3/1/98
Seasoned Professional
Author- Araxdelan (krycekluvsmulder@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer- I've rented Mulder and Scully out for the day. At five o'clock, 
they go back to Fox and 1013 productions.
Rating- R
Summary- Mulder wonders about how his job affects him.
Warning- Descriptions of graphic violence ahead


	
	"Was found decapitated at 8:30 this morning. Was heavily sedated as 
the murderer slowly sawed the head off with a butter knife..."

	The young cop continued with his run-down of the crime, but I stopped
listening. I could always read it in the report later. I stared at the body 
with a grim fascination. I hadn't seen very many decapitations in my day, and
this was a particularly messy one. The victim had full awareness during the 
process, but was unable to fight back do to an excessive amount of drugs in 
his system.

	A butter knife wasn't the most effective tool for a decapitation. The
blunt blade had hacked at the man's skin, leaving chunks separated from the 
body. The fleshy bits littered the seedy hotel room, and stuck to your shoes 
as you walked within the mess. At some point, the killer had finally ripped 
through the artery, and blood had spurted forth, making a gruesome work of 
art on the wall. When the flow had slowed a bit, it pooled around the man's 
body, and was soaked into the graying carpet, turning the floor covering an 
autumn shade of brown as it dried.

	As I look around me, I can immediately pick out the rookies from the 
seasoned professionals. The young men new to the job stood off to the side a 
bit, turning colors. One looked a pale white, another was a more traditional 
shade of green. The more experienced members of the investigation went about 
their business with a disturbing detached look on their faces. One woman, her
hair streaked with gray, bent down to examine the head, wisely hiking her 
trench coat up off the floor, and away from the mess. She didn't even grimace 
as she probed the man's tongue, which was protruding sickeningly from his 
mouth. Another older cop went around, making sure that nothing was missed in 
the search for trace evidence around the room. He all but ignored the body.

	I noticed several other "seasoned professionals" in the room. I 
picked them out by their eyes. It wasn't the lines, exactly, nor the dark 
circles. It spoke not of being tired, but of weariness. World weariness. It 
was something "in" the eyes, the look of knowing a little too much. And... 
and maybe in the "way" the eyes moved. The way the skin around the eyes made 
a motion to crinkle in dis-taste, but forcibly smoothed back, knowing that no
amount of pity or grief could bring the person back. Or stop the evil.

	I pass the mirror, and catch my reflection. I'm not sure if I should 
be surprised that I see that same look in my own eyes. I've seen many peoples
deaths. But it bothers me. I walk through life, and see such madness around 
me. How many times can I walk away, not carrying this with me? How many times
can I let the terror roll off my back? When will I break? When will it start 
to haunt me?

	I turn, and stare at Scully. She is the one examining the body now, 
the one wearing the detached look. I wonder how, day after day, she can go to
harshly lit sterile rooms, and cut up bodies. Wielding her scalpel, playing 
with peoples insides. I know that when she does it, there's a purpose; she's 
not hacking off peoples heads for the thrill. But, no matter how many times I
walk nonchalantly into an autopsy, I can never imagine doing it myself. 
Watching, yes. Becoming accustomed to handling peoples intestines, no.

	But in some ways, I think that my job is even worse than Scully's. 
While she looks at the ravages of human suffering with an unfeeling, academic
eye, I've numbed myself in a  much different way. Scully is still able to 
look upon the killer and revulse. I can not. It's my job to *become* the 
killer. 

	And, after a certain amount of time, a certain amount of psychopaths,
the evil all starts to look the same. When I look at cases such as this, 
there is no shock; I know that this can be found anywhere. In any city, in 
any country, there's someone with the capacity to do this. Perhaps any one of
us is capable, if put in certain circumstances. Knowing that insane brutality
is ever-present, it becomes white noise; a constant threat in the background 
that I must learn to ignore in order to function. It's this transformation of
horror to normalcy that frightens me.

	While I can't remember exactly what it felt like not to have seen all
I've seen, I have the distinct impression that it was much better to be 
innocent. I don't think humans were ever meant to see some things. And 
certainly not meant to see them over and over again. Not meant to force them 
into becoming common in our minds, just for the purpose of being able to get 
up and go to work every morning. 

	I wonder idly if there's an X-File here. It would be so much easier 
to put my mind to rest if I knew that a person didn't commit this horrendous 
crime. An alien, a demon... something not made of the same flesh and bone 
that I am. Something that didn't grow up in a neighborhood like mine, 
something that didn't enjoy cutting this man's head off... 

	I turn back to the body, and try to feel any emotion. I remember that
this was a man, who has a family and friends, who has a job, and sat down on 
the toilet to go to the bathroom, just like the rest of us. 

	I stare blankly at the blood obscured, fleshy neck, and it looks 
lonely without it's head. I hear someone throwing up outside, and the noise 
startles me back into awareness. There's nothing to be found in here but 
self-pity, so I walk through the door and into the parking lot, carefully 
stepping over a young policeman's puddle of vomit on the way.



****
The
End
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