He made a list of everything he knew about Earl Roy Propps and the elaborate fantasy world he’d created based on Michael Moorcock’s series—in which Earl Roy was the companion and protector of the Eternal Champion.
Mulder outlined the chronology, including the eight-day period the children were drugged and held captive in the killer’s basement, the detailed rituals Earl Roy engaged in to prepare them for the end, and the way he arranged their bodies after he poisoned them. His psych textbooks confirmed what he already knew—Earl Roy suffered from delusions and hallucinations, like hearing the “sword” talk to him and seeing it glow inside the kids.
Between the brief time he’d spent with Earl Roy and the snippets of information that had been released about the man, it was clear that Earl Roy Propps was no genius. He’d dropped out of high school at fifteen and, even as a mechanic, had spent more time doing oil changes than actually fixing cars. Then he moved on to unloading plants at a nursery. A guy like that couldn’t stage a drug overdose or a suicide convincing enough to fool the police.
There was also the complicated sheepshank knot used in the slumlord’s hanging. It had only taken the deputy a few seconds to untie the ropes around Mulder’s wrists. A knot like a sheepshank would’ve required more time.
But Earl Roy’s admissions while he was alone with Mulder and his aversion to blood were the real proof.
Mulder reached for a fresh legal pad and started writing. He wrote until his hand was numb and his vision blurred. He didn’t stop writing when Phoebe fell asleep just after three in the morning, or when his father banged on the door to tell him Gimble was in the living room—or when his friend came in and sat on the floor across from him. Mulder didn’t stop writing until he put a period after the last sentence.
“Mulder.” His father burst into the room. “We have to leave. Now.”
He ignored his dad and flipped to the front of the legal pad.
“Do you mind if I catch a ride with you, Mr. Mulder?” Gimble asked. He was wearing a baggy suit and a striped tie that was too long. “I’m supposed to go in and give a statement, too. But my dad doesn’t really drive … or leave the house.” Gimble held up a folded piece of paper. “He gave me a note.”
“Sure.” Bill Mulder looked down at Gimble with pity.
“I’m coming, too,” Phoebe said. “My parents won’t be here until this afternoon, so I have nothing else to do.”
“Did the FBI call them?” Mulder’s dad asked.
“Yeah. They’re taking me to the interview tomorrow.” She grabbed her bag. “Just give me a minute to change.”
Bill Mulder turned his attention to his son’s room, eyeing the books and papers strewn across the floor.
Mulder stood next to Gimble. “How did the Major take it when you told him?”
Gimble shook his head. “I never got around to it. The FBI showed up at my house because they couldn’t get in touch with my dad over the phone. Especially after I left it at my dungeon master’s house.”
Mulder’s father opened his closet. “Where’s your suit?” he asked, riffling through the hanging clothes.
“I’ll find it myself,” Mulder snapped, but his dad ignored him. Whatever. There was nothing interesting in there anyway, and he wanted to hear the rest of Gimble’s story.
“Did the Major flip?” he asked.
Gimble shrugged. “Pretty much. He wouldn’t let them in the house, so they had to stand on the front steps to talk to him. But it was worse after they left. He didn’t believe we were at Earl Roy’s place. He thinks they made up the whole story. He wanted to drive to Canada so they couldn’t interview me.”
“That sucks.” Mulder felt bad for his friend, and the FBI agents who showed up at the Major’s door.
“Tell me about it. He thinks the aliens are going to abduct me from the FBI headquarters.”
Mulder’s father marched over to the bed and tossed down a stack of clothes, still on the hangers. Navy blazer, white dress shirt, gray slacks, and a light-blue-and-navy tie that definitely didn’t belong to Mulder. His dad was probably slipping preppy Georgetown University–approved clothing into his closet.
“Get changed. Unless you would rather wait for the FBI to show up on our doorstep, too?” His dad stormed out and Gimble followed, stifling a smile.
Mulder changed his clothes and grabbed the legal pad. This was his chance to speak with a real FBI agent—someone with the power to launch an investigation and hunt down a serial killer. He just needed to find one person to listen.
To believe.
CHAPTER 25
J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building, Washington, DC
April 4, 3:15 P.M.