COLD CASE (Part Four)
By Char Chaffin 
MSR, Case File, Rating R to NC-17

Spoilers: Assorted up to and through Season Seven's "Closure"

Disclaimer:  Clones on Loan

ADDITIONAL SUPPORT, ADVICE AND STORY CONSULTING: Provided by Tess. 
Thanks, Partner Mine!
Beta Support:  Thanks to ML, Donna and Carol!
Technical Consultation:  Thanks to Mimic!

Story Note:  THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS!

You can find the first three parts of "Cold Case" at my website:
http://char.chaffin.com/coldcasepage.htm

Summary:  When a "cold case" over twenty years old resurfaces with
new victims, Mulder and Scully are called in to head up the
investigative team -



CHAPTER EIGHT

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MARCH, 1973	


Outside the bedroom window the rain sluiced down and dripped onto
the wooden outer ledge - which badly needed a coat of paint.  Along
the top edge of the window, a crack in the glass split a little
farther each winter, courtesy of poor insulation and a goddamn
cheapskate super.

But inside the small, cluttered bedroom, it was mostly dry and
mostly warm.  The child sleeping in the old twin bed, curled around a
ratty stuffed teddy bear, had no idea just how cold and how damp the
world out there could be.

The man who stood in the doorway - a glass of Old Harper in one hand
and a half-smoked Lucky in the other - knew.

Neal Carson was drunk, and planning on getting a whole lot drunker. 
He had a third of a bottle of Harper left, plus a full fifth of some
generic brand of Scotch that was probably little more than rot-gut. 
Well, taste didn't matter to him... only results.  And if he got shit-
faced enough, the result would be worth the three dollars he'd spent
on the bottle.

Two weeks ago he'd gotten the phone call that had changed - hell,
ended - his life.

His Anna was dead.  Gone, forever.  

And it was all that bastard's fault; the bastard who'd stolen her
from him.

~~~~

An accident.  That's what the cop had told him over the phone.  Neal
had been drinking beer and half-heartedly watching the game on the
old television that sometimes worked but more often than not was full
of static and fuzz.  He'd just shoved a handful of corn chips in his
mouth when the phone had rung; he'd lumbered to his feet and had
cursed while he dug for the phone, buried under a pile of outdated
newspapers on the rickety old telephone table in a corner of the
living room.

"Yeah."

"Neal Carson?"  The voice in his ear was gruff and tired-sounding.

"Yeah.  I'm Carson."

"Mr. Carson, I have some difficult news concerning your estranged
wife, Anna Carson Blanden."

Neal had blinked in confusion, had waded through beer fumes to
comprehend the words being spoken.  "Blanden?  Who the - I have a
wife.  Anna.  We're, um, taking a break from -"

The gruff, tired voice had interrupted without apology.  "Mr.
Carson, I'm sorry to have to inform you that your ex-wife, Anna, was
in an automobile accident ten days ago.  She - and her husband,
Douglas Blanden - were hit head-on by an inebriated driver, and were
killed instantly."

"What?  Anna?  Anna's gone?  My Anna?"  Neal's knees had given out
on him and he'd sunk to the floor right in front of the telephone
stand.  Over the buzzing in his head, the horrible, scraping buzzing,
he'd heard the gruff cop spewing details about funeral services
already completed.  About the location of the burial plot.  Interment
at Groton Cemetery.  The minor child, Tracy Blanden, who was
currently in the hands of New London County Family Care, pending
notification of a family member...

"Punkie."  Neal's tongue refused to cooperate when he tried to
speak.  "Punkie.  Where's Punkie?  Tracy.  Where -"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Mr. Carson.  Mr. Carson!  Calm
down and listen to me.  The child is with Family Care right now.  We
had no idea that Douglas Blanden wasn't the biological father.  We
need to know how to proceed, sir.  We need to know if you are willing
to accept parental responsibility for Tracy Blanden.  Now, I
understand your ex-wife had full custody of your minor child..."

Neal had sat on the floor and had let the words and vocal cadence
wash over him.  He was unable to fully absorb anything past the
words, 'Anna,' and 'dead.'

His beautiful Anna.  Gone.  Harsh tears had pushed up from his
aching throat and had ripped their way past his lips, had flooded his
eyes and had slid down pale, unshaven cheeks.

Oh, God, Anna...

