TITLE: Alchemy, part 4/?

AUTHOR: Tempestuous Jones

FEEDBACK: teejay66@earthlink.net

NOTES: See part one for notes and disclaimers.

THURSDAY, he is awakened by a phone call which comes far too early. He starts to dress while talking. It sounds like a difficult case is breaking out in the field, and he's being called on to consult. He may end up heading the investigation. He hangs up the phone, ignores the fridge, and heads straight out the door. I barely squeak out behind him. At the Hoover, about a dozen agents are already at his office to discuss the case. It turns out there is a possible security breach at one of the Embassies that could very well involve some of our local people. The meeting is intense, lasting almost six hours without a break. I realize he hasn't had breakfast (having missed the Thursday morning weekly breakfast meeting held by the AD`s), or lunch, or even anything to drink outside a couple of cups of coffee. As the agents file out he rubs his temples; I'll bet he has a dehydration headache. I've had to deal with a few myself. Some time spent handcuffed in a submarine and another while spent in a missile silo come to mind.

He heads out the door fiddling with some change, I assume to get something to drink from a vending machine. As he passes Kim's desk, she holds out a large bottle of water to him without even looking up from her paperwork. I take it she's done this before. I grin. I like her. And she doesn't try to look at his ass when he turns back to his office. He says thank you.

The meetings and paperwork we missed because of this morning's emergency are now the afternoon's meetings and paperwork, as well as several phone calls to get caught up on the AD's meeting he missed this morning.

He gets a package today. He sees there is no return address, glances at his calendar and sighs deeply. "Asshole's a week early this year." He opens his desk drawer, pulls out a pair of latex gloves, and snaps them on with some flair. I wonder what kind of field agent he was? He carefully pries open the brown paper by running a pen knife along the taped edges, and pulls it away. Inside is a shoebox. He lifts the lid and fishes through packing peanuts to pull out the leg of a plastic doll. What in the hell? He places the leg gently back in the box, then explodes, without really exploding, if that makes any sense. The eyes flash behind the glasses, the jaw grinds, the body tense like he wants to hit somebody, but he only hits the buttons on his speaker phone.

"Kim, I need the number for Leavenworth."

A pause, then "He's a week early this year, Sir."

He chuckles, a mirth that I'm pretty sure isn't going to last. "Yes, Kim."

A moment later, instead of buzzing him on the speaker, she comes in with a piece of paper and hands it to him. "I'll get his file, too, Sir."

"Thank you, Kim, " he says to her as she leaves. Where she had stood at his desk is a bottle of extra strength Excedrin. I didn't see her leave it there . This secretary is good. He smiles a little, dumps three of them into his hand and dry swallows them. Ew. Aren't you supposed to drink water with those? As if on cue, Kim comes back with another bottle of water and wordlessly sets it on his desk. This secretary is very good. "Thank you, Kim." This man does not take her for granted. It must be nice having a boss like that. I sure as shit wouldn't know. My bosses have not said thank you, not once. My bosses have abandoned me in a missile silo, without food or water, with a fucking alien, and it's spacecraft, and all the radiation and shit that comes with it, and tried to blow me up with a car bomb, and sent me to a Tunisian prison to rot, until they decided I might be useful again, among other things. Yep, I want a boss like Skinner.

Maybe I could be his, I dunno.. Body guard or something. Enforcer.

When she's back at her desk, he punched the number she gave him, a direct line to the prison warden, apparently. Skinner proceeds to gnaw a new orifice for him. Now this is entertainment. It sounds like they've had this conversation before.

"How the hell can he be mailing shit every damn year on a schedule?... Yes, he's a little early this year..... Not only is he mailing me a doll part every year, but they come from different fucking dolls, George. This creep is supposed to be in maximum, with surveillance, so how in the hell is he getting a new doll every year and mailing it? You do screen deliveries from ToysRUs, correct? You do screen outgoing mail, correct? You do know who all his friends outside of prison are, correct? I don't personally care if this fuck gets his jollies sending me doll parts every year, he's just trying to yank my chain; but if he's mailing them to me, he's mailing them to the civilians. We go through this every year, George; find out how the hell he's doing this and stop him! Fix this fucking problem!" And he slams the receiver down. If I worked for him, he could tell me to fix the fucking problem, and believe me, it would get fixed. Permanently. He rubs his temples and takes two more of the Excedrin. He buzzes Kim again.

