Title: Postmortem

Author: ebXphile

Date: 12 February 2000

Rating: PG-13/R for language

Classification: VA

Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know.

Spoilers: Mid-SUZ, other minor spoilers through US7.

Disclaimer: The X-Files and its characters belong to Chris Carter,

1013, and FOX. I'm just playing with them and I'll put them back

when I'm done.

Summary: When a life ends, questions must be answered.

Feedback: Is always appreciated at ebXphile@hotmail.com

Author's notes at the end.

*****

"Postmortem"

*****

Let me tell you a secret: I love autopsies.

The noblest part of me loves them because they are an important

step on the path to justice. Contrary to popular belief, dead men

*do* tell tales. But they don't share their secrets with everyone.

I am one of the select who can hear their stories, who can look at

the mass of decaying cells that was once a person and divine what

happened to bring them to this state. They come to me, victims of

mysterious circumstances, and I am their last, best hope for

redemption. My findings can give them that redemption, that final

dignity.

The scientist in me loves the precision, the procedure, and the

predictability of it all. Each autopsy is almost exactly like the

one before, with minor changes in the details of age, gender,

condition of the body, and cause of death. Occasionally, there are

surprises. But they are *medical* surprises, emerging in a

controlled situation. They provide additional fodder for

scientific investigation. Real-life surprises, on the other hand,

emerge in an uncontrolled fashion whenever the hell they feel like

it. *They* can provide additional fodder for the twisted fantasies

of a sicko bastard death fetishist. The former interest me. The

latter I've had enough of to last several lifetimes.

The FBI agent in me loves performing autopsies because it's the one

thing I can contribute to the X-Files that Mulder can't. For all

his intuition, he can't hear the things I hear or see the things I

see. For him, once a person's lips fall silent, the questions must

cease to be answered.

For me, death is just the beginning.

Mulder may be one of the best there is at getting inside the mind

of a serial killer, but if he actually had to open said serial

killer's skull and examine the brain, I think he'd pass out. Even

on really bad days, days when his total lack of consideration makes

me feel like I'm just his glorified sidekick and science wench, I

find an odd sort of comfort at the morgue. It is as much my domain

as the basement of the Hoover building is his. I am confident

there. Only the deft movements of my hands can unravel the

mysteries inside those I examine. The truth is in them, and only

I can find it.

But as much as I love the discovery that comes with each

examination, I have always dreaded one aspect of the procedure--

I *hate* making the first incision.

All my years of experience, during both my residency and my work on

the X-Files, have not inured me to the teeth-clenching prospect of

the first cut. Even standing *inside* an elephant in mid-necropsy

was easier than hearing the sounds of the chainsaw meeting dead

flesh. Prior to the first incision, the body I am examining is

usually intact and recognizable as a person. Prior to the first

incision, it's so easy to think of the subject as somebody's mother,

brother, cousin, or lover. Prior to the first incision, the body

is still somehow untouched by the technological desecration of

death.

But prior to the first incision, the amount of information I can

gather is limited. So the cut must be made, the violation commit-

ted, the shell of what once was a person reduced to its component

parts.

It's the only way to find the truth.

I recognize this fact, understand it and accept it. But the first

meeting of metal and flesh always gives me pause. So I take

advantage of the interval when the steel is suspended and transform

my moment of squeamishness into a moment of understanding. I

*look* at them. I look at them and realize that despite the vast

amounts of information I can learn from them, I can only determine

how they died. I can't tell how they lived, or what their dreams

were, or whether they were a cat or dog person, or if they had any

regrets. I can only make a Y-incision.

This is the task that looms before me now. The Y-incision of all

Y-incisions.

The autopsy of Mulder's mother.

I try to see her as just another victim, someone else whose

secrets I must plunder to find the truth.

But I can't.

Even examining Diana's body had nothing on this. *She* had only

been in the business of hurting and betraying Mulder for about ten

years. His mother, on the other hand, had been fucking with his

mind since he was twelve. I'm sure she loved him in her own way,

but that didn't erase what she had done to him.

Sometimes I feel like I have spent the past seven years struggling

to undo her damage.

I look at her, laying dead on the table, body pallid and flabby

and reeking of natural gas, and wonder what exactly I feel toward

her. Of course, the simple fact that I feel anything at all should

convince me to get someone else to do the exam, regardless of what I

told Mulder--but once again, I can't. I get the feeling that he will

only believe the results if they come directly from *my*

examination--and the last thing I want is for him to spend the rest

of his life second-guessing the fate of yet another family member.

Do I empathize with her decision to take control at the end,

meeting death on her own terms? My own recovery from cancer is not

so distant that I don't recall the days of despair when just

*ending* the whole damn thing would have been so much easier....and

I might have ended it all, if not for Mulder. He made sure I never

gave up the fight, and when I didn't have the strength to do so

anymore, he fought for both of us. Teena Mulder was not so lucky.

She had no one to lean on, no one to hold her to this life. Given

the alternative, would I have behaved any differently?

Do I pity her, a lonely old woman whose daughter disappeared,

whose former husband was murdered and whose son maintained only a

superficial relationship? After all, I know all too well the

despair the loss of family members can bring. What would I do

without my mother? Or Charles? Or even Bill, for that matter?

What kind of person would I be if everybody I ever cared about was

out of reach?

Am I angry with her for allowing her family to fall apart after

Samantha disappeared? I disappeared once, too. Mom and I never

talk about that time, about how she coped, but I get the impression

from Mulder that she cut herself off from the rest of the world,

all but ignoring the rest of our family. What would she have done,

I wonder, if I hadn't been returned? Or if I had been taken when I

was younger, like Samantha? Would she have ended up like this,

a broken, bitter woman?

I find myself completely inadequate to the task of answering these

questions, questions with no obvious solutions. So I will set

about providing what answers I can in the only way I know how--

through science.

I turn on the tape recorder, preserving this moment for posterity.

I recite the requisite information mechanically, barely cognizant

of the fact that I have lifted the scalpel and positioned it over

Teena Mulder's chest.

I hear myself say, "I'll begin with the Y-incision."

But before I draw the blade across her skin, I look at her, really

*look* at her, and wonder.

Who were you?

What were your dreams?

How much did you know?

What was your greatest burden?

What secrets did you hide?

Was it worth it?

Mulder and I will never know the answers to these questions. Like

so many others, they have escaped into the void, past our

understanding.

But some answers are within our grasp. And I will find them.

***end***

Feedback is treasured at ebXphile@hotmail.com.

NOTES: Many thanks to mj for extensive beta and handholding, and

to non-phile Naomi for reading it anyway. <g> You guys rock.

My undying gratitude goes to Halrloprillalar for help in solving

computer glitches caused by the evil gremlins that live in my Mac.