~~~~

No opportunity to see her, talk to her... tell her it wasn't her
fault, that he'd never blamed her for going away.  No chance, not
ever again, to ask her to come home, to promise her not to fuck it up
this time.  Neal had gone over it again and again in the almost-four
years that she'd been out of his life.  He'd worked his way past the
anger and sense of betrayal; past the bitter jealousy of knowing
another man held her, kissed her, took her to bed at night and buried
himself inside her.  Dared to marry her.

And he had come to understand his Anna wasn't to blame.  Men were
treacherous bastards, always wanting what they didn't have and didn't
deserve.  Always willing and ready to break up a happy home and take
what another man owned. 

Bastards, every one of them... and one of them had snared his wife. 
One of them had taken her away, had forced her to wear his ring and
take his name, even though in her heart Neal knew she'd have thought
of herself as Anna Carson, forever. And when the bastard had stolen
all he could steal, he'd let her die in the most agonizing way.  He'd
been careless with her, this Blanden bastard, careless with Anna.  As
a result of his carelessness he'd had her in the car when a drunk -
who should never have gotten behind the wheel in the first place -
hit them and killed them.  Killed his Anna.

Neal wished that the bastard was still alive... so that he could
reach into Blanden's chest and rip out his treacherous heart and
grind it to mush with his bare hands.  

~~~~

He stood just inside the small room where Punkie, worn out from the
long day they'd had, was asleep.  Three and a half years had wrought
significant changes, he could see.  No longer a baby, yet not old
enough to leave alone.  It would be so difficult to build a life
around a child he didn't even know and who barely remembered him.

It hadn't been made any easier by the way Punkie cried for Anna.

Mama.  I want my Mama.  MAMA!!"  The cry had echoed through the
shabby apartment, until Neal had clutched at his aching head.  Hung
over from the night before, the last thing he needed to hear was a
whiny kid sobbing for Mommy, when Daddy was right there in the room. 
And yet, didn't he do the same thing late at night, alone in his own
bed?  Didn't he sob into his pillow, pretending it was the slender
body of his Anna; didn't he soak that pillow with tears as he
remembered every single time they'd made love, each time he'd watched
her sleeping and vowed nothing or nobody would ever take her from
him?  And he'd failed.  In the end, he'd failed to keep her, to watch
over her and protect her from the treachery of other bastards like
the one who stole her from him.  He hadn't been vigilant enough.  He
hadn't taken care, enough.  If he had, she'd never have left him. 
She'd still be alive...

NO!  That wasn't right.  Neal had yanked at his hair until his mind
had cleared.  Ignoring the sobbing Punkie, he'd gone into his room
and shut the door, locked it.  He'd sat on the rumpled bed and had
wrapped his arms around the pillow, taking what comfort he could from
knowing it was Anna's old pillow he embraced.  He wasn't supposed to
blame Anna.  Never, ever, would he blame her.  It wasn't her fault,
and it wasn't his, either.  He'd done everything right; he'd loved
her and worked hard for her comfort, to put food on the table and to
afford a nice home for her to live in.  To have enough money for her
to buy pretty clothes and sweet-smelling perfume -

So that she could dress provocatively for other men.  So she could
wear scent behind her ears and on the inside of her arms, so that men
would be tempted to get close enough to smell her...

NO!  That wasn't right!  That wasn't the way it was.  Neal tore at
his hair again to rid himself of the murky thoughts slogging through
his brain.  His Anna wore those pretty clothes for him.  She couldn't
help it if other men saw her wearing them and lusted after her.  It
wasn't her fault that men could smell her perfume and crave a taste
of her perfect skin.  His Anna was blameless.  It was that bastard's
fault.  Always, his fault...

"Mama!  Want Mama!"  Punkie's voice had turned pitiful and sounded
as if it was coming from right outside his bedroom door.  

"Stop crying."  Neal couldn't bear to hear any more.  He stumbled
over to the door and grasped the handle, then fell to his knees in
front of the still-locked door, holding onto the doorknob, his own
voice rising in cadence with the weeping child on the other side.

"Stop crying.  Stop CRYING!  Goddamn you, SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!  Shut
up shut up shut up..."

~~~~


1731 ALMOND COURT
NEW HAVEN

The smell hit them as soon as they crossed the police tape and
entered the one-story ranch style home.  It was an odor they were
both well-acquainted with.  Heavy, with a sickeningly-sweet undertone
that blended noxiously with the other smells that death brought to
the body.  Mulder resisted putting his hand over his nose and instead
breathed shallowly through his teeth.  Scully did the same, as they
picked their way through the hallway where the chalk outline of the
body could plainly be seen.

