textfiles/sf/XFILES/k.02

Kadaitcha
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 2/7

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Geraldton itself was hot enough.  Mulder had to take off his coat
and roll up his sleeves, allowing warm air to tickle his forearms
and provide minimal relief.  He could only wince in sympathy at
Scully, who had obviously made a bad clothing choice in wearing
stockings and a long skirt.  The air conditioning of the car was a
welcome relief, and yet it didn't seem to eliminate the heat of
the day that blasted through tinted windows and raged against the
AirCon's straining refrigerator.  Crawford, for his part, wasn't
even sweating.  But even he was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt
anyway.

The car, a small five-seater, cut a path up the bitumen highway
towards Starkey's Creek.  In the distance, shimmering mirages
revealed water where it wasn't and a vibrating horizon.  Melted
tar was black on the road.  The country was a milieu of reds and
yellows, the occasional green of a tree contrasting wildly with
the terrain.  Even in the stifling heat, Scully noted that the
country still had a certain beauty about it, if only in its
simplicity.  Feasts for the eyes, she thought, but nothing for the
parched throat.

It was late afternoon before Starkey's Creek itself came into
sight.  What there was of it to see.  It huddled its buildings
together in the coming twilight, though for what purpose Mulder
had no idea.  Crawford eased back on the accelerator and the car
eventually came to a stop outside what was ostensibly a hotel.  He
got out of the car.  "This is the hotel that the victim owned and
ran.  I thought you might want to get settled down for the night
before you have a look at the body and the site."
"Well, we're here now.  We might as well use what's left of the
day to get an idea of the case," said Mulder.
"Suit yourself," shrugged Crawford.  "The site's a place about ten
miles out of town."
"They still have the body there?" asked Scully, her voice with a
note of disbelief.
Crawford's grin was lopsided.  "Of course not.  It's been
relocated to the doctor's surgery.  Not that he gets a chance to
come out this far very often."
"Visiting doctors?" Scully was bewildered.
"Royal Flying Doctor Service," said Mulder, looking at the hotel.
"You've done your homework," admitted Crawford.  "They keep a
regional headquarters here.  One of the rooms doubles as a
morgue."
"Surgical tools?" asked Scully.
"Enough for a full coroner's inquest," said Crawford.
"Fine.  Maybe I'll catch up with you later.  I'd like to go and
get started on the body as soon as possible."
"All right, then.  Crawford?"
The Australian was looking at her with a wry tilt to his grin.
"Just down the street and left.  You can't miss it.  The caretaker
should be around the back.  Watch yourself, agent Scully.  It's
Friday Night."
She looked back at him impassively.  "I think I can take care of
myself."
Crawford's grin grew wider, but he said nothing as he got into the
car again with Mulder and they drove off.  Leaving her alone as
evening fell.

She started off down the street, looking out at the horizon in
silence.  There was no aura of haste here, that was certain.  The
buildings were as laconic as the people.  But she'd minored in
history at university, and one of her lecturers had said there
were no better desert and jungle fighters to be found across the
world.  Even during Vietnam--so one major wrote in his book--the
Australian contingent cleared out sectors and they stayed clear of
Cong reinfiltration.  The rural lifestyle was a bit appealing,
too.  She passed another hotel on her left side.  There was
something to write home about.  Two bars in virtually one street
in a town of how many people?  She shook her head.  Nice place.
Maybe she could even learn to---

A hand wrapped itself around her neck strongly, crudely.  "Haven't
seen you around here before, darlin'," croaked a voice and she
smelled alcohol on his breath.

Training took over at that point.  One leg kicked upwards and
back, catching a soft spot between the legs, and there was a loud
yell from her assailant.  His arm slipped off her neck and she
spun away from him, completing the turn and dropping into the
ready stance as her teacher had drilled into her.  Naturally, the
oaf came at her again, swinging and yelling incoherently.

One small, shapely leg lashed out twice.  First at his solar
plexus and then his groin.  The six-foot, muscular, Aussie male
crashed to the ground like so much chaff in a bag.  His breathing
was a heavy wheezing and he was writhing, not knowing whether to
clutch his chest or other parts.  She backed away slowly, looking
around, but no other would-be suitors emerged from the pub.  He
was still wheezing as she turned and walked to the morgue.  Maybe
not such a pleasant part of the world after all.

She got the key from the caretaker out the back, a kindly old man
who smiled appreciatively at her when she thanked him for his
help, and let herself inside the Doctor's storerooms.

