Title: Evidence of the Mind
Author: XScout
Rating: R
Spoilers: Grotesque
Classification:VA
Keywords: Profiler!Mulder
Timeline: Ninth season doesn't exist and there is no baby.
Summary: It was all that I had left, the only evidence of the mind
that had once been part of the man I loved. 

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Patterson, and Mostow all belong
to Chris Carter and 10-13 Productions. No infringement is intended and
no money will be made. 

Author's Notes: Oddly, this story reflects my feeling toward the show.
And don't worry, it's not a character death story. If you liked the
story and think I should make more of an effort to continue writing
(not on this particular story as it was meant to stand alone, but on
other stories), please let me know. XScout@hotmail.com 

******************** 

Evidence of the Mind 

******************** 

Will the madness ever end? 

It was the first thought that entered my numb brain when I saw what
was in the dim room. I was too shocked and appalled by what was before
me that I barely had a chance to remind myself that this was not a
nightmare. 

At least not one in the normal sense of the word. Not one from which
you could simply wake and be safe from its clutches in the
light of day. No, this nightmare was all pervasive, saturating
everything it touched. It had begun with something as elementary as a
phone call. 

************ 

Skinner himself called our office and asked to see us immediately. The
fact that he had made the call and not Kimberly was a signal that
whatever he wanted to discuss was of the utmost importance. Usually it
preceded some sort of news that the Assistant Director felt was
sensitive and needed to be communicated with a delicate hand. Death of
a family member, another connection to the Consortium and their agenda
uncovered, an earth-shattering revelation about anything from our
personal lives to our business lives. 

A single glance between us silently communicated our concerns and an
unspoken promise that we would face whatever came together. Too much
practice at this sort of thing was evident in our acceptance of the
implicit implications of such a phone call. We just adorned our
jackets in silence and headed upstairs to face our superior with a
united front, wary but ready for whatever was to come. 

We were ushered into his office by his secretary, Kim's expression
professional but her eyes holding a certain amount of sympathy. I saw
Mulder's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed nervously and I reached out
to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Answering me with a soft smile,
he led the way. We seated ourselves in our respective seats and stared
attentively at the man seated behind the large wooden desk. 

Skinner took off his glasses and passed a hand over his face before
replacing the spectacles. Not a good omen. "Agents, I was
contacted this morning by Donald Gerrard." 

With the utterance of that name we both knew what it was we had been
summoned for. Donald Gerrard had taken over the Investigative Support
Unit when Patterson... retired. The fact that the man had called the
AD could only mean one thing. He wanted Mulder to profile. 

"Sir-" I began to protest but Skinner held up a hand. 

"I tried to dissuade Gerrard but he was very insistent. It seems one
of the cases they are working on has come to a standstill and
they are desperate for some sort of break. You and I both know he
would not have requested Agent Mulder's help unless he had
no other choice." 

I couldn't even muster a small smile at that. It was well known that
there was no lost love between Gerrard and Mulder, the older
man jealous of the young agent's profiling abilities and yet resentful
of the fact that Mulder had left the ISU, feeling he had
abandoned his duty. The cold fear that gripped my stomach kept me from
enjoying the irony of the situation. 

Skinner obviously saw the fear on my face and the distaste on
Mulder's, because he continued his explanations in a placating tone.
"When I told him you were both currently involved in a case he said
that he had already gone to the Director and requested Mulder
be reassigned temporarily and he was only notifying me as a formality.
I told him in no uncertain terms that I would only allow the
transfer if Agent Scully was included, despite the Director's orders."

It was a sign of how much Skinner cared about his agents that he was
willing to question and even try to countermand his superior's direct
orders. I was thankful for his intervention and showed him so by not
arguing with the reassignment. 

Mulder didn't argue either. In fact, he seemed to accept it with
resignation and I wondered if he somehow knew that this was in
the wind. Another half an hour and we were headed down to the parking
garage, boxes of files on the case in hand and plane tickets to
Colorado in our pockets. With the rushed preparations for an
unexpected extended stay away from home, it wasn't until
we were seated on the plane that I remembered to ask him about his
reception to the transfer. 

"I saw on the News this morning that another victim in the Starlight
Killer case was found last night. Details were sketchy due to
limited information the press was receiving but I could tell that
desperation was setting in. It was only a matter of time before they
called, I just didn't expect it to be so soon." 

