by Kami Garcia
“I’m not sure what you mean by his profile.”
“It’s not a term many people use outside of the BSU. A profile is a psychological description of a violent offender based on what we know about their crimes,” Ressler explained. “It’s like putting together a puzzle when you don’t have all the pieces—or the picture on the box to help you. My job is to fill in the missing pieces—ideally, before a killer leaves a trail of victims.”
Mulder sat on the edge of his chair, hanging on Ressler’s every word. “So the profile helped you figure out where to look for the bodies?”
“Exactly. Earl Roy is what we call a ritualistic killer. He engages in specific rituals that have symbolic meaning to him.” Ressler pushed up his sleeves. “For example, he killed Billy after eight days, and he planned to do the same thing with Sarah. He left a bird pierced with arrows that were arranged in the same pattern with each body—it all pointed to a killer who would dispose of the bodies in the same way, and leave them in similar locations.”
“So you started searching crypts?” Mulder pictured Ressler and a bunch of FBI agents wandering around Rock Creek Cemetery with crowbars.
“I let the cadaver dogs do that part,” Ressler explained. “They’re trained to find human remains.”
“In a cemetery? The whole place is full of human remains.” It sounded like trying to find a needle in a skyscraper-sized haystack.
“I said the same thing the first time one of my instructors at the FBI Academy introduced the concept. But cadaver dogs are highly trained. Some only detect old remains, and other dogs, like the ones we took to Rock Creek Cemetery, are trained to detect odors related to certain stages of decomposition.”
“I still don’t get it,” Mulder said.
“This won’t sound very scientific, but we used cemetery records and the process of elimination. Since Earl Roy left Billy in an empty crypt, we assumed he would’ve done the same thing with his earlier victims. So we only searched mausoleums, not graves, and we eliminated the ones without any empty crypts. We started with the mausoleums closest to the one where Billy’s body was found.”
Once Mulder realized that FBI agents weren’t being pulled through the graveyard while they clung to the leashes of a pack of bloodhounds, he was impressed by the scientific nature of it all. “How long did it take the dogs to find the right crypts?”
“A few hours. Daniel’s body was in a mausoleum two plots away from the one where Billy’s body was found, and the girl’s remains were recovered from the mausoleum across from it.”
“The other victim was a girl?” Mulder barely got the words out.
Ressler nodded. “She disappeared in 1972.”
“You’re sure? Could it have been 1973?” he asked, his pulse drumming.
“Normally, I would say maybe. Remains that old take longer to identify. But in this case, we were able to ID the victim because of surgical evidence. She had pins in her hip from orthopedic surgery after a car accident.”
Mulder heard what Ressler was saying, but he felt detached from the words, as if they were meaningless. The girl’s body they had recovered wasn’t Samantha’s. That much had registered. But if Earl Roy had been killing kids as far back as 1972, his sister could’ve been one of them.
“What about 1973?” Mulder blurted out. “Do you know where Earl Roy was, or what he was doing? I’m asking because my sister, Samantha, was kidnapped in 1973, on November 27, from our house in Chilmark, Massachusetts. She was in the living room and the power went out. When it came back on, she was gone and the front door was left open, the same way it happened with the other kids.”
“And you were there,” Ressler said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. But I blacked out and I don’t remember anything.” Mulder looked Agent Ressler in the eyes. “Do you think Earl Roy Propps took my sister?”
Ressler turned off the tape recorder. “Officially? I don’t know. The truth? It’s possible.”
“Were you involved with the investigation?”
“No. But I asked around after I read the write-up about your background.”
“And?” Mulder’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
“No evidence was recovered, and there were never any suspects or any leads.” Ressler shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really wish I had more to tell you.”
Mulder nodded. The truth felt heavy and cold, like wearing a wet coat outside when it was freezing. He couldn’t handle feeling this way for the rest of his life. Whoever took his sister must have left a trace—one tiny bread crumb for him to follow.
Somewhere.
Agent Ressler turned the tape recorder back on. “Nothing can make up for what you’ve lost, but you saved a girl’s life. And you saved the lives of all the kids Earl Roy would’ve hurt if he was still free.”
Ressler’s acknowledgment didn’t give Mulder any peace. The Eternal Champion was still out there. “I didn’t do enough. Earl Roy didn’t do this alone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I tried to tell the sheriff, but he wouldn’t listen. There’s a second killer. The person who gave Earl Roy the bones.”
Ressler picked up his pen. “Did you see this person?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think there’s another killer?”
“Earl Roy didn’t just dig up old bones to make those arrows, but I’m guessing you already know that. The bones came from adult murder victims, and removing the bones themselves took some work—chopping-off-hands kind of work.”
“Did Earl Roy tell you about that?” Ressler frowned and shook his head, disgusted.
Mulder wasn’t about to tell Agent Ressler that he got the information by sneaking around the police station and looking at photos the Major’s “source,” Sergio, had stolen from the morgue.
“That doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to tell you is that Earl Roy couldn’t have done any of that. He can’t handle the sight of blood.” Mulder rushed on. “When I was locked up in his basement, I cut my hand. When Earl Roy saw the blood, the guy went ballistic.”