         	 *         *         *

Mulder squatted on his heel, looking across the ground where all
the action had taken place.  Unfortunately, anything which might
have been seen was gone now, lost to the cumulative effects of
darkness and the efforts of several police officers to take
evidence.  Now the ground surrounding Frank Mereweather's shack
was covered with the scrapes of shoes.  It seemed he would have to
take Crawford's word for it that there had been none when he and
the Australian police first inspected the area.  The light on the
front porch was on; and a wide radius around the house had been
cordoned off with yellow, plastic tape.  Dried blood now marked
the places where the bodies had been found.
"I'll admit there isn't much that can be seen now, agent Mulder,"
said Crawford.  "But I'll say this.  If we came back here in
daylight, you'd see what I meant.  We looked in all directions
fanning out from the house for at least a hundred metres.  As you
probably can see, there isn't a lot of foliage around here.
There's not a single footprint to be found anywhere.  Whatever it
was that killed Mereweather had the weight of a mouse--"
"And the killer instinct of a lion," said Mulder.  "Did you find
any animal tracks around here, something...like a...pig? Or a wolf
of some---"
Crawford snorted derisively.  "You've been watching too many
horror movies, agent Mulder.  The closest thing we've got to a
wolf in Australia is a dingo, and they stay right away from human
habitations, unless some idiot feeds them too much.  And wild
pigs?  Yeah, I saw that movie Razorback too, but it isn't
physically possible for something out here to get to be that size.
Whatever--whoever it was that killed Frank Mereweather was the
size of a man or bigger.  Nothing in the outback fits the
description."
"Yet," said Mulder.  "Things change, you know."  Crawford
shrugged.  Mulder glanced to the east.  There, a large hill
blotted out the twilight in that part of the sky.  "What's that
hill?"
"There? Couldn't tell you its name.  One of the officers you'll be
meeting tomorrow told me there used to be Aboriginal people living
up in those hills.  Or something like that.  But then, this whole
country was theirs till we came along.  Anthropologists are
finding better places than the hill every day."  Mulder nodded,
chewing his lip at the scene.  There wouldn't be much chance of
finding anything useful here.  "Well, we'd best get back to town.
Maybe Scully turned up something from the body."  He stuffed his
hands into the deep bowels of his trouser pockets and walked
towards the car.

