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[personal profile] stringertheory
Title: Fourth Wall
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Timeline: None, post-Season 2
Prompt: Artifact: Alfred Hitchcock's camera. (Don't shoot home movies of someone you'd really rather didn't die horribly with it.)

-FRIDAY-

The Friday night camp-out had been in the works for weeks. With the heat of the summer finally over and the weather deciding to cooperate, the three friends had decided that this weekend would be the one.

Permissions were obtained, gear was gathered, and the perfect spot located for their overnight escape. They were dropped off near the site just a few hours before sundown, with the plan that they would be picked up the next day by lunchtime. As the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, throwing long shadows where it managed to peek through the towering trees, tents were constructed. By the time night fell, a fire crackled in the center of the campground and the boys gathered around to share what they had gone through so much trouble to procure and enjoy.

From inside one of the boys’ bags appeared the reason for their woodland gathering: two six-packs of beer. With somewhat guilty grins and more bravado than any of them truly felt, each took a can and popped the top. One made a toast and then all three took their first taste.

Unnoticed, in the shadows just beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, there was a reflection of light, and then it was gone.

---

-SATURDAY-

The King County morgue was as dull and lifeless as any Pete and Myka had ever been in. The M.E., however, was quite the character.

Mark Pridgen was in his early forties and he glided around the autopsy room like a ray of proverbial sunshine. His desk stuck out like a neon sign amid the concrete-gray blandness of the surroundings, adorned as it was by a lamp with a bright orange shade; a large, flowering vine of some kind that was slowly taking over the front of the desk; and an oversize, black-and-white plush cat that was perched atop the computer monitor. Pridgen himself was wearing an ivy green shirt under his examiner’s coat, and a paisley ascot was knotted at his throat. He led the agents over to the wall of lockers and opened three at waist height.

“These three boys came in this morning, burnt to a crisp,” he said as he pulled out the trays. “Tyler Bates, age 15.” He pointed to the tray on the right. “Joey Larsen, also 15, and Owen Whitby, 16,” he advised, tapping the last tray, which he was standing next to. “Time of death for all three is sometime between midnight and two a.m. this morning.”

Pete and Myka walked closer to get a better look at the victims. All three had suffered severe burns over their entire bodies.

“Any idea what happened?” Pete asked.

“Other than that they were burned to death? No.” Pridgen replied.

“You said they were camping --” Myka began.

“And there was a fire, yes,” Pridgen cut in, “but when Mr. Larsen’s father arrived it had burned itself out, still completely contained in the rather clever pit the boys constructed. In fact, there was no sign of any fire outside of the fire-pit.”

“Nothing?” Myka asked in surprise.

Pridgen shook his head. “No burn marks, no scorch marks, no lighter fluid, no matches, no hellfire and brimstone - nada. Though the tox-screens showed that all three had ingested alcohol not long before they died.”

“Beer?”

“The beer cans at the scene kind of gave it away.”

“Where were they found?” asked Myka.

“In their respective tents, on top of their sleeping bags.” Pridgen caught the agents’ looks. “The bags, the tents, and everything in them were in pristine condition. The only evidence of fire was what rubbed off the victims and on to the sleeping bags when the bodies were removed from the scene. But the bags weren’t burned at all, not even singed.”

“Could the bodies have been burned somewhere else and then placed in the tents?”

“I highly doubt it,” Pridgen said with a shake of his head.

“Why?” Pete asked.

“As you can see, they were badly burned - third degree over ninety percent of the body. But the clothes were untouched.”

“Just like the bags?”

“Just like the bags.” Pridgen affirmed. “And what’s more, there was no indication that the bodies had been moved. The only footprints found at the campsite were from the three victims and Mr. Larsen. There were no tire tracks leading into or out of the area other than Mr. Larsen’s, and the bodies didn’t show any of the post-burn trauma that would have resulted from them being moved.”

Pete stepped a bit closer to Myka to whisper, “Maybe they didn’t burn from the outside in.”

“Well, they weren’t burned from the inside out, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Pridgen said, with a sly grin on his face. “And that still wouldn’t explain how nothing else was burned.”