Ressler started writing.
“I’m talking about a full-blown panic attack from a little blood smeared on the floor.”
Mulder held up his hand so Ressler could see his palm. “That’s the cut.”
It was so small that Ressler had to lean over his desk to take a closer look.
“But Earl Roy crawled away from me like I had severed an artery. And he begged me—his prisoner—not to come near him. That’s the reason he poisoned the kids. No blood. How could a guy like that hack up a body?”
“He couldn’t,” Ressler confirmed. “What you’re describing is a called hemophobia. And you deduced there was a second killer based on the connection between the bones and Earl Roy’s hemophobia?”
“Earl Roy also told me there was another killer,” Mulder said. “In a delusional sort of way.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“He’s obsessed with this fantasy series about the Eternal Champion, a character who fights to restore the balance between Chaos and Law. It’s pretty complicated.”
Ressler nodded. “We know about the books and the Eternal Champion. Propps hasn’t stopped talking about them.”
“He wouldn’t shut up about it with me, either. He kept saying he was the Eternal Champion’s protector. But it didn’t click until I saw his reaction to the blood.”
Agent Ressler leaned back in his chair, studying him.
Mulder recognized that look. “You don’t believe me, either.”
“Actually, I do.” Ressler opened a folder and thumbed through the papers inside. “I witnessed Earl Roy’s hemophobia firsthand.”
“How?”
“When I spoke to the sheriff, he told me that you were in shock, and I should wait a few days before I interviewed you. He said you thought there was another killer because Earl Roy was terrified of blood. He didn’t take any of it seriously.”
“But you did?” Mulder asked.
“I can’t take the credit. I mentioned the conversation to Agent Douglas, and he decided to conduct an experiment. He tossed a crime scene photo on the table when we questioned Earl Roy.”
“What happened?” Mulder tried to picture the scenario.
“He almost dislocated his shoulder trying to climb under the table to get away from the photograph. Not many people would’ve put this all together, Mulder. If you were older, I’d hire you.” Ressler didn’t sound like he was making fun of him.
“Wait. Then you believe there’s another serial killer?” He stared at him in shock.
Ressler dodged the question by asking one himself. “When you were alone with Earl Roy, did he mention his brother?”
The word hit Mulder like a brick. “He has a brother?”
“Montgomery Propps. He’s three years older than Earl Roy, and we suspect he was either directly involved in Earl Roy’s crimes or he was at least aware of them. The fact that he didn’t show up for work the morning after Earl Roy was arrested makes both scenarios more likely.”
Mulder put the legal pad with his notes on Ressler’s desk and pushed it toward him. “I don’t know if this will help.”
Ressler picked it up and skimmed the pages. “You wrote this?”
“Yeah. I stayed up all night working on it.”
“These aren’t notes, Fox. This is a profile of Montgomery Propps.” He stared at Mulder, stunned. “And it will help. Sometimes profiles help us identify violent offenders, but we also use them to locate offenders faster. I need to show this to Agent Douglas, and then get it to our team at the BSU. Thank you.”
Agent Ressler led Mulder back to the reception area, where Phoebe was reading a pamphlet. “Give me a few minutes,” Ressler said. “And then I’ll walk you over to the coffee shop to meet your dad.”
“We’ll be fine on our own,” Mulder said. “It’s right across the street.”
“Stay put,” Ressler ordered, still reading Mulder’s notes as he pushed the office door open with his free hand.
The moment the door shut, Phoebe asked, “What just happened?”
It took Mulder a moment to respond. “I’m not really sure. But I think I just helped the FBI.”
CHAPTER 26
Coffee shop across from the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building
4:54 P.M.
Mulder spotted his father the minute he entered the coffee shop with Phoebe and Agent Ressler. His dad was parked at a table in the back of the restaurant, and from the plates on the table, it looked like he was on his second slice of pie.
His father stood up the moment he saw the FBI agent walking toward him. “How did it go? Was my son helpful?”
Ressler nodded. “Absolutely. Mulder is remarkably bright and his instincts are exceptional, two qualities we hold in high regard at the BSU.”
Mulder’s father tossed a few bills on the table. “Glad to hear it. But we have to get going. I’m needed at the office. The State Department took on a very ambitious project, and I’m the only person who understands the intricacies.” The remark sounded like a sad attempt to point out that Mulder’s exceptional genes were inherited from his even more exceptional father.
“We can’t leave yet. Gimble is still meeting with Agent Douglas,” Mulder said.
“They should be finished soon,” Agent Ressler assured Bill Mulder. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll be over there with Phoebe.” Mulder pointed to a booth across the aisle. He was done with his dad for today.
And tomorrow.
He grabbed Phoebe’s hand, led her to a booth, and then slid into the seat.
“What did Agent Ressler say about what you wrote?” she asked the moment she sat down.
The waitress swooped in before Mulder could answer.
“Can I get you kids something?” she asked, slipping the pencil from behind her ear.
They hadn’t looked at the menus tucked behind the napkin dispenser yet. But he just wanted to get rid of the woman so they could be alone. “I’ll just have a slice of pie,” he said.
