The arrows were carved from human bones, belonging to adults.
OPINION:
Billy Barlow Christian, an 8-year-old white male, died of cardiac arrest, caused by ACUTE ACONITE POISONING.
* * *
CHAPTER 13
Dupont Circle
April 2, 12:21 A.M.
“What happened in there, Fox? You’re scaring me,” Phoebe said from behind the wheel of the Gremlin.
Mulder had managed to signal her from the hallway before he raced out of the precinct. After what he’d seen, there was no way he could’ve held up his end of the performance for Officer Racca.
Phoebe slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Talk to me. Why are you so freaked out?” She looked around at the unfamiliar streets. “And where am I taking us?”
“I’m not sure. Just drive.” His voice sounded shaky. “I opened a door thinking it was the restroom, and the evidence was tacked on the wall. Crime scene photos of Billy, with the dead bird on his chest. A label said it was a magpie.”
Phoebe followed Dupont Circle and exited on Massachusetts Avenue. “I’m sorry you had to see those pictures.”
“The close-ups were the worst. In the cemetery, I didn’t have that much time to look at him.” Mulder rubbed his eyes, wishing he could unsee some of the pictures. “There was other stuff, too. Notes, photos of Billy’s living room, and an autopsy report. He was poisoned.”
“Is that what has you so spooked?” Phoebe watched him in her peripheral vision. She knew Mulder too well for him to hide anything from her, and he didn’t want to anyway. But he was having a hard time saying it out loud. The idea that he was investigating a serial killer was one thing. Knowing how sick that person actually was took the situation to another level.
“The arrows sticking out of the bird weren’t made of wood.” He hesitated.
“Okay? Are you going to tell me what they were made of?”
He gestured at the curb. “Pull over.”
Phoebe found an empty space and parked. “Is this really necessary? I’m cool under pressure.”
“Bones,” he blurted out.
“What?”
“The arrows were made of human bones.”
Phoebe stared at him, wide-eyed. “They weren’t Billy’s—?” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
Mulder took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “No. They were adult bones.”
“Only a psychopath would do that kind of thing.”
Mulder heard the fear in her voice. “Now you’re an expert on psychopaths?” he teased.
“I read your murder books. Remember?” Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Where do you think the killer is getting the bones?”
“The morgue, if I had to guess? Otherwise somebody would notice.” Mulder’s head buzzed, almost as if he could feel the synapses in his brain firing as the thoughts formed. He shot up in his seat. “Start driving. We need to get to Gimble’s house.”
“First it was pull over. Now it’s drive. Are you aware that you have a problem making up your mind?” But she hit the gas and guided the car back onto Massachusetts Avenue. “Fox? That was a joke. What’s going on in your head? Think out loud.”
It’s just a gut feeling.…
“What if the Major isn’t as crazy as everyone thinks?”
*
Mulder knocked on Gimble’s front door for five minutes before he heard someone shuffling around inside.
“They’re probably asleep.” Phoebe stood halfway down the brick steps that led up to the house.
“All the lights are on upstairs.” He pointed at the second-floor windows. “And I hear someone.”
The dead bolts clicked one by one, and Gimble poked his head out.
“Don’t open it!” the Major shouted from somewhere behind him.
“It’s just Mulder!” Gimble yelled back at the top of his lungs. “He has clearance, remember?”
“Sorry to come by so late,” Mulder offered. “But you said you’d be up all night.”
“He saw the crime scene photos,” Phoebe added.
Gimble opened the door a little wider. “Get in here and tell me what I missed. And ignore the Major. He’s having a rough night.”
Mulder and Phoebe sat on the sofa and he recounted the story for the second time, while Gimble sat on the edge of the recliner hanging on every word. The Major stood at the window, with a mop propped against his shoulder like a rifle, watching the street—in case they had been followed.
“Arrows made of bones?” Gimble shuddered. “Gross.”
The Major was talking to himself. “Anyone who tries to breach that door will find out what the soldiers of the 128th Recon Squadron are made of. Mark my words.”
Mulder leaned over the arm of the sofa and lowered his voice. “Before we left for the police station, you said the Major thinks aliens are making a cyborg because some of the victims on his map were missing bones.”
“Not some of them.” Gimble’s dad was suddenly standing behind the sofa where Mulder and Phoebe were sitting. “All of them.”