TITLE: Alchemy, part 5/?

AUTHOR: Tempestuous Jones

FEEDBACK: teejay66@earthlink.net

NOTES: See part one for notes and disclaimers.

FRIDAY morning there's a curse when he shakes the same almost-empty juice carton and slams the fridge door shut. He eats the last piece of toast on his way out, coughing a bit on it's dryness. We stop at the office briefly to pick up some files. Then we spend the rest of the morning driving to a parole hearing in Virginia.

Skinner's different away from the office. He is more relaxed, almost happy, even. I'm wondering who's dumbass idea it was to get him a desk job. He strolls into the hearing room with a certain flair, like he's really going to enjoy himself, and seats himself in an empty chair. We listen to this guy, one Joseph James, talk earnestly about how sorry he is for the pain he's caused, and the damage he's done, and how reformed he is, and all the Bible classes and remedial ed classes, and shit he's been attending, and his progress in sex offender therapy, and other assorted crap.

I'm not the only one thinking this, because when he finally winds down, Skinner growls, "I call your bullshit, Joseph." He rises gracefully, introduces himself to the parole board, and tosses a file on the table before them. One of them opens it and starts turning pages of pictures, to the accompaniment of soft gasps of shock and sympathy.

"These are forensic photos of what Joseph did to full grown former Marine FBI Field Agent Walter Skinner," he announces with authority, certain of his upper hand. "Damage included multiple contusions, some broken ribs, broken wrist, and internal injuries sustained from a crowbar. Joseph did this while he was stone cold sober." I sneak a peek over the shoulders of the board members. There are pages of a much younger Skinner, battered and perhaps unconscious. Some close-ups of various injuries. I frown, shifting glances back and forth between the photos and Skinner today, and finally end up scowling at Joseph. I know what some of these injuries feel like. Yeah, including the crowbar. Joseph went to town.

Skinner pulls another file from his briefcase and drops it on the table and eyes the perp with supreme satisfaction; Joseph glares back with hissing venom.

"Asshole! You asshole! One day I'm gonna get out of here and get my crowbar again and rip you an even bigger one than the last time!"

Which is probably not a smart thing for Joseph to say to a Federal agent during his parole hearing. Skinner and I are both sneering at him. And in the background of all this, I can hear even more horrified gasps and moans as a few of the board members turn away from the file. One lady looks like she's even going to cry. I glance down at the photos and quickly up again, trying to focus on Joseph. He should be thankful he's not getting out of here now; I'm less likely to kill him while he's Inside. And if I'm studying Joseph, I don't have to look too hard at the pictures. These are entirely too close to home. They make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Again. That's been happening a lot this week. The tingle works it's way up my neck to the base of my scull and snakes around to my ears, making them ring. My breathing picks up the pace a little. I'm not looking at those pictures again. I concentrate on what Skinner is saying.

"These are forensic photos of 8 year old Cole Shepard after Joseph did his handiwork, while he was high on PCP." Skinner stood with his hands in his pockets, and smirked at Joseph. "See you at your next parole hearing, Joseph." He collects his coat and the files and the briefcase, and marches out, even as the board sits with their collective mouths hanging open. Yeah, this asshole's not going anywhere for a few decades.

Outside Skinner pulls out his cell phone and dials Kim. I lean in close to hear both sides of the conversation. It turns out she has heard back from California Highway Patrol and the hospital. Sgt. Medavoy committed suicide a couple of years ago, apparently despondent over the loss of his wife a year before. No one mentioned to Kim what she died of.

And the hospital reports that they don't keep test records of Jane Does longer than seven years, which is all they are obligated to do, assuming the tests were completed at all. There was no record they could find indicating what happened to the girl after that night. Only their original copy of the admittance form. But no discharge papers could be found, or a death certificate, although it was not unusual for records that old to be in some disarray, especially with the old storage system of just throwing files in boxes and cabinets.

The message left for Arbutus Ray still has not been answered.

Skinner thanks her and pockets the phone. He stares at his feet, hands jammed in his pockets, face a picture of unpleasant contemplation.

"Well, shit."

Afterwards, we stop at a nice restaurant for a late lunch with his friend Stan Johnson, the guy he spoke with on Tuesday. Stan is a little older than Skinner, maybe close to retirement. He's the avuncular type, squat and round and balding with a generally happy face beaming at you from behind bifocals. He reminds me of one of Mulder's geek friends, the little greasy one with the weird name I can't remember now, if he got cleaned up and got a real job. This one works in some sort of lab; he's the type who doesn't bother to take off his lab coat when he leaves the building. He's even got his little name tag pinned on his pocket, which is where I get his last name from. I lean in and squint at it, fiddling with the angle of my own glasses. I think it says something about County Coroner. Let's play Guess the Relationship: College buddy? Old pal from the FBI or Quantico, or maybe Nam?