“Me too,” Phoebe said.
“What kind? We have apple, cherry, lemon, Boston cream—”
Mulder cut her off. “Sweet potato.”
The waitress raised her eyebrows but wrote it down. “And for you?” she asked Phoebe.
“Chocolate?”
“Chocolate cream or chocolate silk?”
“Chocolate cream,” Phoebe said quickly, sensing that Mulder was losing his patience. The waitress started to ask another question, and she added, “And two waters. Thank you so much.”
When the waitress finally walked away, Phoebe folded her legs on the seat and got comfortable. “So what did Agent Ressler think about your notes?”
“I don’t know. He seemed sort of … impressed. Ressler said the notes I gave him are called a profile.”
“Your notes have a name?” Now she was impressed, too.
“Seems like it.” A hint of a smile played on Mulder’s lips. “From what Ressler told me, a profile is like a window into a violent offender’s mind. The FBI uses them to hunt down serial killers like Earl Roy Propps.”
Phoebe leaned back against the booth and tilted her head to the side, studying him. “You were only in his office for an hour and you already have the jargon down?”
Mulder shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
She looked across the table at him and their eyes locked. “You saved a girl’s life, Fox. It doesn’t get much bigger than that.”
“Thanks.” He had just wanted to stop a monster and protect that little girl, the way he hadn’t been able to protect his sister. But he finally let himself feel proud of what he’d done.
The waitress came over and dropped off their pie. She forgot the waters.
Mulder shoved a forkful of pie in his mouth.
“If Agent Ressler was impressed with the profile, then he must’ve believed you when you told him about the second killer,” Phoebe said.
Mulder leaned in. “Ressler already knew. One of the deputies told him about the way Earl Roy flipped out at the sight of blood. So Ressler set Earl Roy up and showed him a crime scene photo.”
“And?” She was hanging on every word.
“Earl Roy tried to climb under the table and hide. Plus, Ressler thinks he knows who Earl Roy was working with. He has a brother. Montgomery Propps.”
“And his brother is still out there somewhere?” She pushed away her plate, the pie untouched.
“Yeah. But Agent Ressler said the profile I wrote might help the FBI find him faster.”
“It sounds like you’re good at this. And maybe it’s something you’re interested in?”
The waitress came to the table again. “The two men in the booth over there paid your check.”
Mulder’s dad and Agent Ressler were out of their seats. His father gestured toward the front of the coffee shop.
“Looks like we’re leaving,” Phoebe said.
Mulder wasn’t looking forward to going back to the apartment. He had nothing left to say to his dad—except that he wouldn’t be attending Georgetown University in the fall.
“I’m glad we had a chance to meet, Fox Mulder.” Agent Ressler extended his hand.
Mulder shook it. “Me too.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Phoebe asked Ressler.
“I’m heading back to Quantico, to the BSU.” He looked at Mulder. “There’s a profile I want to get over to my colleagues as soon as possible.”
As Ressler turned to leave, Mulder realized he had another question. “Agent Ressler? What’s a good major for someone who wants to join the FBI after they finish college?”
Ressler smiled. “Psychology.”
“Political science and economics will carry you further, and Georgetown has top-notch programs in both,” Mulder’s dad couldn’t resist mentioning.
“That’s good to know,” Mulder said. “But I’m not going to Georgetown.”
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Phoebe’s mouth fell open.
Bill Mulder’s nostrils flared and his jaw muscles twitched. “What did you say?”
Mulder ignored him and looked at the FBI agent. “And which school has the best psych program?”
“That’s easy. Oxford.”
“Thanks.” He watched as Ressler pushed up his rolled sleeves and opened the door to leave.
Agent Ressler paused to say one more thing. “Come see me when you need a job in a few years.”
CHAPTER 27
Washington, D.C.
4:58 P.M.
The window slid open, as if someone had greased it just for X. People wasted ridiculous amounts of money buying reinforced doors and high-tech dead bolts to protect their homes, but nine times out of ten they skimped on the windows—and any halfway decent criminal knew it.
He started to push the window up the rest of the way, and it got stuck.
X heard his father’s voice in the back of his mind. “That’s what you get for being such a know-it-all.”
Guess his loser father was right for once in his life. It was a shame the man was buried too deep in the ground to enjoy it.
X’s mouth stretched into a satisfied smile.
You never forget the first person you kill.
Two minutes and twelve seconds later, he returned the lock pick to his wallet and ducked under the window frame and into the room.
A flash of red caught his eye, and he noticed the poster on the back of the door.
Farrah Fawcett.
The kid had good taste.
He dusted off his pants and felt a twinge of … guilt? All right, maybe he felt a little sorry for the kid. It was hard for a boy to lose his father.
Unless you killed him yourself.
It was the kind of thing his boss would say.
He walked by the desk and flicked a model of the Enterprise from Star Trek hanging above it. “Sorry, kid.” X watched it spin. “Your dad should’ve kept his mouth shut.”
He slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him, but not before he kissed two of his fingers and touched them to Farrah’s lips. In the hallway, he heard the crackle of static, followed by a man’s voice.