Someone else might have seen his comments as smug and full of
self-importance but I knew that his 'talents' were not something
he was grateful for. In truth, he avoided profiling as much as
possible, knowing that the darkness might overwhelm him the next
time and he wouldn't come back. It was a measure of his skill that he
was the 'emergency backup' the ISU called on when they couldn't get a
hold on a certain killer. I'd had only a few more experiences of his
profiling ability after that first foray into madness with Mostow but
they were enough to make a cloak of dread settle over me every time
the ISU came calling. 

My fears were well founded, because as soon as we walked into the
Denver field office, the descent into madness began. Mulder
was shuttled off to a private room full of gruesome photos and piles
of paper while I was sent to the morgue to do an autopsy on
the new victim as well as re-autopsy the last three bodies the killer
had left. I didn't even have a chance to give him a few words
of comfort before he was sequestered in the badly lit room and I was
dismissed to the lower levels. 

It wasn't until the next morning that I saw him again, seated at the
large conference table in the briefing room. I had tried calling
him but his cell was turned off and he hadn't returned to the motel we
had been put up in. Normally I would have searched every
room of the Denver bureau for him but the jet lag and thirteen hours
on my feet caught up with me. I fell asleep on the bed without
even taking off my uncomfortable shoes. I had only meant to rest a
moment but the next thing I knew my phone was ringing and it
was Gerrard, telling me that the morning's meeting had been moved to
seven a.m. - which was twenty-five minutes away. 

Managing to make it with three minutes to spare, I found the briefing
room full of milling agents, their loud voices discussing sports,
family, and any other subjects not related to the case. Down at the
far end was a still figure, one of the few seated and the only
one not deep in conversation. I appraised him from a distance before
going over, wanting to get the fear under control so I could
face my partner with nothing but strength and reassurance. 

It was a good thing I did because what I saw made my stomach drop and
my mouth go dry. He was slumped forward in his chair, his elbows
resting on the table as though he needed the support. Dark shadows
ringed his eyes and a thin grain of stubble graced his jaw. His
unkempt hair showed small channels from where his fingers had
repeatedly run through it. Obviously he had not slept and probably not
eaten since breakfast the day before. 

Shaking my head slightly, I struggled to pull a mask over the dismay I
knew was obvious on my face. Walking over to take the seat
next to him, I laid a hand on his forearm and called his name in a low
voice. 

He looked at me with tired eyes and somehow summoned up a tiny grin
that went a long way towards banishing my fear. He opened his mouth to
say something but Gerrard's voice cut him off, announcing that the
meeting was to begin. 

I sat back in my chair and listened to the team's findings, keeping
one eye on the whiteboard being used to plot down important
points in the case and the other on my partner. He appeared to be
staring off into space, oblivious to everything else around him but
I knew that he was absorbing it all even as his mind raced in a
thousand different directions. It wasn't until the subject of the
profile came up that he seemed to come back to earth, suddenly
throwing himself out of the chair and expounding his theories on the
whiteboard with large, almost illegible strokes of the pen. 

The other agents stared on in a combination of disgust and awe, their
own feelings of grudging respect at Mulder's intellect warring
with repugnance at the method in which he came up with his theories. I
was angry at their distaste and yet I understood. Mulder's
mind was so unfathomable to them that they had a hard time
understanding what it was they were seeing. All they knew was that
he came up with the right answers, practically out of thin air, and
that in doing so he seemed to sink into a sort of fugue state that
probably seemed like psychosis. What they didn't understand scared
them. It scared me the first time too, how close he communed
with the killer, seemingly acting on the same impulses that made the
monsters what they were and so becoming almost a monster
himself. 

I know he tries to fight it but in the end fails, always consumed by
the abysmal depth of evil souls, losing a piece of himself each
time. I try to help wherever I can, putting food in front of him,
forcing him to get some sleep whenever possible, and trying to tether
him to reality with my constant presence. But it had only been one day
and already the tether was stretched taught. If I hadn't
known better, I would have thought Gerrard was keeping us apart in
some sort of attempt to get Mulder to sink faster. It would
have been like killing two birds with one stone - solve the case
quickly and get rid of Mulder. 

But I'm not as paranoid as my partner and I know that the demands of
the job often get in the way of what we want personally. It
was a horrific case, one in which young women were taken from their
homes and killed in unspeakable ways. Usually they were
cut with a knife, star-shaped marks carved into their bodies as they
were raped. Then they were released from their nightmare,
killed in different ways, ranging from strangulation to a quick thrust
to the heart. The condition of the bodies and the obvious lunacy
of the murderer made everything more complicated. And so it went, day
after day, Mulder working on his profile while I did autopsy after
autopsy. My days were spent in the morgue and the lab, going over the
results and trying to glean some sort of pertinent information from
them. I checked on Mulder as often as possible, stopping by his office
with a sandwich and bottle of juice or calling him on his cell to make
sure he took a break. 

