019D9C090E03@comcast.net> ae7f49df   
   Title - Decoding the Enigma   
   Authors - Amy Jonas and MagsRose   
   E-mail - adjonas2000@yahoo.com or magsrose@comcast.net   
   Rating - FRT-13 (PG - 13)   
   Category - AU/Gen/Het   
   Archive - Just let us know.   
   Feedback - Yes, please. Any kind is always welcome. We just like to know   
   someone is reading this stuff.   
   Disclaimer - Without Prejudice. The names of all characters contained here in   
   are the property of Chris Carter, et. al. No infringements of these copyrights   
   are intended, and are used here without permission. All original characters   
   are the sole property    
   of Mags or Amy and may not be used without the author's permission.   
   Summary - In 1940, Private Investigator, Melvin Frohike thought he was working   
   on a simple missing person case but he soon found himself embroiled in   
   something far more sinister.   
   Authors' notes - After seeing the Maltese Falcon, Amy presented Mags with an   
   idea for The X-Files characters in an Alternate Universe.  Intrigued by the   
   possibilities, Mags suggested a co-authoring effort.  The result is the story   
   you see here.   
      
      
      
    Decoding the Enigma   
      
   Chapter 1   
   Monday, September 23, 1940   
      
   The hallway was dark.  It was late in the evening but even during the day the   
   dingy hall seemed to absorb the light that managed to make its way through the   
   dirty film over the small window at the end of the hall.  New bulbs wouldn't   
   have made much of a    
   difference even if the landlord hadn't been too cheap to replace them.  The   
   people who worked in the building liked it that way. It gave them the   
   anonymity they wanted, something a brightly lit office building in a better   
   part of town would not have    
   afforded them.   
      
   Melvin Frohike's clients preferred the darkness and isolation since most   
   didn’t want anyone, especially the police, to find out why they required the   
   services of a private investigator.  His clients came to him because of his   
   reputation for discretion.     
   They hired him as a last resort to locate unfaithful spouses, people who owed   
   them money, missing property that may not have been legally acquired in the   
   first place or for some other reason that brought him face to face with the   
   dregs of humanity.   
      
   Frohike didn't particularly like this type of work but it paid the bills.   
   Occasionally, when his conscience got the better of him, he retreated into the   
   darkness of his office with a bottle of Jim Beam. He had come to depend on   
   this old friend to drown    
   the inner voice that accused him of taking the easy way out, of making the   
   quick buck.   
      
   Then there were those who came to him in desperation; those who felt that the   
   authorities were not doing enough to find their missing loved ones. Often,   
   these clients couldn't afford the services of the big name detective agencies   
   located on the right    
   side of the tracks, but Frohike's prices were reasonable and his reputation   
   was first-rate.   
      
   These cases, when they worked out, made him feel good about himself again,   
   that he was truly helping people.  It was a feeling he thought he had lost   
   when he quit the police force. Not every story had a happy ending but helping   
   these people gave him a    
   sense that his life had meaning.   
      
   Frohike dug in the pocket of his coat for his keys. From months of practice,   
   he located the correct key by feel alone and opened the door to his deserted   
   office. His secretary, Maggie, was not there. She undoubtedly went home at her   
   usual five o'clock.   
      
   Crossing through the small reception area, he opened the door to his inner   
   office.   
      
   He hung up his coat and hat then sorted through his phone messages. One jumped   
   out at him. He was going to need to do something about that one before he went   
   home. Frohike sat down behind his desk and, opening the bottom drawer, pulled   
   out a bottle of    
   Jim Beam and a glass. He poured himself a stiff one.   
      
   He was bone tired and he hadn't done anything more than sit around for most of   
   the day waiting to testify in court. Late in the afternoon, he'd finally   
   gotten his chance on the witness stand.   
      
   The case involved a woman who'd been accused of killing her cheating husband.   
   The woman's family had hired Frohike to search for the husband, insisting he   
   had faked his own death. Frohike tracked the man, finding evidence that he was   
   alive up to three    
   weeks after the District Attorney said he'd been killed. The trail had grown   
   cold after that and, with time running out before the court date, Frohike had   
   to give up the search.   
      
   This was not the first time he had gone up against the overly zealous District   
   Attorney, John Byers. The man had it in for him, treated him like last week's   
   garbage. Every time he was required to testify on a case this guy was   
   prosecuting, DA Byers did    
   his best to discredit Frohike. He'd like to think the man was just doing his   
   job but even on cases in which he was testifying FOR the prosecution, Byers   
   made it sound like Frohike said nothing more than a necessary evil to be   
   tolerated only as long as    
   needed.   
      
   He poured himself another shot: drinking this one slower than the first.   
      
   He picked up the newspaper, which earlier in the day he had thrown unread on   
   his desk. Scanning the front page, he scowled in disgust.  It was full of the   
   war in Europe between Hitler and the Allied powers.  It was only a matter of   
   time, he thought,    
   before we're pulled into that mess.   
      
   He tossed the paper into the trash then looked at his appointment book. In   
   Maggie's precise handwriting, he noted that he had an appointment with a new   
   client the next day. The Jennings case was the only other case he was working   
   on so he could use the    
   income.   
      
   He glanced at the phone. He had to make that call and he'd better do it before   
   the alcohol kicked in.  Frohike lifted the receiver and dialed the number.   
      
   The worried mother answered the phone before it completed its first ring.   
   "Mrs. Jennings, this is Melvin Frohike."  He paused, listening to the woman,   
   thinking of how broken up she had been when she and her husband, Daniel, had   
   come to him the day before.   
     "Have you found anything new," the woman on the other end of the line asked,   
   hope evident in every word.   
      
   "I'm sorry, Mrs. Jennings, I don't have anything to tell you yet but I've been   
   checking around and I've got some leads I want to follow up on." He didn't   
   want to tell her that he had wasted precious time sitting in the courthouse   
   all day. He had asked a    
   friend to do some snooping for him with the police but that would take a   
   little time. He planned on meeting up with that friend the next day.   
      
   "It's been three days now," Mrs. Jennings said. Frohike could hear the tears   
   in her voice. "Did you talk to Emma and her friends? Maybe there is something   
   she would remember for you that she couldn't tell the police."   
      
   "I spoke with her mother. That's all I'm allowed to do. She said that Emma   
   didn't remember any more than she told the police. The other girls all said   
   the same thing."   
      
   "Someone must have seen something," she said, almost choking on the words.   
   "She didn't just disappear!"   
      
   "We'll find her, Mrs. Jennings."   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)