Title: Things Intangible

Author: mimic117

Email: mimic1172@gmail.com

Rating: PG-13 for language

Setting: Any time during season 6 or 7

Summary: The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives 
everything except genius. ~ Oscar Wilde 

Dedication: For bellefleur on the anniversary of our thirtieth 
birthday. I was inspired by your devious mind.

Beta thanks to Jake, who never ceases to awe me with her 
grasp of all things grammatical.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Genius is the ability to see things invisible, to manipulate 
things intangible, to paint things that have no features.      
Joseph Joubert  1842

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morrow Falls, Ohio
Conference Room B
Wednesday
9:47 AM

It's as plain as the nose on Mulder's face. 

Even I can tell they all have the wrong end of the stick, and 
I'm just a rookie gumshoe. My three multi-decade, "Son, I was 
pounding the pavement before you were born" colleagues with 
Mount Olympus egos can't see past their own swollen heads, 
and it's pissing me off. 

After the fifth nude body of a young, strangled female was 
found in the river (hung up over the falls this time, right in 
the middle of town for all the tourists to enjoy), the captain 
authorized two more investigators on the task force. And a call 
to the FBI for help. Morrow Falls is a nice-sized tourist trap, 
but we don't normally get five unsolved murders in less than two 
years. Our little detective bureau doubles as regular patrol 
officers when needed, which is most of the time. If there's 
something to investigate, it's usually a bar break-in or a stolen 
car that was taken for a joyride. I'd only been promoted three 
months ago, so I didn't think I'd actually get to work this case, 
but lo and behold, they said I could "listen in and learn 
something." Like it was a training session instead of a murder 
investigation. 

I wouldn't mind the condescending attitudes so much if they'd 
just damned-well listen to the expert they dragged all this way 
to consult. They wanted a profile, and they wanted it 
yesterday. That's a standard demand, but it seems they also 
want it to match their own locked-in-the-box assumptions. 
From what I overheard, there's a flu bug making the rounds of 
BSU, so they called in a favor from a retired profiler who still 
works for the Bureau. For some reason, Special Agent Fox 
Mulder didn't sit too well with Morrow Falls' finest. Everyone 
from the captain on down immediately went on the defensive. 
Maybe they know something they're not telling me, but so far, I 
like the guy. Mulder's only had the casefile for one day, and 
he's already stirred up the investigation with a really big stick.

"What makes you so certain we got more bodies to find?" 
Gillman's the worst of the bunch. Normally he's a fairly decent 
guy, as know-it-all detectives go, but he's been badgering 
Mulder ever since we sat down at the table. Nothing the man 
says is good enough for Gillman. From the carefully blank 
expression on Mulder's face, I suspect he knew he'd be getting 
flack before he announced his conclusions.

Nescoe doesn't want Gillman getting in the only licks. "Yeah, 
how do you know this guy didn't just start out dumping them in 
the river? Maybe he knows water will make evidence harder to 
find. Maybe he's just that smart."

I can't believe Mulder's self control. I would have been waving 
my hands in the air and disparaging everyone's ancestry half 
an hour ago. I don't know why they're so openly suspicious, 
but Mulder manages to keep his exasperation out of his voice 
for the most part. "Say you've pulled someone over for running 
a stop sign. You're both parked on the side of the road, your 
cruiser's lights are flashing, the driver of the other car hasn't 
moved. What makes the hair stand up on the back of your 
neck to the point where you pull your weapon or call for back-
up before you ever get out of your car?"

Nescoe blinks, opening and shutting his mouth a couple of 
times before he answers. "I don't know. Experience? Instinct? 
I've been doing this shit since before you were born and I've 
learned a few things. Why?" 

"Because this is what I do, too." The apologetic grin on 
Mulder's face borders on a smirk. "I've learned a few things by 
getting into the heads of serial killers. I make connections that 
don't seem to be there, connections other people don't usually 
see. And what I've learned is that the guy you have operating 
here didn't start out tossing corpses in the river. These victims 
have been killed with a consistent level of sophistication far 
beyond a neophyte murderer. He'll have been disposing of his 
victims closer to home, somewhere within his comfort zone. 
Although he knows the area, he probably lives nearby, not 
directly in town. He's been killing for quite a while. You only 
have five bodies in the last two years. That tells me he's got a 
stash somewhere else."