Days turned into weeks as another three bodies were discovered and we
all pushed ourselves harder, almost to the breaking point,
trying to catch the madman who was terrorizing the city. I saw Mulder
less and less, our paths only crossing when we were both
at the same briefing. Often one or the other of us wasn't at a meeting
due to what we were currently working on or because our
expertise wasn't necessary at that particular time. He had taken to
sleeping at the office, so any chance I'd had to talk to him at the
motel was gone. The phone calls I made were rarely answered and when
they were he spoke in clipped sentences about nonsensical things only
his mind could comprehend. On the occasion I did see him I was almost
breathless with fear and worry. He became increasingly sullen; his
hoarse words few and far between, his temper flaring suddenly to then
be replaced by apathy. His weigh dropped off drastically, slacks
hanging off his hips as his once toned body protested its lack of
nourishment. The darkening smudges under his eyes were a testament to
sleepless nights and I heard other agents whispering about screams in
the night. 

Terror filled every fiber of my being, fear for the man I loved. Yes,
I loved him. It was something that transcended the physical;
something so abiding that it imprinted itself on my soul. The fear was
literally tearing me in two for I was losing him and there was
nothing I could do about it. 

On the sixteenth day after our assignment to this case I was standing
in the lab looking through a high-powered microscope at a
sample of soil collected from under the latest victim's fingernail. As
I stared at the tiny molecules of brown and green I suddenly
felt this inexplicable fear sweep over me. In seconds I had my cell
pulled out and was dialing my partner. After listening to it ring
over two dozen times, I disconnected the call and made another one,
this time to Donald Gerrard. 

"Gerrard." 

"Sir, this is Agent Scully. I was wondering if you had spoken to Agent
Mulder recently?" 

Something like a grunt came from the senior agent. "When was the last
time Mulder spoke to anyone?" 

"Sir, I don't-" 

Gerrard sighed. "Look, Agent Scully, last time I saw Mulder he was
holed up in his office. Have you tried calling him?" 

'Of course I tried calling him, you idiot!' I wanted to shout but
restrained myself. "Yes, Sir, but he's not picking up. If you see him
would you please have him call me immediately?" 

"Mmmhm," Gerrard answered and I could tell he wasn't really listening.

I wished I had called on a landline so I could have the satisfaction
of slamming the phone down but instead settled for pushing the
End button forcefully. Next I made a call to Agent Franzoni who was
one of the few in the regional office who was friendly towards my
partner and me. He informed me that Mulder had left last night, saying
that he had something he wanted to investigate further and hadn't
checked in yet today. 

Alarms blared in my head so loudly I couldn't hear myself thank
Franzoni and hang up. Could Mulder have gone off in search of
the killer on his own? Had he thought of some vital clue that told him
the identity of the UNSUB and in his altered state of mind
thought he had to catch the man by himself? 

Visions of my partner laid out on the slab in the morgue, gruesome
injuries just like the other victims had, decorating his cold body.
I had to find him. *Now.* 

I rushed out of the lab, offering my colleagues no explanation and
hurried to the garage. Soon I was racing through the streets in
the government issue sedan, driving at an almost reckless speed.
Screeching to a halt in front of our motel, I barreled through the
door of my room and started going through my duffel for my gun. I
didn't wear my weapon when I was working forensics and I
figured that I might need it if I found whatever Mulder had gone in
search of. I was on my way out the door when I paused abruptly. 

I don't know where the thought came from but suddenly I had an
overpowering urge to go into Mulder's room. All haste disappeared as I
walked over to the connected door, time seeming to slow as I reached
for the knob. Twisting the handle with excruciating slowness, I pushed
to door open with a small shove. 

Squealing on old hinges, the door swung open to reveal a dark room,
the curtains drawn. Normally the thin motel curtains would
allow some light to seep through but something had been placed over
the material to make it block the sun. Stepping closer, I
realized that the curtains were covered with paper. Pulling several
sheets off the thin cloth, I scrutinized the scrawled writing
scattered across the pages. It was Mulder's writing, scribbled in such
haste that many of the words were smeared or incomplete.
Turning around I looked up from the papers and gasped at what I saw
before me. 

Unbidden, one thought came to my mind. 

Will the madness ever end? 

********** 

The few pages I had removed from the curtain allowed some sunlight to
filter through the sheer material, their rust coloring bathing
the room in a reddish glow, turning it into a scene right out of Hell.

