Fletcher2:Rollercoaster - Chap 28
Date: Wed, 6 Oct 1999 12:37:15 
From: "starbuck22" <jbowne@top.monad.net>

Fletcher2: Rollercoaster 
By: Dana Starbuck
Feedback: dks_starbuck@yahoo.com
Disclaimers:  See Chapter 1
WARNING:  The next few chapters contain some violence and "ick".
THANKS:  Once again, big thanks to Athos, Selena & Rad. Your help,feedback,

patience and friendship is greatly appreciated.  I can't do it without you.
And a 
special thanks to my cyberbro deejay. Words can't express my thanks and
gratitude.


<<Chapter 28>>

Quantico
Friday, 12:29 PM

<Half a day pissed away,> Fletcher fumed as she marched down the hall, a
piece of FBI letterhead clutched in her right hand.  <Stupid goddamn
doctors!  They're poking and prodding while Algernon's sending me mash
notes!  I didn't have a headache when I walked into Medical, but I sure
have one now.>  She walked into Roy's outer office and headed for the
closed door, ignoring Janet, his personal assistant.  <They damn well
better have _all_ the details on those flowers, or there's gonna be a
shooting in Virginia tonight!>

She knocked once and opened the door.  Roy and Mulder were standing on
either side of the conference table, staring down at the speakerphone in
the middle of the table.  Both of them had their hands on the table, and
they looked extremely tense. 

Fletcher held up the piece of paper. "I got a note from my doctor, Mister-"

Roy held up a hand, giving her a withering look.  "Bill, would you repeat
that? Fletcher just walked in."

Crocker's voice crackled out of the speaker.  "The guy's name is Charles
Tolliver.  T-O-Double L-I-V-E-R.  He's got an address in Boswell, and
unless he does back roads, he'd have to drive by the florist shop on his
way to work.  The New York office is doing a background check right now."

<Sacred shit,> Fletcher thought wildly, her headache easing as adrenaline
coursed through her.  "You sure about this guy, Bill?"

"The dispatcher at DPW I.D.'ed him off of a picture we got from an ATM
security camera across from the florist," he replied.  "The clerk at the
florist remembered him when we showed her the picture.  Apparently he'd
been more of a pain in the ass then most of her customers that day."

"How so?" Fletcher walked up next to Mulder.

"It seems Algernon wanted to send a handwritten note along with the
flowers, and was real adamant about it.  She had to explain to him twice
that they couldn't send personal messages with out-of-town orders, that he
could only send a message on the order form.  He copied his note onto the
form.  Block letters, just like his other notes.  She made him copy it
again.  The first time he used a red pen, and red ink wouldn't show up on
the fax."

<Consistency is the hobgoblin of easy catches.>  "Get that note bagged and
down here yesterday," Fletcher instructed him.  <No way do the locals
handle this!> 

"You know where Algernon is right now?" Mulder asked.

"Supposedly he's cleaning sewer grates in some suburb called Ramsey." 
Fletcher and Mulder shared a look as Bill went on. "No answer on his radio,
so the dispatcher thinks Algernon's on a lunch break.  State Police put out
a BOLO on his truck, and they're working on warrants for his house and
car..."

Fletcher cut him off.  "Does either Ramsey or Boswell have an airport?" 
<No sense going to Newark if we don't have to...>

"Boswell's got a small field for private planes about a mile out of 
town."

"We're on the way," Fletcher barked. "We'll call back with an ETA.  Meet us
when we land.  And let us know as soon as you get that background check."

"You got it."  The line clicked dead.

"Fletcher," Roy started.

She slapped the paper she'd been holding down on the desk.  "Cleared for
duty, pending a psych evaluation.  Which _you_ said could wait til _after_
we nail this cocksucker.  You want to call the doc? He was heading out to
lunch when I left.  I'll be glad to wait, but that's an hour we lose, and
Algernon gains. Your call, Roy."

"This machine doesn't stop because you're hurt, Fletcher," Roy snapped. 
"Mulder can ride in a helicopter by himself.  He's a big boy now."

Fletcher's eyes flashed.  It was her turn to put her hands on the table. 
"Roy, I know enough about closure to know I need to see this one through. 
I need to be there when they shut him down.  The Jersey cops might catch
him, but they don't _know_ him.  I _do_.  And they _might_ let him get
away!" Her voice dropped as she leaned forward.  "God damn you, Roy, do not
make me beg.  Because that'll just piss us _both_ off."