I've finally found something to contribute to the discussion but, 
"I think you're right..." is as far as I get. Four heads swivel 
toward me with various expressions of disbelief. I'm sure 
Gillman, Massure and Nescoe are amazed that the rookie is 
daring to say anything without permission. Mulder looks 
pleasantly surprised. He probably assumed I was mute, what 
with my complete lack of input so far. I don't want him to think 
everyone in the detective bureau is stuck in the dark ages. 
Some of us actually read the current literature. 

Gillman screws up his face in disgust. "Carr, you got no idea 
what you're talking about."

"Yeah, I do." I really don't want to draw their fire, but I can't 
leave Mulder to fight this one alone when I understand what 
he's talking about. "Murder's just like anything else you want to 
get better at: you practice. On this last victim, the ME noted 
that the MO is identical to the last four, exact same ligature 
style and material, but fewer defensive wounds. This guy 
knows what he's doing because he's been practicing, and he's 
getting better. That means there are other bodies somewhere, 
even if we haven't found them yet."

Massure opens his mouth to say something but Gillman jumps 
in first. "Okay, kid. Okay. Let's say you're right and he 
changed his disposal method. Why? What reason could he 
have for changing now?"

"Yeah," Nescoe pipes up. "If he's been killing for years and 
getting away with it, why suddenly start drawing attention to his 
little hobby?"

I shrug and look to Mulder. I don't have *all* the answers, but 
I'll wager Mulder does. He bows his head for a moment. I can't 
tell if he's praying or simply trying to avoid punching someone. 
When he straightens up again, the look he turns on all of us is 
half triumph, half horror. "Because the house is already full."

I literally feel all the blood drain from my face as the others 
shoot questions at him. 

"What house? We don't even have a suspect!"

"What the hell you talkin' about?"

"Are you saying he's got bodies stacked in the closet?"

Mulder shakes his head. "Underneath. Look underneath. Like 
Gacy. He may have even gotten the river idea from Gacy. I'll 
bet he has all kinds of books, articles and news clippings about 
him."

Sweet mother of Jesus. It makes a horrible kind of sense. 
John Wayne Gacy started tossing victims in a river after the 
crawlspace got too crowded.

Mulder's gaze seems to be locked on something in the 
distance, beyond the glowering faces in front of him. His voice 
is flat, eerily devoid of emotion as he continues, "The ones in 
the river are recent. Under the house, they're older. Maybe 
nothing but bones now. He poured lime on them when they 
were fresh. After the neighbors complained about the smell, he 
cleaned them before they were buried. Acid perhaps? Now, 
he tosses the bodies in the river because it's more convenient 
and besides, there's no more room under the house."

An involuntary shudder runs through my body. I think a 
matching spasm took hold of Mulder as well. Then his eyes 
refocus and the questions start up again. He takes it in stride, 
only occasionally exhibiting a bit of understandable impatience.

"How many more?" Massure demands.

"No way to tell yet." Mulder shrugs. "You'll know when you 
see the size of the basement or crawlspace."

Gillman throws up his hands. "And just how are we supposed 
to do that? Gaze into a crystal ball? We don't even know 
which house to look for!"

I'm sitting close enough to Mulder to hear him huff a sarcastic 
"ha ha" under his breath. "Contact the county health 
department," he says as he flips through a folder on the table. 
He finally pulls out a sheet of paper and begins to write without 
looking up. "The neighbors will have complained about the 
smell. Could be another reason why he started throwing them 
in the river."

"How far back?"

"Start with ten years, although he's probably been at it longer."

Gillman snorts. "That will take weeks! There are pig farms 
around here. You got any idea how many odor complaints they 
must get every month?"

Mulder leans his head back. His hand twitches, as though he 
wants to launch the pencil he's holding at the ceiling. "All you 
have to do is target any address that's had more than two odor 
complaints in the last ten years. I'm betting there were at least 
five, each one explained away as either an animal that crawled 
under the house and died, or garbage rotting because the trash 
company forgot to pick it up for a couple of weeks. It won't take 
long to narrow down once you have the list of complaints." 

