. West? Did Simon have a
sister?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“I know how many kids I popped. I just had Simon and that
crybaby was more than enough. I never had any other.”
“Thank god for the kids,” Scully hissed under her breath,
pissed off at the woman’s indifference to her own son.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. West stood up, instantly becoming a tad
taller than Scully. “Do you know what it’s like to have a
son that’s worth zip? If you ever have kids, I hope you’ll
have a stupid one so you can know what it’s like.”
“With a mother like you it’s a miracle he even made it this
far,” Scully retorted. “Come on, Mulder, let’s get out of
here.”
“No, I’d like to see Simon’s room first. Perhaps there are
more clues there.”
“Get the hell out of my house,” Mrs. West replied coldly.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Yes, we are. Or do you want to be arrested for co-
conspiracy? I can get a warrant in an hour.”
“Go upstairs then and leave me the hell alone.” Mrs. West
returned to her television set and couch, acting as if they
didn’t exist. Scully stuck out her tongue, before following
Mulder upstairs.
“Jeez, women like that piss me off,” she hissed, staring at
Mulder’s amused expression. “There are so many people out
there who ache for kids, and she treats her own like dirt.
Nice woman.”
“Ah well, let her be. Here, let’s take a look.”
The bedroom was a representation of the dreary life that
Simon West had always lead. On the walls, hung posters of
long lost glories like Jane Fonda and Farrah Fawcett.
“Oh yuck. Charlie’s Angels. The series. Poor guy.” Scully
looked around realizing the room hadn’t changed for at
least twenty years.
“He really must be desperate. Look! Knight Rider!”
“Mulder, we’ve concluded that Simon West is a poor excuse
of a man, but where is he now? He killed those women, and
the clock is running to stop him before he does it again.
Where do we go?”
“He’ll be in Baltimore, Scully. I’m fairly certain of that.
I just don’t understand why he doesn’t have a sister. They
must have screwed up at the lab.”
“They don’t do that.” Scully sighed. “I can’t explain it
either, Mulder. We need to find Simon, maybe see if he can
tell us. I’m just hoping that the others might catch him
before he does anything wrong. Every unit out there knows
to look for him.”
“Look at this.” Mulder pointed at a notepad and pen lying
on the desk near the window. Simon had jotted, scribbled
and drawn dozens of words on several pages. “This is old,”
Mulder said. “Look what he wrote over every page.”
“I hate women. I hate women. But I love mother. I hate
women.”
“Okay, so now we know he hates women,” Mulder said. “And
that’s not getting us
anywhere.”
“Mulder, I remember something I’ve heard throughout my
science classes. If this is true, then Simon West is
extraordinary after all. I cannot imagine though that he
would be -”
“Scully, what?”
“Do you know what chimaera people are?”
“Erm. No?”
“Sometimes nature plays freakish jokes on us, as you know.
I read this article not so long ago about a boy that was
born a couple of years ago, whose blood contained two
different sets of genetic material. During the gestation of
twin siblings, one of the embryos is somehow absorbed by
the other, resulting in a fetus with two different sets of
genetic material. That is called chimaerism. This boy that
I read about, some of his cells carried female DNA, while
others carried male DNA.”
“Are you saying that’s what Simon West is?”
“What if he doesn’t have any siblings like his mother said?
What if the lab didn’t screw up? Where did the female DNA
come from? The pattern in both samples clearly indicate a
close relationship between them, like that of siblings. Do
you have another explanation?”
“So what does this mean?” Mulder asked. “He’s both male and
female?”
“It could explain why he feels so out of place.”
“What exactly is wrong with him then?”
“From what I’ve heard, he might have two different types of
blood, but that’s not always the case. That would happen if
he had a non-identical twin during his development. We
would have to run tests on him to determine that. Mind you,
Mulder, chimaeric people are very rare. I’m just guessing
here.”
“In that case, let’s find him quickly and see if your
theory’s right.”
She smiled. “You want to go back to The Inn, don’t you?”
“Fancy dressing up like a hooker?”
“That won’t work. They’ll know by now you’re a Fed. I’ll
watch your back instead.”
“Too bad.”
The Inn was crowded again. After Moore’s body had been
removed the previous night, and the cops had combed the
place, the crowd had slowly returned. It was nearly nine
a.m. on a Saturday morning, but no one seemed to care. Most
were eating breakfast and looked as if they had been there
pulling an all-nighter.
Most of them probably had.
The place fell silent when Mulder and Scully walked in.
Mulder still wearing last night’s clothing, complete with
bloodstains and looking worse for wear. He was looking more
and more pale, Scully thought, starting to get worried
about his exhaustion. He belonged in a hospital bed, but
she knew Mulder wouldn’t give up now that they were chasing
Simon.