The duo failed to hide their concern quickly enough to escape the M.E.’s eye. Pridgen flapped his hand at them and began closing up the lockers.

“You aren’t fooling me, loves; I used to do this in NYC. Moved to Washington for the quiet, the clean air, the lack of crazy. But I know strange when I see it.” He closed the last locker and turned to face them, folding his arms over his chest and looking graver than they had seen him. “I’m not going to ask why you’re here or how you know about this or if you’re really Secret Service. I don’t care. And I don’t care how this happened, so long as you two keep it from happening again.”

Myka replied with a solemn nod. “Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure,” Pridgen answered, his grim-faced expression at odds with his words.

As they left the room, Pete glanced over his shoulder. Pridgen was standing with his back to them, staring at the wall of lockers, his arms crossed over his chest.

---

The lunch crowd had mostly dispersed, so the cafe they stopped at upon arriving in Bellevue was relatively empty. While Pete stopped outside to make a couple of phone calls, Myka purchased a local newspaper and headed inside. She had found a seat, ordered them drinks, and was halfway through the paper when Pete joined her, wrapping up a call as he approached.

“Okay, thanks.” Flipping his phone shut, Pete lowered himself into the chair opposite Myka and nodded at the paper. “Anything suspicious sounding in there?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure this city councilman is embezzling funds to support his luxury car habit, but I don’t see anything that might be related to the deaths.” She spared a smile for the waitress who brought out their drinks before turning back to her perusal of the headlines.

Pete grabbed the proffered straws from the waitress and unwrapped them, plunking one in Myka’s drink and the other in his own. “Then can I see the sports section?” he asked.

“What did the victims’ parents have to say?” Myka asked. Without looking up from the paper, she handed Pete the folded section she had set aside for him and then grabbed her drink.

“Not much,” Pete replied. “The Whitbys didn’t answer their phone and Mr. Larsen thought I was a reporter and used some very colorful language before he hung up on me.”

“And the Bates’?”

“That’s who I just got off the phone with. Mrs. Bates was a bit emotional --”

“Understandable.”

“-- But Mr. Bates was forthcoming enough. Tyler, Joey, and Owen apparently spent a lot of time together, including a stint in detention last week for picking on their classmate, Adam Jacobs.”

“What did they do?”

“Well, Mr. Bates didn’t know or wouldn’t say, but I got the impression that this wasn’t their first offense.”

“Schoolyard bullies. Sounds like motive to me.” Myka scanned the last page of the paper before folding it neatly and setting it aside to pick up one of the menus the waitress had left behind. “Lunch and then we visit the Jacobs’?”

“Deal.”

---

Twenty four-oh-nine was a tidy little bungalow tucked under spruce and hemlock trees at the end of a neighborhood street lined with tidy little houses.

Pete parked along the curb. As he and Myka walked toward the front door, they took stock of the surroundings. The lawn was recently mowed, perhaps even from that morning, and the small flower beds that were tucked up to the house had obviously been tended with care. They could hear a dog barking and caught glimpses of golden fur behind the fence that surrounded the backyard.

“It’s like the picture of a perfect childhood,” Myka said.

Pete grimaced. “Judge a book by its cover...”

Myka rang the doorbell and the two waited on the porch while footsteps approached from inside the house. The woman who answered the door had an air of harried grace about her. She was of average height, with sea-foam green eyes and medium brown hair that she had pulled back in a messy bun. She stared at the strangers on her porch with an inquisitive and open gaze.

“May I help you?”

“Mrs. Jacobs?” Myka questioned.

The woman nodded. “Yes?”

“My name is Agent Bering; this is Agent Lattimer.” Both held up their badges. “Would you mind if we came in? We need to speak with you and your son.”

“About what?” Mrs. Jacobs asked. Her eyes were suddenly wary, and she had shifted her body so that she could slam the door shut more quickly should she decide that the situation called for it. In response, Myka softened her tone and shifted her weight toward the door.