He hands Gillman the paper he was scribbling on earlier. 
"I've signed off on the full profile but you'll only need to know 
a few things to find him. Unlike Gacy, this guy probably lives 
alone, maybe with a dog chained up in the yard. He owns the house, 
most likely inherited from his parents. He keeps to himself but 
isn't considered weird by his neighbors. His employer will say 
he's a good worker, usually on time, no behavioral problems. Most 
likely in construction of some sort, roofing or concrete, but very 
meticulous about his work. Age thirty-five to forty-five, 
depending on when he first started killing. That should help 
you narrow your search even farther. When you've got a list of 
possibles, take the profile to a judge and get your warrant. I'll 
stick around a couple days, see if I can give you anything else 
to go on."

As Gillman takes the sheet of paper, I see not-quite-concealed 
skepticism on his face. Nescoe and Massure don't look any 
more convinced. Haven't these idiots ever seen "Silence of the 
Lambs"? This guy is the real deal!

Gillman glances over at me as he stands. "Okay kid, you 
heard what we need. Call the health department. Let's get this 
circus on the road." Then he opens the door and walks out, 
followed by Nescoe and Massure, without another word to 
Mulder. 

I'm thirty-three years old. When do I get to stop being "the 
kid"?

Mulder's still sitting, twirling his pencil. He doesn't look in 
any hurry to get back to his motel, considering the treatment he's 
just been subjected to. I head for the door, but I can't simply 
leave without saying anything. I turn back around to find 
Mulder watching me with a speculative gleam in his eyes.

"Look," I say, then stop. I'm not quite sure if I should take it 
upon myself to apologize, but my mama didn't raise me to be 
impolite to guests. And Agent Mulder is our *invited* guest, 
dammit. I start over. "I'm really sorry about my colleagues. 
They're actually pretty good guys, good detectives, too. I don't 
know what--"

Mulder raises his hand to interrupt. "It's okay, Detective Carr. 
I'm used to having my theories torpedoed by the best. They're 
just being cautious, doing their jobs."

His conciliating tone only serves to make me madder. "But 
they asked for a profiler, demanded our captain request help! 
You'd think they'd at least have the courtesy to listen after all 
that. They're behaving as if you're advocating voodoo or 
witchcraft to find this guy. I just don't understand them."

He grins sheepishly. "I suspect my reputation got here before I 
did. I'm not sure what they were expecting from me, but 
sometimes attack is better than defense when you're afraid of 
what you're facing. I won't hold it against them."

His reputation? What's that supposed to mean? He's a 
Special Agent with the FBI. What reputation is he talking 
about?

I don't get to find out because, just then, Gillman bellows, 
"Carr! Hustle your diaper-clad ass out here and get that health 
department list. It ain't gonna materialize on your desk by 
itself."

For some reason, that makes Mulder chuckle.

I wish to hell someone would tell me what's going on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

9:14PM


When Mulder is right, he's smack on his sizable beak. 

It took most of today to get the health department complaint list, 
after a great deal of grumbling on their part and credential-
waving on mine. But get it I did, about an hour before shift end. 
That's usually how things work out, so I'd already called Jenny to 
say I wouldn't be home for supper. Wonderful wife that she is, 
she brought it to me at the station. By that time, Gillman, 
Nescoe and Massure had already gone home, leaving me to 
wait for the list.

Mulder went back to his motel about an hour after the 
conference broke up or I would have invited him to join me for 
supper. He'd only stuck around long enough to tweak his notes 
and make some phone calls. My desk is right outside the 
conference room door, so I couldn't help overhearing a couple 
calls. Sounds like he has a wife waiting at home for him, too, 
named Sally or something like that. I tried not to eavesdrop too 
hard, but when he barked out a laugh and said no, he hadn't 
been "pissing off the locals. Well, not more than usual." I 
couldn't help but listen for a bit. You can tell when people are 
in love by the way they talk on the phone. He sounded exactly 
the same as me when I'm talking to Jenny. It made me more 
determined than ever to prove him right and close this case so 
he could go home.