The bartender was the same guy too. Mulder walked over to
him. “The guy I was with last night. The freckled one. Has
he been in here?”
“Yeah, an hour ago. He left with a girl.”
” Shit! Where?”
“How should I know?”
“Did they talk about a room, or a house or something like
that?”
“She has a room on Exeter. Don’t know the number.”
“Think harder.”
“She belongs to him.” A shrug to the right, and the bulky
African-American Mulder had seen the previous night glared
in their direction. The two ‘girls’ were by his side.
“Uh oh,” Mulder grinned, “Scully, get ready for a
catfight.”
“Is that them?”
“Yep.”
“Leave it up to me.”
The two agents walked to the other side of the room.
Scully’s Antarctic glare froze the two transvestites in
their tracks. She dug out her badge and flashed it in their
faces.
“Which of you two sweet girls hurt my partner?”
They shrugged, starting to look worried. Scully pursed her
lips nastily.
“If I see you make one wrong move, if you even breathe
wrong, I’ll make sure you’re a permanent transvestite.
How’s that?”
“Bitch,” one of the two muttered, before they walked away,
shooting Mulder a wry look.
The agent sat down next to the bulky man. “Your girl
wandered off with our guy. Where is she?”
“He’s a Fed. He said so. Why should I tell you?”
“Because this Fed is also a murderer. He’ll slash her until
you’ll find bits and pieces of her all around the town.
Where are they?”
“Exeter, 10. Apartment 4. That’s her joint.” Mulder was
already running.
“Let’s go, Scully.”
Mulder called for backup as they drove to Exeter Street,
where they had once captured
Eugene Victor Tooms. “This calls for a trip down memory
lane, hey Scully?”
She smiled. “Why is it that we always end up chasing
freaks?”
“Perhaps we’re the freaks.”
“You don’t seem to be growing any extras on your body
though.”
“You should check harder, Scully. Tonight, maybe.”
“Let’s find Simon first, but I’ll keep you to your
promise.”
The apartment building was a dreadful, damp and dark place.
Mulder pushed all the buttons, except the one for Apartment
number four. Finally a man came outside, leaving the door
open for him. The agents rushed up the stairs; guns aloft
and ready for use. Mulder carried his with his left hand,
since his trigger arm was of no use. At number four, they
stopped.
Scully pounded hard on the door.
“Simon, open up!” Mulder yelled. “We know you’re in there.
Now get your ass out of there and leave the girl alone.”
No answer.
Scully pounded one more time before trying the doorknob.
One turn, and they found themselves inside the apartment.
On the couch lay the body of a blonde hooker. Blood trailed
sickeningly across her face and torso, but she was still
alive. Her hands were taped in front of her and blood ran
in a stream down her legs too.
“She’s alive,” Scully said softly. “Where is he?”
The girl didn’t respond, trembling in shock. She was still
young, couldn’t have been older than twenty.
“Simon!” Mulder scoured through the living room and checked
the kitchen and bedroom. Then he remembered what Simon had
said once about his partner, and carefully advanced on the
bathroom.
“Simon, it’s no use. Come out of there and talk to us. We
know it’s you, Simon.”
“Took you long enough!” Simon shouted from the bathroom.
“And here I was thinking you would catch me within the
hour.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Simon. Fieldwork is long and
hard. Why don’t you put your gun on the floor and show your
face. We don’t want to kill you.”
“Simon,” Scully called out after she’d lead the girl
outside to wait for paramedics, and who now sat trembling
on the floor. “We know why you feel so strange. We think we
know what is causing it. We want to take you to the
hospital for a couple of tests. We can work all this out.”
Silence.
“Simon?”
The door clicked open. Scully raised her gun and aimed it
at Simon. Mulder held his gun up too, swaying the thing in
the wrong direction. He couldn’t fire if his life depended
on it, he knew.
Simon had tears running down his cheeks. He was the epitome
of the image he’d procured over the past few years: the
loser who sat in the corner of the room and played
wallflower, while all the others were going about life and
enjoying themselves.
“Simon, it’s over,” Mulder spoke friendly. “Now, why don’t
you come with us and we’ll take care of you.”
“It was the fingernails, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Not the DNA?”
“We never imagined it was a Federal Agent doing the
killing. We had no reason to go look there.”
Simon sighed. “All I wanted was someone to pay attention to
me. That’s all. For once in my life, I wanted to be
someone. Is that so much to ask?”
“You definitely got noticed this time around. I’m sure
you’ll end up in the history books as one of Baltimore’s
most vicious killers.”