“Three of Adam’s classmates were found dead this morning,” she answered. “It was our understanding that Adam had been involved in a fight with them last week; we would just like to ask him some questions.”

Mrs. Jacobs stared at them for a moment, shock and worry and a deep weariness flashing across her face. Then she sighed, stepped back, and waved the agents into her home. “Come in.”

They followed her through the cozy living room and into the small kitchen, where she offered them coffee from a maker that had seen better days. The other appliances in the room looked equally as old, but were spotlessly clean. There was faded wallpaper on the walls that had at one time borne a bright pattern of pink, white, and green stripes. A tiny window over the sink looked out on the backyard, as did a sliding glass door. The room was bright and warm and smelled of coffee. Mrs. Jacobs - who insisted they call her Gretchen - handed Myka and Pete mugs, directed them to the cream and sugar on the counter, and excused herself to retrieve her son.

When she returned, she was followed by not one but two boys, both of whom had her eyes, though the youngest had hair that was almost black.

“Adam, Aaron - this is Agent Bering and Agent Lattimer.”

The boys mumbled their greetings, the elder with an expression that was simultaneously wary and sullen, the younger with shyness and curiosity. Gretchen took the smaller boy’s shoulders and squatted down slightly to look him in the eyes.

“Adam and I are going to talk to the Agents, okay? I want you to go outside and play with Max.”

Aaron looked for a moment as though he would protest, his eyes darting from his brother’s face to the badge and gun he just could see peeking out from under Myka’s coat. Then he looked back at his mother and nodded.

“Yes ma’am.”

Once the younger boy was safely out in the yard - and therefore out of hearing range - Gretchen directed everyone to the table in front of the sliding glass doors. Pete took the seat opposite the doors, with Myka to his right. Gretchen settled in the chair to his left, Adam across from him. Contrary to what Myka had expected from a fifteen year old boy, Adam did not slump down in his chair, but instead sat up straight, his hands clasped together on the table.

“Owen Whitby, Tyler Bates, and Joey Larsen were found dead this morning at their campsite outside of town,” she stated, choosing to be blunt and hoping to use Adam’s reaction to gauge what he knew. She registered shock, uncertainty, and a small glimmer of vindication on Adam’s face before he pulled back up his mask of disinterest.

“What happened?” Gretchen asked in a small voice.

“They were burned to death,” Pete answered. “We don’t yet know how.”

Myka looked back at Adam. “According to what we heard, something happened between Owen, Tyler, Joey, and you last week, and they got detention because of it.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Adam exclaimed.

“We aren’t saying you did,” advised Pete, “but we need to know what happened.”

Adam leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed, clearly reticent to relate any details. “They were pushing me around, trying to start a fight. A teacher saw it and stopped them. That’s it.”

“That is not it,” Gretchen cut in. She put a hand on her son’s shoulder and looked intently from Pete to Myka and back again. “This isn’t the first time this has happened. Those boys have gotten in trouble numerous times this year for bullying, and at least three of those times were them ganging up on Adam.”

“It isn’t a big deal, mom,” Adam grumbled.

Myka, sensing an argument brewing, headed it off with another question. “Adam, where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?”

Adam gaped slightly at her, incredulous. “What -- you don’t think I killed those morons, do you?”

“Adam, answer Agent Bering’s question.” Gretchen’s tone warned against argument.

“I was here, at home.”

“By yourself?” Pete asked.

Adam nodded and his mother answered. “I’ve been working the night shift recently - I’m an RN at the hospital - and Aaron was at a sleepover with friends down the street. Adam’s stayed here before without me, mostly watching his brother while I’m at work.”

“You didn’t leave, you didn’t go anywhere?” Myka pushed.

No,” Adam replied vehemently. “I didn’t go anywhere, I didn’t do anything, and I didn’t kill anyone.” He pushed away from the table and stood up. “I didn’t kill them, but I won’t pretend I’m sorry they’re dead.”

Grabbing a bag off the end of the kitchen counter, he stalked out the door and into the backyard. Aaron looked up from where he was wrestling with Max as Adam settled down under a tree, pulled out an old camera and began fiddling with it. Inside the kitchen there was a charged silence broken by Gretchen rising to refill her coffee. She returned to the table and sat down with a heavy sigh, staring out the door at her sons.