         	 *         *         *

Scully let them into the storeroom in full surgical gown and
hairnet, stained with blood.  "Expecting guests?" he asked Scully
with a grin.
"Only the police," she riposted, her expression even.  Crawford's
grin broke through to white teeth.  Scully had already started
back down the hallway before they'd gotten the door closed.  "See
much at the site?" asked Scully, her words echoing down the
corridor back to them.  Mulder lengthened his stride to catch up
with her.
"Not really.  There's been too many footprints to tell who came
and who went independently.  With no offence to the local force,"
he threw over Scully's shoulder to Crawford, who had just caught
up.  "How about this end of the investigation?"
"Well, there's a couple of things, really."  They pushed through
the swing door of the mortuary itself and over to an examination
table.  Frank Mereweather's mortal remains lay on it.  "As it
turns out, I didn't need to cut anything for the autopsy.
Mereweather's killer seems to have done that pretty well already.
But it definitely wasn't an animal that killed him."
"It could have been a kangaroo, you know," said Crawford.  "It
just occurred to me.  They've been known to inflict serious
injuries with their back legs while they've got their front paws
gripping someone.  Unlikely, maybe..."
"I don't think so," said Scully.  "Even if you'd brought it to me
as a possibility I would have rejected it.  Look at the wound
itself.  At the sternum end, the cutting's edges are pressed
inwards, as though that was the entry point.  At the other end,
the skin is flared outwards, as though the killer swept his weapon
upwards in an arc."
"Upwards," echoed Mulder.  "Then it wasn't a martial artist that
killed him?"
"Could be.  But he'd have to be a very incompetent one, or he's
using an art none of us have even heard of."
"Whoa, hang on a minute.  Martial artist?" Crawford was looking at
Mulder strangely.  Scully turned back to the body as Mulder
squared up to Crawford.
"In kenjutsu,  that is, the Japanese art of fighting with swords,
most, if not all of the strikes come from overhead," he arced his
hand in a flat shape over Crawford's head, "or from the side," and
this time Mulder made the same action sideways.  "It would be a
tactically bad decision to try and come upwards," and he arced his
hand up in front of Crawford, "since that just leaves you open
from the side and the top.  Whoever it was who killed Mereweather
didn't know the first thing about kenjutsu."
"But swords? I mean, this is the twentieth century!"
Mulder's gaze was even.  "German police have seen cases of
university students actually duelling with blades.  And I'm pretty
sure you'd find the same results in Japan."  Mulder turned with
Crawford back to the body.  "This cut wasn't done by your average
knife-fighter.  Right, Scully?"
"True...the depth of the cut is amazing.  The weapon, whatever it
was, ruptured most of the intestines in the first half of the
fatal wounding.  But the ribcage has no damage to it aside from
the cut that sliced it in half."
"Wait a second.  You're telling me the ribcage is cut open...and
the ribs aren't broken? "
"Exactly.  We're talking about some sort of weapon which is hard
enough...and sharp enough...so that it slides through bone like
water."
"Couldn't brute strength be an explanation?" suggested Crawford.
"If only flesh had been cut, and if the cut had been deeper
towards the beginning.  As it is, that's an even more unbelievable
explanation than the one I've already given you.  If brute
strength had been responsible, there would've been a lot more
damage to the ribs and spine.  There's none of that here.  The cut
is as fine as a laser."
Mulder left that aside for the moment.  "So do you know anything
about the killer, then?"
"Only that, despite the simplicity of the cutting action, he's
taller and much faster than Frank Mereweather was, for him to make
a cut like this at all."
"Mereweather stood 180 centimetres," said Crawford, consulting a
chart.  "And weighed 140 kilograms.  That's one dangerous bastard
you're talking about there."
"Could it be a woman, Scully?"
She took off the wire-rimmed glasses she'd been known for and
looked at Mulder.  "If she's an Amazon.  Besides, it doesn't fit
the profile."  She turned back towards the body.  "But I did find
something else."
"What?" Both Mulder and Crawford were looking at her intently now.
"Traces of metal in the...remains...of the ribcage.  It looks like
the edge of the weapon might have been serrated, and a couple of
teeth may have come off.  Anyway," she produced a test tube from
her pocket, stoppered, "I found these."  In the test tube were a
couple slivers of metal.  Mulder took the test tube.  The metal
pieces glinted dully in the cold surgical light, and the sound of
their shifting in the smooth glass tube sent a faint musical
tinkling in the cool, heavy air.
"I'll get them sent off for analysis tomorrow," offered Crawford.
"We should have an answer in a couple of days."
"Scully?"
She shrugged.  "No reason not to.  There isn't much more I can
really do here."
Mulder nodded, and Crawford pocketed the test tube.
"I think that's about everything, then, " said Scully.  "What's on
the agenda for tomorrow?"
"I'll take you to meet some of our police force," said Crawford.
"They might be able to tell you more about what happened."
"Another fine day to meet the press," muttered Mulder as they
walked with Crawford back to their hotel.

         	 *         *         *

Mulder awoke earlier than expected.  His single room wasn't
particularly large, but the sound of the wooden door banging hard
on its frame echoed all the same.  He'd half reached for his gun
before he heard the voice.  "Agent Mulder!"
He glanced at the digital clock, cherry-red.  3:00 am.  "Who's
there?" he called through the door.
"My name's Paul Morris," the disembodied voice called back.  "I'm
a police officer.  Robert Crawford sent me to get you."
Mulder put the gun down, fumbled for a pair of pants and went to
the door, opening it wide enough to see the moustached face and
the khaki-brown police uniform.  Morris raised his hands in a
placating gesture.  "Sorry to have to wake you up, agent Mulder,
but there's been another killing.  Crawford went straight out to
the site; he sent me to get you there as quickly as possible.  Is
agent Scully around?"
"Next door," said Mulder, rubbing his eyes, though he was quickly
awakening.  "I'll get her."  Morris nodded.
"I'll be downstairs," he said, turned and left.  The wooden
corridor echoed creakily under his steps.  Mulder went to the next
room in the corridor, but before he knocked, Scully was there,
dishevelled and in a dressing-gown, opening the door.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Until about three minutes ago," she replied.  "What was that
about another killing?"
"Just that.  Crawford's at the site now, but he sent someone to
bring us out there."  He paused for a moment, staring at her robe.
"What?" she said warily.
"I think maybe something in thistle green...."
She groaned, grabbed the pillow off her bed and hit him in the
face with it.

END OF PART 2/7