Morris rubbed at his tired eyes as he looked down at the outline. 
"Damn it.  This makes four, in less than two months.  He's
escalating.  And we have nothing."  He rubbed at his eyes again,
succeeding in reddening them even more, and turned to glance at
Mulder as he studied the body's fall pattern.  A broken hall table
lay in a heap close to the outline; the victim must have either
knocked into it or tried to grab at it as he went down.

"Who do we have this time?"  Scully indicated the outline.

Morris consulted the preliminary report he'd been given.  "Matthew
Borden.  Twenty-nine years old, six-foot, one hundred and eighty
pounds, brown and brown.  Employed with Rugers and Rugers Accounting,
here in New Haven.  Single.  Lived alone.  Parents are deceased.  No
siblings.  That's all we know for now.  If he has a next-of-kin, we
haven't found them yet."

"What was he wearing at time of death?"  At Morris's raised
eyebrows, Mulder gave a small shrug.  "Indulge me.  Everything
matters, now.  Everything means something."

Morris blew out a breath, and checked his notes again.  "Dark green
blazer and tan slacks.  White dress shirt and loafers.  Nice watch,
no other jewelry.  Doesn't look as if anything was taken from him,
his wallet was still in his pocket.  I think we can rule out robbery.
We know what this is, Agent Mulder.  We know it's our guy."

"Initial injury to the cranium.  Same as the others, I am assuming. 
Yet, I don't see that much blood around the head area."  Scully
slipped on a pair of latex gloves and knelt carefully near the
outline, tracing some dried blood that formed a pattern within the
chalked-in head area. She lifted her hand and looked at her latex-
coated fingers, noting the trace of blood and deciding it was way too
little for what must have been used to knock the victim out.  "This
may or may not have been caused by a weighted sap, as the others
appear to be.  Maybe indicative of a victim who was incapacitated
before he was attacked.  Was there any indication of inebriation,
drug use, in the body?"  

"Not so far.  But we put the body on hold for you, Agent Scully. 
When you're finished here I'll take you over for the first scheduled
autopsy.  If you have time after that one, the body we exhumed is
also ready for you."  Morris tucked the folder under his arm and
waited patiently.  He had heard enough about Agent Mulder from
LaVeille, to know the man might very well take hours to scour a crime
scene, looking for the smallest clues.    

Morris sighed, prepared to stand around for a while.  If the amount
of blood circling the body of the outline was any indication, Matthew
Borden had bled even more copiously than the other three victims had,
even though there was relatively little blood from head trauma. 
Morris could see no variation on how this latest victim had been
killed. It didn't matter how capacitated - or not - that Borden might
have been, for he had still been knocked unconscious, then cut and
stabbed repeatedly in a pattern guaranteed to make him suffer but
bleed slowly - until the killer finally tired of his little game, and
sliced off penis and testicles, allowing the final bleed-out to
occur.  He'd have choked on his own blood and probably smothered from
the placement of his genitals directly over his nose and mouth.  Too
weak to push his own flesh out of the way, so that he could breathe. 
Jesus, what a way to die.

Morris came out of his reverie when Scully reached over and placed a
hand on his arm to gain his attention.  He shook himself out of his
own gruesome thoughts and apologized, "Sorry, Agent Scully.  Just
trying to do some visualizing, and failing miserably, I might add. 
Guess my brain doesn't really want to imagine any of this."

"Well, I can't say as I blame your brain, Agent Morris.  This is
pretty horrendous.  Perhaps I should get started on the autopsies. 
Agent Mulder?  Are you ready?"

Mulder glanced up from his study of the surrounding room, and shook
his head.  "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like to check out a few
things here.  Agent Morris, if you could take Agent Scully to her
appointment, I can use the rental to meet you both later, is that all
right?" 

"No problem."  Morris wasn't supposed to be relieved to be getting
out of there, but he was honest enough to admit he was.  Mulder
pulled Scully aside briefly as Morris headed out to his car to wait
for her.

"What are you looking for, Mulder?"  Scully leaned in close to
Mulder as she spoke.

"I'm not sure.  I just want a little more time, mostly.  This is the
first crime scene we have been able to examine.  I'll either meet you
back at the field office or over at the morgue.  Take your time. 
Have fun.  Don't do anything I -"

She interrupted him hastily.  "Don't say it, Mulder.  Please."