“You try your best,” she said, “but you can’t always be there. Sometimes things fall through the cracks.” She turned back to Pete and Myka. “Adam and Aaron’s father died almost two years ago. It was a car accident. Connor swerved to avoid a car that was pulling out from a blind driveway and lost control. He went over the side of the road and into a shallow ravine.” She sipped her coffee and stared at the table. “Adam took it really hard. He blamed the other driver, even though it wasn’t his fault, and he blamed his dad for leaving. He was always a boisterous kid, but after the accident, he sort of... withdrew. He grew quiet and spent a lot of time alone in his room. It’s been the same ever since.” She smiled a bit. “He always finds time for Aaron, though. He’s a good big brother.”

“Mrs. Jacobs - Gretchen,” Myka corrected herself at Gretchen’s look, “has Adam ever snuck away from home before, ever gone missing and you didn’t know where he was?”

“I’d like to say no,” she replied, “but I spend so much time at work, I don’t know. Right now I’m at home during the day, so I’m here when the boys get in from school and we can have dinner together and do homework and all that, but when I work days, they’re here by themselves until I get home. It’s possible that Adam could go somewhere and just not tell me, and I wouldn’t know.” She looked pained at the thought.

“Would he leave Aaron alone?” Pete asked.

“Definitely not. I don’t think he would go anywhere that he wouldn’t tell me about, but he definitely wouldn’t leave Aaron by himself to do it.” Gretchen rubbed a hand over her forehead. “If he did go somewhere, he would do it while Aaron was with Mrs. Blansky.”

“Mrs. Blansky?” Myka questioned.

“She lives next door, in oh-seven? She used to babysit Adam and Aaron when they were younger. She’s starting to get up there in years, but she watches after Aaron whenever Adam and I are both at work.”

“Where does Adam work?”

“At the Cross Country Theatre. It’s a small local place where they have plays and show old movies. Forrest Quinn runs it. He’s a great guy. Adam used to go there with his dad all the time, and when Forrest found out Adam was looking for a part-time job, he immediately hired him.”

“What hours does Adam work?” asked Myka.

“It varies,” Gretchen answered. “If it’s during the week, he’ll work from after school until seven. On the weekends, he usually works from three to nine or ten, depending on if they’re doing a show or a movie. And sometimes he’ll go in a little earlier or stay a little later to work on side projects.”

“Side projects?”

Gretchen smiled proudly. “Adam is really interested in film: filmmaking and editing, mostly. Forrest lets Adam record a lot of the theatre’s performances and use the equipment at the theatre to cut together films of the productions for the cast and crew. Adam got so good at it that Forrest starting selling copies and giving Adam part of the profit.”

“Do you know what Adam’s work schedule has been for the last few days?”

“I don’t remember exactly,” Gretchen said, getting up from her chair and walking to the fridge. She pulled a sheet of paper out from under a magnet in the shape of a large tomato and brought it back to the table. She handed it to Myka. “But that’s a copy of the schedule, so Adam’s times should be on it.”

“Thanks,” said Pete. He and Myka rose from the table. “And thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome. I hope you find out what happened to those boys.”

“So do we.”

---

Pete pulled out the Farnsworth the minute they were back in the rental. A few seconds later, Artie appeared on the tiny screen.

“What have you found?” he asked.

“Not much,” Pete replied. “We just spoke with a suspect and his mom - Adam and Gretchen Jacobs - but there didn’t seem to be anything abnormal going on there. Just a kid that’s been through a tough time and doesn’t really mind that there are a few less bullies in the world.”

“Have you found anything on your end?” Myka asked.

“Nothing. The Jacobs boy is still the best suspect. We didn’t get any hits from searches on the campsite, the city, the victims, their families, or their school.”