"Kim, send Agent Herchold up here with evidence bags."

"Yes, Sir. And the file is here, Sir. I'll bring it in."

"Thank you. And would you contact the witnesses in the case and find out if they have gotten anything suspicious in the mail?"

The usual yes sirs and thank yous are exchanged, and just as she is departing, Skinner calls after her. He opens his briefcase and pulls out the notes and the file from last night. He hands them to her, explaining that he would like contact information for the sergeant and the nurse, and could she possibly convince someone at Salvio Memorial Hospital to search for any records of the girl's test results, if any still even exist?

After she leaves, Skinner stares at the package and shakes his head in disgust. There's a knock, and the agent Skinner requested enters, several bags in her gloved hand.

"This guy agian, Sir? Isn't he a week early or something?"

Skinner chuckles. "Yes, agent; just tag it, bag it, process it, and store it. Send the forensic report directly to me as soon as it's available. I'll write the rest of the report myself."

After she bags the package and it's wrapping and exits, Kim delivers the perp's folder for him. I rummage for my glasses. I want to find out who this fuckhead is. I read over Skinner's shoulder as he flips through the file.

I count twelve single sheet reports of packages with doll parts received once a year. So this has been going on for a while now. No wonder Skinner is pissed. This guy is clever, because every year after Skinner and the warden converse, the folks at Leavenworth find another buddy of this guy who helps mail these things. What they can't figure out is how he's talking with them. His visits are very restricted and closely monitored and there's no mail back and forth. Creepy. He picks on Skinner because Skinner was the agent who put him away. Jeffrey Thamert liked to kidnap little girls and chop them up into pieces, with whatever was handy at the time. Sometimes an axe. Sometimes a chainsaw. A couple of times the smaller parts would get trimmed with pruning sheers or even kitchen sheers. I see pictures from the original crime reports. Skinner is muttering under his breath while he types this year's report on his computer and prints. It's short, to the point, and remarkably expletive free, considering the grumbling he's been doing under his breath. A little unusual for him, from what I've seen he usually writes in silence, but if this is an ongoing problem I think he's entitled to a little frustration.

And the file on this guy must be getting to me a little bit, because the back of my neck is tingling. There's just something a little creepy about doll parts and little girl parts. I've seen worse as far as gore and violence are concerned, but still. There's a creep factor here that's usually absent in mutual violence between consensual parties at war. I rub the back of my neck a little to get rid of the feeling.

Jeffrey Thamert. I should remember that name.

And finally, after this little diversion is over and done with, the late afternoon paperwork he usually stays late to finish is this evening's paperwork. His only visitor is Kim; she returns Samantha's folder and reports that requests have been made at the hospital asking for the tests, California Highway Patrol has been asked for current contact information for a retired Srgt. Thomas Medavoy, and a message has been left on the last number on record for Arbutus Ray. It's nearly nine at night before he leaves. Lunch was a bag of M&M's. Eat something, dammit. He finds a diner open late and gets a club sandwich. He skips the gym. There wasn't time to grocery shop today.

At home he belts down a couple of glasses of water. I watch him swallow, just like the other night with the beer. And think about fingering his neck, again; I shake my head to clear it. I actually got tired watching him today, ghost or not. And he does that big stretch of his..and plunks down on the couch, loosening his tie. Picks up another file and flips through it. Then thumbs through the diary some more. And goes to bed far too late again. I used to live like this, barely eating, barely sleeping, but I was on the run and in hiding from a dozen different organizations, pawning off information from the DAT tape and dodging the Consortium. Intermittently. Skinner is living his normal life, with his normal job, and sleeping at home. On a regular basis. It shouldn't be like this.
 

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