"Skins!" the smiling man beams, rising to meet us. The nickname gives me a too-brief mental flash of Skinner in too-tight jeans or perhaps leather pants. And nothing else. They shake hands eagerly. "What's new with you, buddy? You were in a bit of a hurry on the phone, as usual. Maybelline wants to know when you can get your ass down here for some barbecue. She wants to enter her sauce in the championships in Kansas this summer and needs a tester. "

Skinner chuckles. "I don't think so, Stan. This ulcer is trying to kill me on a good day." There's idle chatter about fishing until the waiter swishes to our table and they order. More talk of fishing, and football --American football, which just isn't the same, in my opinion-- until the food gets here. I can smell it, and I really want to figure out how ghosts can eat. Stan has a big platter of spaghetti loaded with garlic and tomatoes and meatballs on it the size of his fists. Skinner has a steak, with a salad and a baked potato with all the trimmings. It's the first real meal he's eaten in over a day. Damn, that looks good to me. The steak. And watching him eat it. Now I really want to know how the hell ghosts can eat. He washes it down with a glass of beer, which looks even better, amber and frothy and wet with condensation. I wonder if there's a way a ghost can score a beer.

They're quiet for a bit while they dig into their meal, and after a few bites the talk starts up again, the words being worked around their food.

"How's life, Skins? We don't hear from you anywhere near enough. "

"Same shit, different day, you know the story. Although I got my annual present early this year, early by a week or so."

"The nut with the dolls? Again?" Stan said around a chuckle. Then he turns serious. "I know I don't need to tell you this, but these guys, they don't usually change their routine unless something's brewing. "

Skinner shakes his head around a mouthful of steak. "Nuh-uh. It's happened a couple of times before; I think it's a matter of waiting for a window of opportunity to open up near his incarceration date. As complex as his little hobby needs to be to get around the system, that's probably the best he can do. Which is still impressive, considering how regular he is. The pattern doesn't vary year after year, and we can't figure out how he's doing it. We can't figure out how the hell he's getting doll parts in the first place, or who's helping him. "

"Mmph. He'll slip up eventually, or one of his buddies. So what brings you into Virginia this fine Friday?"

"Parole hearing. I got to slam dunk Jeff Thamert again."

"Ew. That nut was gross."

"You think every single one of them is 'a nut'. I'll bet you've even used that in forensic reports."

"Oh... a couple here, a couple there. Nobody's noticed yet, which makes me feel kinda bad. I just want to know people are reading them. Those things are a lot of work at two in the morning." Some more chewing, a swig or two of beer. "So Skins, what are you up to for fun and games these days? "

"When in the hell have I got the time? And to think I took the desk job to get away from that kind of load. It's still a load, just a different kind."

"All that tension and stress and crap, you need to watch out for stuff like that. You've already got and ulcer. Gotta take care of yourself." He wags a fork at Skinner.

"I go to the gym," he says a little indignantly.

"You know what I'm talking about. With what little you tend to share with me and Maybelline, as infrequently as we see you, this desk job doesn't sound as normal as it should be. You know what happened when the field work started to get to you."

Oo. A sore spot. The jaw grinds a bit while Skinner looks away. "It wasn't that bad."

"Who the hell do you think you're shitting here? You work that one specialized type of caseload so damn long, and working that one case like a loose tooth for Zeus knows how many years, scared Sharon half to death, and you gave yourself a good scare, too, I think. What happened? Did the evidence start talking to you?" Skinner's jaw seems to lock just a little bit tighter as he continues to look away from Stan. And my ears couldn't be more firmly zeroed in on this conversation if they were directional like a cat's. "All I'm telling you is, go easy on yourself. All this shit the last five years or so you've alluded to, with these government weirdoes hanging around, and this nut for an agent with the weird cases, and that assassin out to get you, and the frame up with that girl you fooled around with, and Sharon dying--"

"Stan--"

"I'm just saying, take it easy. Do yourself some favors. Get something alive in that condo with you, some plants, a tropical fish tank, a terrarium, a cat, or whatever. "

This got a chuckle from Skinner. "I dunno, Stan, they may sneak in while I'm sleeping and kill those too. "

"No one would frame you for killing a cat. Some may even thank you."

More companionable bullshitting for a while as they finished off their drinks. Which is too bad, because I'm burning to know more about Skinner's cases. The waiter delivers coffee to them, and when they hit the dregs Stan gets serious again.

"OK Skins, what's the other reason you came to Virginia?"

Skinner smiles a little . "Don't miss much, do you Stan?" He fishes around his feet for his briefcase, and pulls out a plastic evidence bag. More scraps from the diary. He passes it to Stan.