Once I finish eating and dig into the list from the health 
department, it's just like Mulder said. Doesn't take more than a 
couple hours for me to narrow it down to fifteen houses in 
different parts of the county. After I pull out a county map, I'm 
able to narrow it even farther, to just four possible houses. 
There aren't any others in the general area that Mulder 
indicated our perp would operate: near town, but not in it. For 
some reason, one particular house makes the back of my neck 
tingle, just like Mulder was saying this morning. All I have is a 
map with a dot on it, but that dot looks sinister as a cobra to 
me. I pull up a Google Earth map that includes all four 
addresses and my creep-o-meter starts screaming. That 
house isn't sitting any farther away from its neighbors than the 
others, but there's something about it... 

I scan the picture on the monitor again. All the houses are 
fairly uniform in location, so what is it about this particular 
one that's making my instincts gibber in panic? The neighbors on 
one side are relatively close, with a thicket of pine in between. 
Natural sound-proofing. None of the others has as many trees 
around it. When I zoom in on the opposite side of the suspect 
dot, my meter shoots into space. A branch of the river lies a 
convenient distance away, especially if you just happen to have 
a wheelbarrow or lawn tractor with a trailer for hauling dead 
bodies. This HAS to be the house! Everything about it feels 
right, including the fact that the river flows toward town as it 
goes past.

I check the time and call Gillman to see what he wants to do. 
I'm hoping he'll jump right on it, go out and beat on doors for 
more information. He says to just leave the list and maps on 
his desk. "People around here don't stay up late, going to 
nightclubs, kid. We'd be pulling 'em away from their sitcoms, 
which can work against you when you need them relaxed and 
willing to talk." I'm disappointed, but I'm not in charge. If 
we're lucky, another woman won't end up in the river tonight.

I print out the Google map and put a sticky note on it with my 
opinion as to which house we should target and why. I'll most 
likely be ignored since I'm only the rookie, but I have to try, 
for my own peace of mind. 

As much as I hate to think about it, I know Mulder is right: 
there are more bodies somewhere. I'd place good money on them 
being underneath that sinister dot. It simply feels right.

I shut off my desk light and stop to joke with the dispatcher on 
my way out. I have a fleeting hope that maybe I'll be able to 
leave this case in the office instead of tossing and turning all 
night, dreaming of a house sitting on piles of bones but I'm not 
going to waste my money on THAT bet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday
2:11PM


The greatest satisfaction came from seeing the looks on their 
faces when John Leon Alder matched up with all but one of 
Mulder's profile points. 

We started knocking on doors at nine in the morning. Today's 
two-income families make it harder to find anyone home during 
the day, so we weren't surprised when the pickings turned out 
slim at the first two places. Gillman said we'd come back later 
if we had to, but in the meantime, we'd keep checking on the 
other houses. Naturally, we *didn't* start with the most 
suspicious possibility. The others felt it would help us to 
eliminate the non-suspicious ones first and then focus on the 
one that had my nerves in a knot. Whatever it takes to make 
them feel good about themselves, I suppose.

When we got to the house in question, I didn't change my mind 
one bit. Gillman and Nescoe questioned the neighbors on one 
side while Massure and I took the other side. We got lucky. 
The three closest houses had retirees living there, and they 
were more than happy to complain about their smelly neighbor. 
One couple said even with the trees in the way, they'd noticed 
the odor, and complained to the county health department, off 
and on for at least fifteen years. They were very forthcoming 
about the family's history--parents dead, son inherited the 
house, lives there alone, had a dog (it died recently, the only 
thing Mulder got wrong), works for a local roofer, an okay 
neighbor who keeps to himself. Bingo. All the profile points 
were lining up, one right after another. 

While Massure and I waited for the others to finish their 
interviews, I strolled down the road past the house in question. 
I didn't go into the yard. I didn't need to. There was an air 
of... something around the place. It didn't look any different 
from its neighbors on the outside: nicely mowed lawn, grass 
trimmed along the sidewalk and driveway, doghouse in the side 
yard (sans dog), a few flowers and trees, neatly painted shutters 
and trim. The owner obviously cared enough to give a damn about 
the yard and house, make sure they looked nice. But I couldn't 
shake the feeling that death radiated from the very soil. I once 
read a quote from Max Houck: "bones speak with a voice of 
anguish." That was what I felt, staring at that house.

