Gimble blew out a loud breath. “What he means is that one of the guys in his conspiracy forum happens to work there. His name is Sergio, and when he isn’t checking bodies for missing bones, he lives in his mother’s basement.”
The Major gave Gimble a stern look. “Never judge a man by the size of his bank account or the place he hangs his uniform. Sergio risks his life for the mission. If the aliens found out that he’s supplying intel that could expose their plan, they would take him out.”
Gimble ignored his dad. “The psychiatrist was missing a foot bone.”
“The second cuneiform,” the Major added.
“Sergio wrote down the results of the autopsy report word for word on the paper bag that his burger and fries came in that day,” Gimble said. “He mailed it to the Major’s PO box.”
Mulder shrugged. “Sounds official enough to me.”
“So the psychiatrist is a strong maybe,” Phoebe said.
The Major provided them with the details on other less-than-stellar citizens—a guy selling moonshine in the woods who was missing plenty of bones after he was supposedly attacked by wild animals, a drug dealer who was missing a piece of his jawbone after he was beaten to death (according to the newspaper), and a bookie who was missing a bone in his arm (according to Sergio).
Mulder knew Gimble’s dad wasn’t someone most people would consider a reliable source, but the man spent every day holed up in the house, scouring the papers and the news, looking for connections and patterns.
“And that brings us to the slumlord who supposedly hanged himself with a telephone cord,” the Major said. “The aliens took his finger.”
Phoebe squeezed past Mulder so she could read the article. “This one is legit, for sure. The police assumed a disgruntled tenant chopped it off.”
“But the guy hanged himself,” Mulder said.
“That’s what the aliens want you to think.” The Major swiped something from between a stack of newspapers on the floor and handed it to Mulder. A black-and-white crime scene photo.
Gimble realized what Mulder was holding and turned to his father. “Where did you get that?”
“Sergio took it from the coroner’s office when the morgue sent him to pick up the body.”
“You and Sergio could get in serious trouble for doing something like this,” Gimble warned.
The Major scoffed, “We’re at war with extraterrestrials. Do you think I’m afraid of the police?”
Mulder studied the grisly photo of the man dangling from a ceiling fan. “What am I looking for, sir?”
“Have you ever rigged a boat, airman?” the Major asked.
“Uh … no, sir.”
“I bet the man swinging from that telephone cord in his big-city apartment hadn’t, either.”
Gimble moved closer, suddenly interested. “Where are you going with this?” It was the first time Mulder had seen him take his father seriously.
The Major pointed at the knot above the noose. “That’s a sheepshank knot. Sailors use it for rigging.”
Gimble stared at his father in awe. Mulder and Phoebe were blown away, too.
“I was damned surprised when I saw it myself,” the Major continued. “I would’ve expected the aliens to go with something simpler, like a good old-fashioned slipknot.”
“Maybe you can give them lessons,” Gimble said. “And teach them to make macaroni and cheese while you’re at it.”
Mulder tuned everyone out and studied the wall—molecular formulas and geometric sequences, next to a coupon for rug cleaning and a secret message the Major had “decoded” from the back of a cereal box. A conspiracy theorist’s map and extensive knowledge of sailing knots wouldn’t be enough proof for the police.
Mulder shook his head, frustrated. “We’ll never convince the detectives that whoever murdered the people on the Major’s wall is the same man who killed Billy.”
“What makes you so sure the killer is a man?” Phoebe never passed up a chance to challenge him. It was one of the things he loved about her.
“There have only been six female serial killers in America. I looked it up,” Mulder countered. “I was going with the odds.”
“Six they’ve caught,” she couldn’t resist adding. “But I’m not so sure it’s the same person. According to your murder books, serial killers don’t usually change the type of victims they select overnight and go from kidnapping children and stuffing them into crypts to murdering adults and stealing their bones.”
She had a point.
Mulder did a mental run-through of what he knew about serial killers, which extended beyond what he’d learned from The Meaning of Murder. After Samantha disappeared, researching crime and psychology became kind of a weird hobby. At the time, Mulder hadn’t given much thought to how weird. He just added it to his growing list of interests—the New York Knicks and basketball, Star Trek and the NASA space program, Farrah Fawcett and Wonder Woman, and kidnappers and serial killers.