Au contraire, mon capitan.” Claudia appeared over Artie’s shoulder and waved. “Hey, guys.” She held up a flyer featuring a large picture of a porcelain doll decked out in the finest of Victorian fashion. “The Rosalie Whyel Museum of Doll Art: over 1200 dolls and accessories on display for your squicking pleasure. If there’s anything creepy going on in that town, I bet it started there.”

“Dolls?” Pete replied uncertainly.

Dude,” Claudia answered, “do you have any idea what kind of freaky stuff has happened with dolls?”

“Marie Laveau’s voodoo dolls,” offered Myka.

“Empress Maria Fyodorovna’s matryoshka dolls,” Artie added.

“That Teddy Ruxpin in Chicago in ‘87,” Claudia said, poking Artie in the shoulder. They both shuddered.

“Technically not a doll, but definitely in the same category,” Artie said. He pointed at Pete and Myka. “Check out the museum. We’ll keep working on it from here.” He looked over his shoulder at Claudia. “Good job,” he said gruffly.

“Of course it was a good job,” she countered. “You’re just miffed that the Claudster found something you missed. Again.”

Artie swung around in his chair to face his youngest agent. “I have not missed an-- ”

The rest of the argument was cut of by Pete hastily snapping the Farnsworth shut.

“Doll museum?” Myka asked.

“If we must.”

“Joy.” Myka started the car and they pulled away from the curb.

---

The sidewalk crowd at The Brewery was pretty thin, but even if it had been busy, Adam would have been able to instantly pick out the girl sitting alone at one of the tables.

Rachel Emerson was his first crush, a brunette in the grade above him who had captured his heart on his first day of high school when she helped him pick up the books Owen Whitby had just knocked out of his arms. From then on, Adam had admired her from afar, never getting any closer to her than passing smiles in the hallways. He had always wanted to talk to her, but had never had the nerve, something Owen and his friends had given Adam hell for. But they were dead now, he reminded himself, and he choked down both the sick feeling that thought gave him and the fear he felt over what he was about to do. He clutched the camera around his neck a bit tighter and approached Rachel’s table.

“Rachel?” he asked, bolstered by the fact that he had managed to keep his voice from squeaking.

She looked up from the book she was reading, mild surprise on her face as she took in the cause of her interruption. “Oh, hi -- Adam, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s up?”

“I know we don’t know each other very well, but I was wondering if you would do me a favor.” Adam braced himself for disappointment, but mentally crossed his fingers just in case.

“Okay,” Rachel said, drawing out the word uncertainly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been messing around with some filming techniques,” Adam began, holding up his camera as evidence, “and I need to get a few minutes of footage, something simple without a lot going on in it, to try a new process on. It makes the film look like an old movie would, like it’s been aged.” He took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you would let me film you.”

“Right now?” Rachel asked.

Adam nodded. “Yeah. Like I said, I only need three or four minutes of footage and what you’re doing right now would be perfect.” He stuttered a bit. “I mean - that is - studying. You just sitting there studying would be perfect. For the footage I need.”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said, glancing down at her books and papers skeptically. “It seems a bit boring to me.”

“No, no. It’s great. See, I haven’t tried the technique before, so I don’t want to start out with anything that’s really busy, or that has a lot of motion in it. I’ll just get a few minutes of you studying, with just a little bit of camera movement, and it’ll be perfect.”

Rachel studied him for a moment, biting on her bottom lip and tapping a pencil against the table. Then she smiled.

“Alright, I’ll do it - on one condition.”

Adam waited with bated breath.

“I get to see it when you’re finished.”

“Done,” he agreed, a grin spreading across his face as they shook hands on it.

“Okay, Mr. Filmmaker: film away.”

---

“NEVER AGAIN. D’you hear me? No more dolls.” Pete looked uncharacteristically haggard, even on the Farnsworth’s tiny screen. After his proclamation, he rubbed a hand over his face and stared into the distance with a dazed expression. From their end, Artie and Claudia threw puzzled looks at Myka, who rubbed her partner’s back in sympathy.

“Turns out Pete has... issues with dolls.”

“Who doesn’t?” Claudia muttered.

“Was there anything at the museum?” asked Artie.