The staredown lasted at least ten seconds. Mulder wanted to say something,
but knew to keep his mouth shut.  Finally Roy said, "You'd better have your
affairs in order, Fletcher."  He held up the medical evaluation. "Because
if I find out you are sandbagging me on this, I will personally order Sandy
Dillard to throw your ass out of her helicopter.  In mid-air, preferably at
a height above one thousand feet.  Do I make myself clear?"

She willed herself not to smile.  "Do you want me to call the helipad?"

"I'll do that myself.  Go.  Bring me back a scalp."

- - - - -

ulder and Fletcher didn't speak until they were in the elevator, and
Mulder wouldn't have spoken at all if the car hadn't been empty.  "You
never told me you wanted to be a daredevil."

"What the fuck does that mean?" she said evenly, staring straight ahead.

"That was a hell of a high-wire act you did in there."

"Thanks.  There'll be a midnight matinee this weekend."  <Jesus, this
elevator is slow!>

"He had every right to keep you behind."

"I would have resigned on the spot."

"And that's the problem, Fletcher..."

"Why?" she demanded.  "Because I could star in an all-girl revival of
'Scarface'?"

"Because you're coming dangerously close to losing your objectivity!"

"You don't want to work with me, Spooky?" Fletcher asked sharply.  "Fine!
Do us both a favor and stay off my helicopter!  Because I'm going, I'm
gonna put that sons'a'bitch's head on a spike, and that's the name of that
tune!"

Mulder reached out and hit the 'Elevator Stop' button.  The car lurched to
a halt.  Somewhere at the top of the shaft, an alarm bell rang.  Fletcher's
head snapped around.  "What the hell-"

Mulder backed Fletcher up against the wall, then braced his hands on either
side of Fletcher's head.  Fletcher was caught so unawares, she didn't even
think about kicking him in the balls.  The look he was giving her would
have forestalled that move anyway. <So this is what it's like to look into
a cobra's eyes,> she thought.

"You are my oldest friend," he said coldly, "and one of the best partners
I've ever had.  I love you like a brother, and I'll back you up no matter
what the situation.  But that also gives me the right to tell you when
you're wrong, when you're pushing, and when you're going too far." 

Fletcher tried to speak, but Mulder cut her off, taking his voice up a
notch. "You're also in love with the only other person besides you that I
trust.  That makes me even _more_ responsible for you.  Because if you die,
or if you hurt yourself, or somebody else, because you're not thinking
clearly, not only would _I_ never forgive myself, Scully would never
forgive me either!"  He leaned forward until their noses almost touched.
"And what's more, she'd never forgive _you_!"

He stepped away from her and started the elevator again.  Fletcher stayed
pinned to the wall.  "I don't need Fletcher, Warrior Princess, here," he
said to the elevator doors.  He was back to his usual monotone.  "I need
Fletcher Buchanan, all-World profiler.  I'll be proud to work with either
of them, but I need the second one more."  He looked at her out of the
corner of her eye.  "Do I still have to get my own helicopter?"

Fletcher's eyes were on the floor.  Her back was off the wall, but she had
lost all her fury.  "No," she said quietly.

He still couldn't look at her directly.  "Do I still have to worry?"

She took a breath and squared her shoulders.  "No."  Then she gave him a
quick smile.  "But thanks for worrying anyway."



State Route 17
Ramsey, New Jersey
Friday, 12:46 PM

<Well, _that_ was one I'd never heard before,> State Trooper Gene Lyon
chuckled to himself as he pulled away from the black Trans Am.  <I've never
had someone try to get out of a ticket because they were late getting home
from their radio show!  I loved the look on his face when I said I listened
to Howard Stern.>  His grin widened and his stomach rumbled as he saw
Diane's Diner coming into sight.  He picked up the handset.  "Six William
Eighteen to Control."

"Control," the dispatcher said laconically.  "Go, Six William Eighteen."

<He wants to be an air-traffic controller when he grows up.>  "I'm ten-ten
at 1375 Route 17.  I'll be on my chest mic.  Over."

"Copy, Six William Eighteen.  Have a good one."

Lyon clicked the 'Send' button twice and replaced the mic, slowing down and
signaling well before the diner's parking lot.  Route 17, the Highway to
Hell, led the state in high-speed rear-enders, and just because his cruiser
had multiple lights on the roof didn't mean whoever was behind him was
paying attention.  His stomach grumbled again, already anticipating Diane's
famous chili. 