When the four of us reconvened at the car, the pool of 
information was pretty damning. We drove back to town where 
they dropped me off at the station to start running down 
anything I could find on one John Leon Alder. The rest of them 
took the profile and witness statements to get an arrest 
warrant. After that, things started happening pretty fast.

I was still back at the office when they began digging up 
bones. They found a shrine, almost, to John Wayne Gacy: 
books, magazine articles, newspaper clippings, just like Mulder 
predicted. I wasn't there for the raid, when they arrested Alder 
at his job. Massure did have the decency to call and let me 
know we had the right perp, that the killings were over. The 
guy had actually confessed when he was confronted, 
something about how he should have known throwing them in 
the river was a bad idea. 

I called Jenny to let her know. She was mad that I wasn't let 
in on the bust, but I didn't care. The others probably wanted 
the recognition since a couple of them had been working the 
case for two years. As far as I was concerned, all that 
mattered was Mulder's instincts were right, and so were mine. 

It only takes a couple hours to compile everything I can find on 
Alder. He's a pretty dull guy for the most part, if you don't 
count all the people he murdered. There's nothing else for me to 
do, so I decide to head out and see Mulder. I feel he deserves 
to know and I'm betting no one has bothered to call him yet. 

I set out from the station on foot. I probably should have driven 
to his motel, but the five mile walk will do me good. Over less 
than two days, I've been given a lot to think about. I've always 
known there was great evil in the world, but it's never lived in 
the same town I did before. Serial killers and psychos are 
supposed to prowl in other towns, bigger towns, towns that 
aren't mine. Being faced with that kind of horror in the very 
place where I've spent most of my life has left me rocked off my 
foundation and more than a little angry. If our world is going to 
be at the mercy of people like John Alder, I want to help take 
them down. Somehow I don't think I'll get that chance if I stay 
here.

Jenny and I had actually been talking about moving to Dayton 
before I was promoted. It's not that we dislike where we are. 
Morrow Falls is a nice enough town, but I don't want to end up 
like Gillman and the others, complacent, cynical and as hide-
bound as leather. We've always said we'd leave when the time 
is right. Maybe that time is now.

I stop at the motel office to ask Gerry which room Agent Mulder 
is staying in. As far as I know, nobody has been in contact with 
him since the meeting Wednesday morning. It occurs to me 
that he may have given up on us and checked out, but no, he's 
still here. I wouldn't blame him if he'd already left. 

I knock on the door to his room at the same time that I hear 
tires crunching on gravel behind me. It's Gillman, Nescoe and 
Massure. What the hell are they doing here? I figured they'd 
never want to hear the name of Fox Mulder again, let alone pay 
him a visit. I hope they're not planning more of the same 
behavior that was on display yesterday.

The room door opens to show Mulder standing there barefoot, in 
sweats and a T-shirt, obviously not planning on entertaining 
guests. He's holding his cell phone to his ear, but when he 
sees my three older colleagues in the car, he says, "Hey, Scully, 
I gotta go. Company just arrived. I'll call you back." He 
closes his phone without saying goodbye.

Scully? I thought he said Sally yesterday. I must have heard 
wrong. Maybe she's East Indian.

The others take their time getting out of the car, so *I* take 
advantage of those few seconds to say what I came here to tell 
Mulder. "I knew you were right," I blurt out. "I felt it too. 
I *knew* which house it was, as soon as I saw the position on 
the map. It was all there, just like you said. The proximity to 
the river, the neighbors with their odor complaints, he even had 
a dog until it died a couple weeks ago. And when I stood in 
front of that house--" Suddenly, I'm seized again by a 
sensation of death crying out from the ground. 

Mulder puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "I know 
what you mean. I know exactly what you mean."

We're interrupted as the older men join us. Massure is the first 
one to reach the door. Whatever they've come to say, he lost 
the rock/paper/scissors. They all nod at me as they join the 
circle outside Mulder's room, but none of them asks why I'm 
there. Mulder invites us inside and shuts the door. A moment 
of awkward silence falls over the group until Massure finally 
works up some spit to speak with.