“But they’ll remember me as Simon The Ripper, won’t they?
Not as an original serial killer.”
“Yes. For that, you shouldn’t have copycatted the most
notorious serial killer of all time.”
“Oh drat.” Simon sighed. “I don’t have inspiration, you
know. I was a boring kid who couldn’t even read a book
properly. I couldn’t imagine what the characters were
really like. I just read and it meant nothing to me.”
“You killed Moore.”
“Oh yeah. Not so difficult in the confusion. Everyone was
running outside to see the fight with you and the girls. He
kind of just ran into the knife. I always kept that on me,
underneath my pants. No one saw it, so why not? I don’t
like it when they laugh in my face. My partner, too. He
hated being stuck with me. Well, I solved that problem. But
you guys really fucked up, didn’t you? With that female DNA
and all that. Such nonsense. I don’t even have a sister.”
“We know that, Simon,” Scully countered evenly.
“Ah well.” Simon shrugged, lifting his gun and aiming it at
Mulder. “I guess we say goodbye here then.”
“Are you going to shoot me, Simon?”
“No, I’m waiting for Agent Scully to shoot me, because I’m
threatening you.”
“She won’t shoot you.”
“Someone has to. I don’t want to end up being the prison’s
wallpaper. Just let me die and get it over with.”
“Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way.”
“Then I’ll shoot myself.”
“Will you, Simon?”
“Sure.”
Simon’s movement changed and he cocked the gun to his head.
“It’s over in a flash.”
Mulder moved forward.
“Stay put, Agent Mulder.”
“Simon, you’re not a bad person.”
“I’m a fucking serial killer!” His eyes bulged
disturbingly.
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh come on Mulder. Stop trying to save me. I put this on
myself. I’m not the type of lanky, cute FBI-agent that you
are. I don’t get the women’s attention, and I don’t have a
beautiful partner in the sack every night. That’s not me.
You have everything, but I have nothing. We’re not two of a
kind. You don’t have to try and convince me otherwise. I am
just me, stupid little Simon West who leads nobody’s life.
That’s me, and that’s final.”
“Okay then.” Mulder sighed wearily, and turned around,
winking at Scully. “Go ahead and shoot yourself then. I’m
sure it will all be wrapped up very neatly in a casefile
that will end up gathering dust in the basement. I mean,
everyone will want to hide the fact that you – an FBI-agent
– killed four and a half women, right? Not to mention your
colleagues. You’re right, Simon. They will want to treat
you like the nobody that you are. Good for them. I guess
that’s the fate that you deserve.”
“Wha -?” Simon opened his mouth to protest. “I thought you
were different!”
Mulder shrugged. “I guess I’m not. Because of you, I
sustained two cracked ribs and a separated shoulder. I’m
not happy about that, Simon. I’m actually quite pissed. It
fucking hurts. I should be happy that you’re going to kill
yourself. It’ll be a neat little ending to this tale. You
don’t deserve a better fate than that.”
Simon lowered his gun and dropped it on the floor. “Take me
in then, and let me do my story. I want everyone to hear
it!”
Mulder turned. “Of course you do. Come on, Simon.”
Scully sighed in relief, lowering her gun as she approached
Simon. Mulder held him with his left hand. “Turn around,
Simon. We’ll have to handcuff you, and bring you in like
the criminal that you are.”
He smiled. “I’ll get a huge trial, right? They’ll all pay
attention.”
“But you’ll still end up locked in a small, two by two cell
down the end of the hall,” Scully intoned. “That’s how it
works.”
Simon paled. “You can get me help, right? Treatment?
Anything? A doctor? An audience?”
Mulder shook his head while Scully dug out her handcuffs.
“No promises, Simon. You butchered six people.”
Simon West felt the bubble burst. He could actually tell
that it was all going to hell. This was not how it was
supposed to end. He was supposed to get press attention, to
get all the fear that Jack The Ripper created upon the
world. He had to be notorious, feared.
‘SIMON WEST IS THE NEW RIPPER’
‘SIMON WEST IS A BAD, BAD MAN’
‘SIMON WEST: FEAR HIM!’
The second Scully clicked one cuff around his left wrist,
Simon’s anger burst. He pushed her away with one huge shove
of his hand, kicking her body against the bathroom door
where it smacked into the wood frame. She stayed down for
the count.
That same unexpected shove shook Mulder’s grip on him. The
agent fell backwards but didn’t fall. Simon hurled himself
on top of Mulder, pushing him onto the ground. The agent
cried out in pure animal agony as his torso collided
against the tiles. The sling and bandage that protected his
right arm couldn’t prevent it from hurting like hell. It
smacked against the hard surface.