"I would like you to do a very discrete, off the books DNA analysis on this. It may very well come up dry as a bone. It's some pages pulled from a diary that's been stored in an empty spot in a wall for about twenty years, then read and reread by a couple of FBI agents. Our DNA is all over it. But I'm hoping there is something left of the writer's. I know the sample is in crummy shape, and the contamination doesn't help, but I would like you to try to cross match any trace DNA you find on it with the newer DNA that's there. Can you do that?"

Stan examined the bag skeptically. "It's a helluva long shot, but I can give it a try. How discrete do I need to be?"

"As much as you can. There are elements of this case that are very sensitive and the fewer lights and whistles we trip, the better. It needs to be a DIY job. Don't share this job with anyone, maybe even work on it after hours, try not to draw attention to it. Or especially to yourself. I think there may be some people who don't want this examined too closely." He worked his jaw nervously, while his eyes pleaded with his friend to understand.

Stan heaved a big sigh. "Alright, Skins. I'll take a crack at it. Christ only knows what kind of pickle you're in now. I can't promise you anything, as you say, the sample's crap, and if I need to be that sneaky about it, there are a lot of people and resources I won't be able to utilize. But I'll do my best. I figure if my caseload stays the way it is through the weekend, the earliest I can get it done is around mid-week. I'll call and let you know."

Skinner thanks him, visibly relieved. They squabble a bit over the bill, Skinner finally letting Stan have it. Good idea; since Skinner probably doesn't want anyone to know he was here, this keeps his credit card out of the system. I think Stan was thinking along those lines, too. Like the song says, you get by with a little help from your friends.

When he's finished, instead of heading back, he walks around the neighborhood for a while. One of those trendy districts with bistros and antique shops and art galleries and shit. It's been raining, and the sidewalk is wet enough to reflect some of the colors. As I take in the scene, I'm struck by how differently I see things lately. I don't just notice details anymore, I get flat out distracted by them. Stupid things like this, the colors, the weather, the way Skinner's coat is swaying when he walks. If I was alive, someone could've greased my ass several times over while I've been fucking sightseeing.

Now he has a little, sad kind of smile as he looks around. I wonder what this place reminds him of. Maybe he and Sharon used to live somewhere like this, or hang out here. I've always wondered what happened to her. I figured they'd finally gone through with the divorce. I wasn't part of that operation, so I don't know the details. I knew she'd been hospitalized after the accident, but never realized she'd died.

We walk past one of those corner grocers that sell flowers outside. He stops and looks. And his gaze locks onto the most intensely red chrysanthemum I think I've ever seen. It almost hurts to look at it too long, but I can't take my eyes off it.

//Wow.// And Skinner seems to think so too, because he says the same thing.

"Wow." And then does something I would not have expected of him. He buys it. Just the one.

He keeps a hand on it during the drive home. I spend the time looking at his hand lightly curled around the wrapped stem. Sometimes he runs a finger over the flower head. He skips the gym again. And we breeze right past a grocery store again. With the juice gone and the bread gone now too, that's it for food at his place.

Once we get home he kicks off his shoes, loosens his tie, pours a scotch, and checks his messages. There is one from Stan, reminding him to `get to bed, dumbass, and don't stay up too late hashing over all that old crap,` which earns a chuckle. And one from Kim. She has heard from Arbutus Ray's daughter-in-law, who says that the nurse had passed away only four days ago from a sudden and painful struggle with bone cancer.

"Aw, God damn it." His body seems to visibly deflate. He tosses back what's left of his drink, then tries to sleep. But the highs and lows of today unearthed far too many memories, and he does exactly as Stan predicted. He lays on his back, reading lamp still on, staring at the ceiling. I sit on the side of the bed, as has become my habit, and watch. If I look hard enough and deep enough, I swear I can almost see the memories playing back in his eyes. I wished he was one of those who talked to himself; at least I'd get some idea of what he was thinking. Inquiring minds want to know.

After an hour of this he gives up and returns to the kitchen. He pours another scotch. He takes the flower he bought and spends the next couple of hours out on his balcony staring at it, mesmerized, while he sips on his drink, his mind clearly not anywhere near here. I think he sees something a whole lot more than a red flower.

I stare at it too, that achingly red flower, cradled in his hand. I watch him from inside. I can feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. Yet again. There's something important here, and I feel like I've missed it.

I don't know what time it is when he finally comes inside. He doesn't go straight to bed; he stops in the living room and runs a finger along the edge of the diary, lost in thought. I would give all kinds of things to know what he was thinking. He lays the chrysanthemum on top of it, then goes to bed. I don't follow him, this time. I sit and stare at the red flower.
 

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