“Nothing. There was nothing there but dolls,” Pete answered. He was still staring slightly to the left of the Farnsworth, eyes glazed.

“There wasn’t anything there, Artie. It was a dead-end.”

Artie and Claudia quickly glanced at each other from the corner’s of their eyes.

“Nothing?” Artie asked for clarity.

“Nope,” Myka affirmed.

“Told you so,” Artie said. With a clap of his hands, he swiveled in his chair to face Claudia. “Two weeks’ worth of inventory. No complaints.”

“Don’t start, old man,” Claudia returned, clearly miffed.

Myka stared at them, amused. “Were you two betting on us finding something at the doll museum?”

“No,” they responded - a bit too quickly - snapping around to face the Farnsworth, where a tiny Myka raised an eyebrow at them.

“Maybe,” Claudia amended.

“A little,” said Artie.

“Their little eyes follow you everywhere you go. And those tiny hands.”

Everyone looked at Pete, who was obviously still rattled.

“Oookay,” Myka said. “I’m going to find Pete some cookies and we’re going to call it a night. Call you in the morning.”

“‘Night,” Artie and Claudia chimed.

Snapping the Farnsworth shut and placing it back in her coat pocket, Myka grabbed Pete’s arm and hauled him to his feet.

“C’mon, you. Let’s go find some cookies.”

“Chocolate chip?” Pete asked hopefully.

Double chocolate chip,” Myka promised.

---

Adam loved the Cross Country Theatre, the history and texture and feel of the place. There were creaky floorboards in the lobby and old-timey vanity mirrors in the dressing rooms backstage, and the basement was full of props and costumes and bric-a-brac from the decades that the theatre had been operational. The place smelled of popcorn and old make-up and time.

Adam loved everything about the theatre, but his favorite part was the projector room.

The auditorium below may have been where he saw many of the films that got him interested in filmmaking, but it was in the projector room that he learned about filmmaking. When Mr. Quinn had hired Adam, all his editing equipment had been boxed up in his attic. Mr. Quinn had worked in film for many years, and had directed and edited a handful of independent films before settling in Bellevue. After taking over the theatre and putting all his energy into its renovation and continued success, his filmmaking days had been put aside. Adam’s interest - and subtle tenacity - had inspired Mr. Quinn to dig out the equipment and teach Adam everything he knew.

The projector room - being large and mostly empty - had became the equipment’s new home, and Adam’s second one. He spent as much time as he could there, learning how to use the equipment and, once he was comfortable with it, experimenting with different processes and techniques. Though he became quite adept at the basics, the nature of his work limited what he could do. There were only so many acceptable ways to piece together stage performances.

Now that he had a camera of his own, he would be able to learn so much more.

Adam checked his watch - seven o’clock on the dot - and started the projector. The opening credits of Rear Window began flashing across the screen downstairs. After a quick look over the machine to make sure everything was in perfect order, he walked to the workstation set against the other wall, sat down, and pulled a few rolls of film out of his bag. With the projector humming cheerily behind him, Adam set to work.



Part II - here.
Part III - here.

on 2010-11-07 10:01 pm (UTC)
nobleplatypus: (daisies yay)
Posted by [personal profile] nobleplatypus
Warehouse 13 fanfic! I LOVE YOU!!

on 2010-11-07 11:10 pm (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] stringertheory.livejournal.com
Thankee! XD

on 2010-11-08 01:57 am (UTC)
minkhollow: (all right. tahiti!)
Posted by [personal profile] minkhollow
Preemptive YAY YOU FILLED MY PROMPT squee!
I love the little things (like Mrs. Bates, and an EVIL TEDDY RUXPIN, OF COURSE). And NOOOOO ADAM DON'T FILM THE GIRL D:
::goes on to part two!::

on 2010-11-08 02:18 am (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] stringertheory.livejournal.com
I HAD NO CHOICE; your prompt latched onto me like a plot bunny from hell. It was write this story or DIE. Or something close to that. :p

TEDDY RUXPIN IS TOTALLY EVIL. Those things freaked me right the hell out as a kid. *shudders*

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