Papers covered every vertical surface in the room - walls, doors,
tables, chairs, even the television. Papers covered in the same
cramped script that was smeared across the pages in my hands. Not all
of the words were as illegible, however. In several places
more than one page had been written over with large marker-sized
strokes, accentuating words like 'lust', 'fear', 'hate', 'need', and
'pain'. But one word above all others was emphasized, huge bold
strokes of what looked like paint slashing across the papers
tacked above the bed. 

'DEATH' 

The marks still dripped with whatever was used to make them and with a
cold certainty I knew it was blood. That was when I looked down and
saw what lay in the bed, pain cutting into my heart as all breath
escaped my lungs. 

It was a body. 

The sheets were drawn up haphazardly over the form, revealing only a
human shape and large red splotches staining the covers.
With faltering steps I made my way over to the bed and reached out a
trembling hand to take hold of the sheets. Slowly drawing
them back I was both relieved and terrified by the dead eyes staring
up at me. Relief because it wasn't Mulder, terror because it
was someone else, killed by the same M.O. as the very killer we were
hunting. 

A woman with long blonde hair was sprawled across the bed, her arms
and torso marred by long, deep cuts, where her stomach was supposed to
be there was a gaping hole. My gorge rose but I swallowed harshly,
tearing my eyes away from the grisly sight. Considering the levidity
of the body and the blood pooled at the bottom of the grotesque
cavity, I guessed that the woman couldn't have been dead for more than
six to eight hours. 

I began to reach for my cellphone when I froze, thinking I'd heard a
noise. Straining my ears I finally discerned a muffled crying
coming from inside the room. Squinting in the dim light I traced the
whimpers to a small form huddled in the corner between the
wall and the bedside table. Cautiously circling around the bed I
approached the trembling form with dread washing over me,
knowing who it was but not wanting to accept it. 

It was Mulder. 

He was cowering in the corner, his legs pulled up to his chest and his
arms pressed tight to his sides, hands covering his face. I
reached out and wedged my fingers underneath his, pulling one of his
hands away. I could feel cold stickiness on his fingers and
mind-numbing doubt began creeping into my brain. 

His face was deathly pale, punctuated by the dark circles beneath his
eyes, his unkempt hair obscuring my view of his eyes. With a
quaking hand I brushed the locks of hair out of the way and I couldn't
help the cry of anguish that escaped from my throat. 

His eyes. Those eyes that had a chameleon-like ability to change
color; expressive orbs that had once lit up with laughter or
sparkled in excitement - they were empty. Black pools of nothingness
that I feared would swallow my soul if I didn't look away. 

I don't remember calling the Bureau or 911 but I must have done both
because Gerrard and numerous other agents arrived just before the
ambulance. The EMTs loaded Mulder onto a gurney, working under the
assumption that the same person that had killed the woman in the bed
had attacked him. Perhaps, in a way, he had been. 

Gerrard and the others, stunned by the implications of the tableau,
fell back on procedure for comfort, treating the motel room as a
crime scene. The agents moved around me like ghosts, averting their
eyes when they caught my gaze, talking in whispers. I simply
stood in the middle of the room, my body and mind paralyzed with a
combination of shock, horror, and a strange sort of acceptance. 

I clenched my hands into fists and felt a slick wetness between my
fingers. Raising my arm, I stared at the offending liquid. But I
didn't see the blood that dribbled down across my palm. All I could
see were those cold empty eyes, holding no sign of the brilliant
intellect that had resided within their depths. Dropping my hand back
to my side I slowly turned in a circle and my heart ached at
the sight. 

The pages of Mulder's writing fluttered in the breeze being let in
through the now open door, crackling in dissonance. It was all that
I had left, the only evidence of the mind that had once been part of
the man I loved. Dark black slashes of ink a window into his
tortured soul as shapeless demons fought for control and finally
culminating in a grim statement that told of a lost battle. 

DEATH 

Red strokes drying into brown. With that one word I knew that more
than one person had died within this terrifying room. 

I was startled out of my reverie by one of the paramedics, asking me
if I wanted to ride along. I nodded, following him out the door
and climbing into the ambulance to sit beside the still figure on the
gurney. 

As the vehicle lurched into motion and the sirens began their
plaintive wail, I stared out through the window in the back to watch
that room of death, a sinking feeling weighing me down. The man lying
before me was no longer my partner and in that receding
room of Hell, the evidence of his valiant fight through the darkness
of his mind was being washed away. 

I closed my eyes and red letters danced across my eyelids. They were
all that I had. 

*********
End