This was Lyon's favorite diner of all the eating establishments on his
tour.  It was still in original condition -- none of that fake "old" diner
chrome or brick facade hiding the boxcar -- and it was cheaper than Burger
King, as long as you stuck to the specials.  He turned the Crown Victoria
off the four-lane highway and searched for a parking space.  <Hope they
haven't thrown out the papers from the breakfast crowd,> he thought.  <It'd
be nice to read some _good_ news about the Giants for a...>

The canary yellow Cambridge County Public Works truck was parked nose-out
in the spot to the left of the entrance.  Like most DPW vehicles, it looked
the worse for wear, though this one was no more than two years old.  Lyon
checked the plate against the number on his scratch pad.   He checked again
to make sure he hadn't transposed any numbers. <Hi there, stranger.> 

Lyon didn't hit his brakes.  Instead he kept his momentum going, aiming the
cruiser for a recently vacated parking slot next to the guardrail.  His
breathing was calm, but he could feel his pulse race as he keyed his
microphone. "Six William Eighteen to Control."

"Go, Eighteen."

"I've located that Cambridge County DPW vehicle we had a broadcast on. 
It's in the parking lot of 1375 Route 17.  No sign of a driver.  Request
instructions, over."

"Six William Eighteen, wait one."

<Hurry up and wait,> Lyon fumed, backing the Crown Vic into the spot. 
<Just like in the Corps.>  He knew he shouldn't be upset.  The BOLO had
said 'Subject should be considered Armed and Dangerous.'  Diane's parking
lot was chock full, just like it was every workday at lunch time.  There
was no way a dispatcher was going to send one cop into a situation like
that.  <Dead people in diners are not the best way to get your face on the
six o'clock news.>

When the dispatcher came back on, he didn't sound as laconic.  "Six William
Eighteen, you are to keep the subject under surveillance.  Do not attempt
to approach or apprehend.  Notify Control the moment the subject leaves his
present location. Copy?"

"Copy," Lyon said immediately. "Will advise.  Six William Eighteen." 
<They're playing it safe.>  His stomach protested the strategy.  <Nothing
we can do,> he sighed.  His travel mug was empty, but there was still ice
in the Coke he'd picked up at White Castle. He sucked some cold water
through the straw and settled down to wait.



Boswell Municipal Airport
Friday, 1:38 PM

Crocker had the engine running the minute he spotted the chopper coming in
from the south.  He got out and waited by the car as Dillard set the Jet
Ranger down by the row of one- and two-engine prop planes.  <I'm keeping my
head right on my shoulders.  You can't hear anything over the damn prop
wash, anyway.>  Mulder and Fletcher got out of the helicopter and
duck-walked towards him, returning to full height when they had cleared the
blades.  They wanted to keep their heads on, too.

"What have you got?" Fletcher called as they came up to the Crown Vic.

"Lots.  A trooper spotted him about half an hour ago, taking a lunch break
in a diner on Route 17.  He left there fifteen minutes ago and drove back
to the neighborhood he's supposed to be working."  They all got in the car,
Fletcher and Mulder in the back.  Crocker hit the gas as soon as the doors
were closed, turning on the blue flashers for good measure.

"Does the trooper still have him under surveillance?" Fletcher said as she
put on her seat belt.

"It's a suburban neighborhood," Crocker explained, "and the place
Algernon's working is at the end of a cul-de-sac.  The trooper's driving a
bubblegum machine, not your most subtle form of surveillance vehicle. The
investigative unit's routing plainclothes cars to take over.  Til then the
guy cruises like he's doing neighborhood watch."

"Fabulous," Fletcher grunted. "It'll tip Algernon for sure."

"He ought to be able to get away with it, for a while anyway. Ramsey
doesn't even have a police force.  The State boys and the county sheriff's
department split the duty."

"A henhouse with a part-time watch dog," Mulder remarked. "I'm surprised
Algernon didn't start there."

"Give thanks for small favors," Fletcher returned.  "What do we know about
our subject?"  <Not _Unknown_ Subject. We know who you are, you rat
bastard.>

"Charles Michael Tolliver, 37," Crocker read from a notebook, keeping half
an eye on the road. "Born and raised in Boswell, and a graduate of the high
school. Single white male, never married.  No criminal record, no juvie
record; the best we could find were a couple of parking tickets in Newark,
both of which he paid.  Before he joined up with the county, he worked in
his dad's business.  Plumbing contractor -- pretty big one, too, business
went back a couple of generations.  The secretary at the depot says
Tolliver was studying to be an architect at Rutgers, but his old man pulled
him out of school when his mom died and put him to work."

Fletcher looked at Mulder.  "Great losses. Great disappointments."

He nodded.  "And a complete lack of control."

"It gets better," Crocker went on.  "The business went south in '96, after
they lost some major long-term contracts.  Their competitors undercut them
big-time, so they got cut out of the development boom.  Dad killed himself
a few months later – garden hose in the tailpipe, classic American suicide.
 Algernon had to sell everything just to keep the bill collectors and Uncle
Sam happy."