Mulder grinned at her and gave her hand a squeeze which she
returned, before she headed out the front door, leaving him behind in
the front hall, surrounded by the remnants of violent death.

~~~~

After Morris and Scully left, Mulder took a few minutes and looked
around the house, trying to see if anything rang any sort of bell. 
It was difficult, as this was really the first victim's residence
they'd been able to enter.  He made a mental note to ask Morris if it
would be possible to view Jason Walker's place.  He recalled the
deceased had lived in an apartment building in an upscale section of
New Haven.  

Mulder wandered into the master bedroom, located toward the rear of
the house.  It wasn't a big room, but was very nicely decorated and
the furniture, as what was in the rest of the house, was of good,
solid quality.  Everything was neat, no speck of dust anywhere,
nothing jarring or out of place.  Either Borden had been a really
tidy guy, or he'd had a housekeeper.  Mulder nosed into the walk-in
closet, and found clothes that reflected a man who appreciated
fashion, wasn't afraid to wear color, and obviously wasn't shy about
spending enough money to assure he'd have quite a wardrobe to choose
from.  Mulder figured that said a lot about what kind of victim their
killer had been looking for, too.

Someone young and handsome.  Someone who made a decent, white-collar
living, lived in a nice place, probably frequented the more upper-
level bars and restaurants in town.  The UNSUB didn't seem to care if
his chosen victims were single or married, in a committed
relationship or on the prowl for new blood.  At least, not so far. 
Aside from the physical resemblance between both sets of victims -
past and present - it was clear the killer sought to rid himself of
the same enemy, each time he killed.  

Mulder dug in his pocket for his notepad and pen.  Working his way
back to the hallway and the chalk outline, he jotted down everything 
that made sense to him thus far:  a jealous man, perhaps driven to 
kill his rival over and over again.  Scully might try poking holes 
in the jealous man angle, but to Mulder it made sense, given the way 
each victim had been mutilated and then left to die.  Choking on the 
blood of their own genitalia... that sure felt like jealousy gone far 
around the bend, to him.   

An obsessive man, who lost the woman he loved in some way, decides
to... what?  Decides to kill the man who took her from him?  Did she
go willingly; was her ex a jerk, a loser, running around with
escalating mental difficulties?  Any or all of the above could apply.
Did he kill the original rival?  Mulder didn't think so; if he had,
then why kill the man over and over again?  That kind of
repetitiveness would better match with mounting frustration for the
killer, that his enemy got away from him in the first place.    

Okay, they had a man who carefully chose and then killed his enemy,
again and again, over a period of months.  He then disappeared, to e-
merge twenty-three years later, and reprise his crime?  No.  Mulder
shook his head as he circled the chalk outline once more.  There was
very little possibility this could be the same killer, twenty-three
years older, choosing to begin all over again.  For one thing, he
wouldn't have been able to contain himself for a few decades; he'd be
busting to kill.  Statistics would definitely hold up that theory.  

So where did that leave them?  Pretty much where they were, except
for a few hunches, a certain feeling about this one.  Mulder put away
his notes and left the crime scene.  He'd meet Scully, catch some
dinner, and then bend her ear with those hunches of his.  Mulder
stifled a grin as he nodded to the young cop in his squad car who had
been instructed to patrol the area.  He'd bet she'd already come to
several conclusions of her own, and they'd be fairly close to his. 
Mulder pulled away from the curb and headed over to the morgue.

~~~~

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MAY, 1977

"Please.  Why are you doing, oh, God, PLEASE..."

The man on the floor was beyond terrified, beyond caring whether or
not he seemed cowardly simply because he begged for his life.  He'd
come home, pleasantly buzzed from an evening of drinks and jazz at
his favorite cafe.  His date, an attractive blonde named Susan, had
given him more than one come-on, her subtle teasing and flirting an
assurance that if not tonight, then very soon, she'd be in his bed. 
Grinning mistily at the thought of her, he'd mounted the steps to his
apartment building none too steadily; had inserted his key into the
outside security lock.  A small sound behind him had registered in
his foggy brain, but when he turned to peer into the gloom, he'd seen
no one. 

He'd walked to his first-floor apartment and had inserted a second
key into the lock.  That was all he remembered doing, until he awoke
with a hideous pounding in his head; awoke on the floor of his own
tiny foyer, hands bound together over his head and his legs forced
apart and each ankle fastened to something.  He couldn't tell what. 
He couldn't think of anything except the deepest, most bone-numbing
terror he'd ever felt in his life.  

He was naked.  In his own apartment, naked, tied up, head pounding,
and he didn't know why.