“Fuck,” Mulder muttered underneath his breath, for one
moment begging for the painkillers that had helped him
before.
The next second, he found himself staring into the barrel
Simon’s gun. “So, how am I going to get the attention I
deserve, Agent Mulder? Or better yet: what do I have to do
for it?”
“You had your chance, Simon,” Mulder groaned underneath
him. “Now get the hell off me.”
“If that is all that’s left for me, I might as well kill my
idol too, right? I’m sure you’ll get a memento in the
Bureau’s building somewhere. And perhaps it will read
‘Killed by his colleague in the line of duty’. Maybe
they’ll even name me. I’ll be notorious.”
A smash over the head with a heavy glass ashtray stopped
Simon West’s reign of terror. Without giving so much as a
kick, the murderous agent fell forward, on top of Mulder’s
banged up ribs.
“How’s that for notoriety?” Scully grumbled angrily,
dropping the ashtray to the ground.
“Scully, very funny one-liner, but could you please get him
the hell off my chest!!! I’m kind of choking here,” Mulder
spluttered from underneath West’s unconscious form.
“Oh, sorry Mulder.”
“And while you’re at it, could you please call an
ambulance? I think I might have damaged a kidney; maybe a
lung. And I think he screwed my other arm too.”
Epilogue
“How’s that, honey?”
“Oooh, I love it when you call me honey, Scully. It doesn’t
suit you, but I’ll take it as it comes. Sweet as honey.
Milk and toast and honey.”
“Shut up, Mulder and enjoy the game,” Scully smiled,
feeding him the last bit of hotdog she had smuggled into
the hospital.
It was a funny sight really to watch her partner perched
upright in his hospital bed. His right arm was plastered to
his chest by an even bigger sling after the abuse he’d
caused the already damaged muscles and ligaments.
His left forearm and wrist were bandaged, thanks to a
sprain caused by Simon falling on top of him. His torso was
still strapped in bandages for the ribs knocked around at
the time of arrest. Fortunately he hadn’t damaged any
internal organs even though he’d come close.
“Rest, rest, rest, rest,” the doctor had insisted before
filling up his IV with the good stuff. “We’ll keep you
here, at least for the weekend.”
Nestled in his bed that Saturday evening, Mulder had
droopily replied, “Djoctor Jjackson ljooks ljike Skjinner.
I mjiss jour bjoss.”
The Knicks tickets were sold after all, to Agent Lane and
her girlfriend.
“Now, if I’d had Agent Lane as partner, I would have had
wet dreams all day,” Mulder retorted when he found out
about her preferences.
“Oh thanks,” Scully had replied. “Good to know I don’t turn
you on.”
“Would you mind turning on the television instead?”
Sunday morning Scully came back with the results of the lab
research. “I was right about West,” she exclaimed in
triumph. “He’s a chimaera, and strangely enough that is
going to help him. His lawyer told me they are filing to
have him submitted to a hospital for further voluntarily
testing and research. He’ll probably wind up in a mental
institution for the rest of his life.”
“Hopefully he’ll have the time of his life being the
subject of many tests,” Mulder replied. “After all, he
wanted the attention, didn’t he?”
Sunday evening, Mulder had been quite depressed, trapped in
his bed. Everything itched and ached; felt hurt and sore.
“I could have been at the ballgame, Scully,” he’d whined
over the phone. “Now I’ve got itchy and scratchy all over
the place.”
“Poor fuddy duddy. I’ll come and keep you company, okay?”
As soon as she opened the door, the scent of delicious
greasy hotdogs swayed in his direction. And she strode in
wearing a Knicks cap and T-shirt. In her hands, she also
had a bag of popcorn, a large Coke and extra cap.
“Let’s go to the ballgame,” she chanted and ended up
feeding him two hotdogs. The bits of mustard that ended up
on the sides of his lips, she licked up with a grin on her
face.
“Scully, you are the best. I’ll never dream of Agent Lane
again.”
“You’d better. Now move your ass and make some room.”
Before the game was even half an hour further, Scully
suddenly looked up. Mulder was fast asleep, with a goofy
grin on his face, and the cap slipped over his eyes. She
smiled, pulled up the blankets before turning down the
volume a bit, and snuggled deeper underneath his left arm.
Within two minutes, she too had fallen asleep, happily
admitting that she really found all sports quite boring.
Give her chimaerical people any day.
In his newfound situation, Simon West happily submitted
freely to all tests. They prodded and poked him, and asked
him zillions of indiscrete questions.
And he liked every moment of it. He’d found his niche.
End
Virtual Season X 