Mulder whistled.  "This guy needs a forklift to carry around all his
emotional baggage."

"What's the word on those warrants?" Fletcher wanted to know. 

"Dave just called.  They got 'em.  He's going back to the depot to work the
car with one CSU team.  We're meeting the other one at Tolliver's house."

"How far away?"

"Ten minutes," he told her.

"Can you make it five?"

"Okay," he chuckled.  "But you pay for the broken windows when I go through
the sound barrier."



7 Spencer Avenue
Boswell, New Jersey
Friday, 1:49 PM

Their timing was perfect.  An unmarked Caprice and two black vans were
pulling up to the one-story house just as Crocker turned onto the street. 
One van held a Crime Scene Unit team, while four armed-and-armored troopers
jumped out of the other.  "Look, ma," Mulder said lifelessly.  "The circus
is in town."

"Great," Fletcher groaned. 

"These guys think 'low-profile' means a side shot of Gary Coleman," Crocker
snorted.  The line didn't get laughs, but Mulder and Fletcher did smile
grimly.

Two men with well-trimmed mustaches and matching looks of disdain watched
the FBI agents pull up.  "Buchanan," the taller detective called as
Fletcher got out of the Crown Vic. "Good to see you're up and around."

"Good to be seen," she returned coolly.  <Boy, he sure sounds sincere. Fuck
you very much, Sergeant Corcoran. Don't you go changin'.>  She looked
around, as if bewildered.  "What's the matter?  Couldn't you get a brass
band to go with this parade?"

"Procedure," Corcoran said shortly, sizing up the house as he stepped onto
the sidewalk.  The building itself was in good condition, but the bushes
were overgrown and badly in need of trimming.  It was a 'shotgun house' –
that is, if you opened the door and fired a shotgun, the buckshot would
pass through every room in the house and go out the back door. 

"The man's armed and dangerous," the other detective maintained as he
followed Corcoran.  "Surely you can appreciate that."

"I can appreciate that, Detective Witter," Fletcher told him as she led her
fellow agents up the cracked path.  "I can also appreciate that the suspect
is in another town entirely, being watched by your own people."

"_We_ never ruled out the possibility of an accomplice," Corcoran said
placidly. He had a walkie-talkie in his left hand.

"Besides," Witter added, "the dispatcher could have given us the wrong
license number, and we're watching the wrong truck."

"And his car at the depot?" Crocker asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
"What's that, a decoy?"

"Could be.  This guy hasn't gotten away with this shit by being stupid."

Mulder started to protest, but Fletcher held up a hand.  "Don't bother,"
she said quietly.  "It'd be like explaining the Theory of Gravity to a
rhinoceros. It loses something in the translation."

Two SWAT troopers moved around the federal agents and took station around
the doorway, while the other two ran down one side of the house. Everyone
waited until Corcoran's radio crackled, "Unit One."

"Go, One," Corcoran said into the radio.

"Residence is dark.  No movement detected."

"'Cause no one's hohh-ohhhm," Crocker sang under his breath.

Corcoran ignored him. "Do it," he said shortly.  The lead SWAT trooper
opened the storm door and got down on his knees, fishing a set of lock
picks out of his vest.  He had the door open in a few seconds. 

"Watch for trip wires," Mulder said, only half-seriously.  <Don't joke. 
Those three brothers weren't rocket scientists, and they had more booby
traps than a Viet Cong tunnel.> 

The SWAT leader checked the doorway with a flashlight, then said into his
throat mic, "Going in."  He leapt through the door, Witter and his partner
close behind.  Corcoran drew his service weapon and gave the federal agents
a sardonic look.  "Care to join us?"

Fletcher's cell phone went off before anyone could respond.  "Go ahead on,"
she told Mulder and Crocker.  "I'll be along."  They nodded and went up the
steps, drawing their weapons out of habit.  She pulled out her cellular and
switched it on. "Buchanan."

"McHugh," Dave's voice answered.  "CSU's making a second trip with their
fine tooth comb.  They've found traces of those sewer chemicals on the
floor mats, but no blood, no weapons.  Not in the interior, not in the
trunk.  They Luminoled everything but the engine block. No soap."

<This day just keeps getting better and better.>  Fletcher's scar was
starting to throb.  "Got any theories, Dave?"