Then he felt the first cut... and his terror escalated, lightening-
fast.

"You want to beg?  Go ahead.  Beg.  Beg all you want, you fucking
bastard.  You killed my Anna."  The voice had hovered over the man's
left ear, close enough that hot breath burned his skin.  The voice
was low, guttural, alive with hate.  Maybe something past hate,
although to the terrified man on the floor, it wouldn't have mattered
all that much.  He'd already begged himself hoarse; it hadn't stopped
the knife from slashing at him.  Pain had riddled his body, fright
had taken his sanity, and now there wasn't much left of him.  Still,
he pleaded.  Still, he begged.

"Please.  I don't know any Anna.  I don't know you.  I don't know
anything... please, why?  Just tell me, why..."  The man was crying
now, thick tears that ran down from his eyes and into his sweat-
soaked hair.  He didn't recognize his own voice - fright had reduced
him to something sub-human.

"You know.  What you did to her.  You KNOW."  The voice was very
close and suddenly, so was its owner.  Through tear-drenched eyes the
man saw for the first and last time, the face of his tormentor.  He
saw the twisted hatred on a face belonging to a madman, and with an
anguished groan he closed his eyes, knowing that any further begging
would fall on deaf ears.  With a kind of detachment, the man heard
his list of sins being spewed out, everything from adultery to wife-
stealing, to outright murder.  The words coated him, inescapable. 
The pain saturated him, loss of blood making him incredibly weak and
dizzy.  He tried to let himself fall into unconsciousness, but his
body wouldn't give up the fight.  And fresh terror washed over him
when the man watched the knife move into his view - a knife from his
own kitchen - its serrated edge gleaming wickedly in the light from
the overhead chandelier.  

When it arced down, the man flinched and slammed his eyes shut,
certain the knife would cut him from ear to ear.  Somehow, as
unimaginably agonizing as that would be, it would also mean a kind of
blessed relief, from his nightmare.  

When the final, vicious cut DID hit him, the man threw back his head
and screamed, understanding there were worse tortures in life than
stabs and cuts - and having your throat slashed...

~~~~  

Neal stumbled into his apartment.  He left the lights off, feeling
his way by instinct.  He wasn't drunk; he'd never have been able to
complete his mission, had he been anything other than sober.  

He was proud of himself; he hadn't gotten sick once.  When he'd
weaned himself off the booze, he'd been sick as hell.  But he'd had
an agenda, a purpose.  It wouldn't have been possible for him to mete
out the kind of justice he'd needed, if he'd been drunk.  So he'd cut
out the drinking, and he'd given himself several months to dry up. 
Several months of the shakes and the nausea, while he plotted and
planned.  While he looked for the bastard who'd killed his Anna.

It had taken three months to find him, but Neal had been persistent.
Going out, night after night, looking in the fancy places, the nicer
bars and taverns.  The son of a bitch had been wealthy, had lived in
a great apartment.  Neal had discovered that much just by pumping
Anna's friends for whatever information they'd been willing to give
him.  He knew, he just KNEW, the bastard had gone back out to all his
regular haunts, looking for another married woman to steal.  Another
woman, happily married, never intending to stray, to give herself to
anyone other than her own husband... Men like that bastard deserved
to be strung up by their balls and left to rot.  Men like that
deserved to bleed until they choked on their own blood... 

When he'd finally found the bastard, sitting in his fancy place with
a lovely blonde, laughing, plying her with drinks, no doubt plotting
to get her drunk and then take her from her family, her life... Neal
knew what he'd had to do.  

He'd followed the son of a bitch; followed him on several different
occasions. To his apartment, back to the upscale bar where he hung
out.  He bided his time, carefully.  Sooner or later, the bastard
would give him an opening; sooner or later, Neal would make his move.

Tonight had been the right time.  And Neal had followed him home,
had slipped in through the open security door knowing the asshole was
too smashed to know someone was that close behind him.  Neal had been
ready for him the second he'd walked into his fancy apartment.

The rest had been justice.  The rest had been a way of balancing the
scales.  The bastard had gotten away with murder, and Neal had
punished him.

He fell onto his bed, not bothering to remove the bloody shirt and
jacket.  Tomorrow, he thought.  He'd clean it all up tomorrow.  He
wouldn't worry about it right now.

As Neal fell asleep, still fully dressed, in the other room his
child slept, locked in, unaware that for several hours that evening,
Daddy had become a monster.

~~~~