"We'all wanted to stop by before you left and say thanks for all 
your help." 

Mulder's eyes go wide as he looks from Massure to Gillman to 
Nescoe. The other two are nodding like bobble-head dolls on a 
trampoline. Massure continues, "We also wanted to say sorry 
about the way we treated you yesterday. We didn't mean to 
disrespect you, but ya gotta admit, it sounded like black magic, 
spoutin' off that nonsense like you knew exactly what you was 
talking about. But damned if you wasn't right! We got the son-
of-a-bitch, thanks to your profile. John Leon Alder, dead to 
rights and no two ways around it. They'd already started 
diggin' up bodies in the basement when we left to arrest him. 
He's goin' through the booking process, so we thought we 
should come say thanks, let you know you done a good thing."

Well dip me in batter and call me a corn dog. I never saw 
THAT coming! I guess you really can teach old blood hounds 
new tricks.

There's a round of general hand-shaking and congratulations. 
Nescoe thumps Mulder on the back, sending the poor guy 
staggering. Gillman clears his throat. "Yeah. Sorry we 
doubted you, Agent Mulder. No hard feelings?" 

Mulder shakes his head. "You were doing your jobs, I was 
doing mine. Profiling can be a bit... spooky if you've never 
come in contact with it before."

Nescoe nudges Gillman in the ribs with an elbow. "Speaking of 
spooky, what were we supposed to think, after all those stories 
we heard about you? Figured you were gonna show up and 
tell us it was aliens or Bigfoot or some shit like that."

Mulder waves dismissively. "Nah, I knew it was a human killer 
right away. If you'd said the victims were missing, I might have 
thought it was aliens, but dead bodies are usually just the result 
of a nice, normal serial killer. Except when it's a werewolf or 
vampire."

The others laugh uproariously, but somehow, I don't think 
Mulder's kidding. He's got an "I know something you don't 
know" look in his eyes. I make a mental note to get in touch 
with him before he leaves here, see if he'll give me his email 
address or phone number. I get the feeling he'll have better 
stories to tell than I hear around this place. You can only 
listen to tales of burglars caught in the chimney of the Fireside 
Pub so many times before they all start to sound the same.

Massure looks at his watch. "We'd best get back, gents. Still 
got a lot of wrapping up to do on this-here investigation. Once 
again, Agent Mulder, thanks for the help. The whole town 
appreciates it."

There are murmured thanks and handshakes all around a 
second time before we're ready to go. Nescoe claps a big 
hand on my shoulder, hard. "Come on, kid. We'll give you a 
ride back before your diaper starts to chafe."

I roll my eyes and watch Mulder hide a smile inside a cough 
while the others guffaw. As I exit the room at the end of the 
line, I hear Mulder call my name. When I turn back, he's 
holding out a business card. "Keep in touch, Detective Carr. 
The FBI can use someone with good instincts and an open 
mind. You might want to consider becoming an agent. From 
there, you can apply to the BSU for profiler training. I think 
you'd be an asset to the department." He smirks. "Just don't 
tell them I sent you."

This is totally unexpected. I don't quite know what to say, so I 
take the card and stick out my hand. We smile at each other for 
a minute as we shake one last time, then I follow my colleagues. 

In the rear seat of the car, boxed in by forty years of tunnel 
vision and preconceptions, speeding back toward bar break-ins 
and joyriding teenagers, I realize that I still don't know what 
threw everyone else into a tizzy about Mulder, but I plan to 
pump Massure at the first opportunity. He's the biggest gossip 
I've ever met since my great-granny died. 

I let the ever-present chatter and ribbing wash over me as I 
spin Mulder's business card between my fingers. I wonder how 
long it takes to become a profiler.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End

Challenge elements: Mulder and Scully are proved to be right, 
or someone has to apologize for being wrong about them, or 
even someone being demoted because they wouldn't listen to 
Mulder. Bonus points for incorporating this line, or some 
variation of it: "The greatest satisfaction came from seeing the 
look on his face (or: the looks on their faces)." Deadline: 
November 7, 2007.

Feedback: mimic1172@gmail.com