There was a pause.  McHugh was surprised Fletcher had asked.  Surprised and
pleased.  "Well, the car's pretty damn clean.  Nothing in the ashtrays, no
fast-food bags or sesame seeds on the floor, so he may have detailed it
recently. That wouldn't stop Luminol from picking up blood traces, though.
He _could_ have covered the seats and the mats with plastic -- like maybe
with garbage bags, or those clear plastic bags you get from the dry
cleaner?  He could toss 'em in the garbage when he was done and nobody
would be the wiser."

"Makes sense to me," she agreed.  <I definitely have to talk to Roy about
you.> "Okay, keep at it.  You find anything, let me know."

"Right."

All the lights were on when Fletcher walked into the house.  The SWAT
troopers were standing in a group, looking like attack dogs with nothing
left to kill. Witter was opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen while
Corcoran looked through an antique sideboard that sat in a corner of the
front living area. <Guess Algernon didn't sell all his dad's stuff.>  The
dining set and living room furniture was 70s Modern, chrome and glass,
horribly outdated, severely out of place in the ancient little house.  She
gave Corcoran another look.  <At least he's wearing gloves.>

She walked through the house slowly, nostrils flared like she smelled
something very far away.  <This is his home.  He lives here.  Sleeps here.
Plans here.  Maybe sitting on the couch?  No, he'd do it at the dining
table, under that awful Tiffany lamp repro. If the sideboard's any
indication, he was used to a lot better than this.  Better than walking
through shit for a living, that's for sure.  My, but you're an angry little
man, aren't you, Algernon?>

Witter walked into the living room, a small picture frame in his hand.  He
thrust it at Fletcher.  "This your guy?"

Fletcher took the picture and looked, her blood chilling.  It was an old
picture, turning brown at the edges with the color starting to fade. A man
and a boy were standing on either side of an old Jeep Wagoneer.  An
eight-point buck was tied to the fender, staring sightlessly at the camera.
 The man looked triumphant, while the boy seemed to be straining to smile. 
The bolt-action rifle in the man's free hand had a telescopic sight, and
the barrel shone like it had been polished and polished.

"Fletcher!"

Mulder's voice came from the back of the house.  Fletcher started towards
the kitchen but was held up by Corcoran, who didn't want to be left out of
anything. She pushed past him and Witter and walked into the bedroom. "What
have you got?"

The bedroom was lit by a weak overhead light, with bed sheets covering the
windows.  The doors of the closet were folded to either side, revealing
Charles Tolliver's meager wardrobe.  Mulder and Crocker were standing in
front of the closet, both of them looking down.  Mulder nodded at what he
was looking at. "Think Algernon knows a lot of amputees?"

Fletcher looked down.  Nine left shoes, of various sizes and types, were
laid out in a neat row.



Hiawatha Drive, The Knolls
Ramsey, New Jersey
Friday, 3:22 PM

<That's the last one,> he thought, putting the snake away. <And I've still
got one hour of daylight left.>  Not that he needed it.  He'd found the
perfect place that morning.  Center hall Colonial, well-manicured front
lawn, in-ground swimming pool in the back, tasteful landscaping,
red-and-green Christmas flag flying from a pole attached to the garage.  No
activity from inside, so both parents must work.  He knew they were
parents.  This was not a single-family neighborhood.  Everyone had kids,
and Ramsey had a great school system, not to mention one of the best high
schools in the state.  <A great place to raise a family.  Dad would have
loved it.>

He'd just started the truck when all hell broke loose. Two black sedans and
a large van roared into the cul-de-sac, while two more sedans blocked the
entrance. People came pouring out of the vehicles, all of them holding
guns, all of them pointing at him. 

"Tolliver!" An amplified voice boomed at him from one of the cars. "Charles
Michael Tolliver!  This is the New Jersey State Police!  Do not move!  Turn
off the engine!  Keep your hands on the steering wheel, and you will not be
harmed!"

Algernon did not move at all, not physically anyway. His mind moved like
lightning.  <How can I turn off the engine with my hands on the wheel?> he
wanted to laugh, but this was not funny.  If he floored it, he could plow
through a few of those bulletproof boobs before they got off a round. 
<Maybe even get past the first cars if he went up on that lawn over there. 
It's that last wall.  I could drive around it if I stay on the grass, but
they'd have time to take aim.>  There was the gun, snug in the small of his
back. He was pitifully armed when compared to the force in front of him,
but there was enough to take a few people with him.  <Or, at least, make my
own exit.>

<No.  Let them come into the maze.  Let's see how fast they can get to the
other end.>  Moving deliberately, he turned the engine off.  Three seconds
later he was pulled out of the truck and handcuffed.

"Charles Michael Tolliver, you're under arrest for murder!  You have the
right to remain silent..."