WARNING: This story contains major spoilers for the S3 LFN ep. "Under The Influence." It also contains major spoilers for S2+ of Profiler.
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Hey Nikita, is it cold
In your little corner of the world?
You could roll around the globe
And never find a warmer soul to know.
Ten of your tin soldiers in a row.
With eyes that looked like ice on fire --
The human heart a captive in the snow.
I'll never know how good it feels to hold you.
Nikita, I need you so.
Oh Nikita, is the other side of any given line in time
Counting ten tin soldiers in a row?
Oh no, Nikita you'll never know.
Do you ever see the letters that I write?
When you look up through the wire,
Nikita, do you count the stars at night?
Guns and gates no longer hold you in,
And if you're free to make a choice,
Just look towards the west and find a friend.
"When I was over there," he began, "I saw guys cut themselves after a fire fight. They needed the sight of their own blood to remind them they were still alive."
Is the other side of any given line in time counting ten tin soldiers in a row? Yes, they are -- counting and cutting to remind themselves that they are still there. But, the blood-letting is also a displacement activity to distract the world from its deeper problems.
The bullet punctured her right, rear tire. The hand that held the gun to her head was clad in real leather. The voice behind the gun was masculine, subdued, and precise with a slight French accent: "Step out of the car, please."
Samantha had survived seven years as the center of a psychotic killer's fantasy. Jack-Of-All-Trades murdered her husband and various aquaintances. His apprentice murdered her lover, and a brainwashed dupe served as a doppelganger. At this point, she chose her battles carefully; she wasn't going to lose her life over a car. Fleeing as the man bid her, the profiler permitted herself to wonder, however. How did he plan to travel effectively in a car with a flat tire? As if in answer, she heard her vehicle explode and envisioned it bursting into flames. He didn't.
Paul debriefed Michael upon his return: "You classified the civilian you encountered prior to extraction as an incidental. Why? Under the circumstances, wasn't it a given that there would be a civilian in any vehicle that you commandeered?"
"She didn't have the eyes of a civilian," Michael stated.
"You would know," Paul realized, half aloud.
"Is there anything else?," Michael asked.
"No," Paul concluded. When Michael left, Paul ran the licence number that the Level Five recalled in his report. Dr. Samantha Waters, forensic profiler, is lately retired from the F.B.I. She was last assigned to the Violent Crimes Task Force. The large, limpid, blue eyes in her dossier photo pierced him to the core. For reading further, he discovered that those eyes had absorbed not only her own tragedies, but one of his as well.
Samantha decided not to report her stolen car, because it wasn't stolen. It was destroyed. Obviously, the car itself hadn't been his objective. Fear hadn't been his objective, either. He was too efficient for that. What was his goal? With sudden insight, Samantha visualized Bailey Malone, again: "In the Special Forces, I was trained to use the resources that were available. If I didn't have rations, I ate off the land."
"If you don't have kindling," Samantha expanded, "you steal it." The carjacker's goal had been the fire, but why build such a large fire. In her mind's eye, she saw a a deserted island. He was isolated, surmised the profiler. He needed to send a signal. But, he seemed too focused to need to summon any general aircraft that would spot the fire. He was waiting for someone as focused as he was, or something. What can be focused at a distance -- satellites. Who focuses satellites -- people in the miltary and/or Intelligence.
Chloe Waters' voice broke through the images of espionage forming in Samantha's head: "Mom, where are you?"
"Momma's in the garden, Sweetie," Samantha replied. "She'll come inside in a few minutes."
Holding a videotape in his hand, Paul remembered his son: Steven was three, and they were playing Hide-And-Seek. Steven toddled about forty paces, stood stock still, and put his hands over his eyes. "I'm hiding," asserts the little boy. "I'm hiding."
Of course, Steven needed to believe that covering his eyes made him invisible. Like son, like father. Paul spent years pretending that no one could see him, when the surrounding glass went black. He spent years pretending that the individuals on the Green-List were invisible, except when Section needed them. Even after avenging his son's death, Paul still felt the need to pretend Steven was just hiding. A mother unknowingly exposed a father's illusions when Samantha Waters convinced Martelli to allocute.
Paul played the tape for the third time. With each viewing, he took in more details. The atmosphere surrounding the allocution (which took place one month, two weeks, and three days after Martelli killed his Steven) seemed familiar, yet alien to him. Paul noted the color of the walls in the V.C.T.F. interrogation room. They weren't white, but they were a neutral color. Adrian always said that neutral colors were best, because the hostles projected their psyches on to the bland walls in order to displace their fear. "If the hostle is already projecting out," Adrian reasoned, "the interrogator will have a far easier time getting in."
The interrogator, Dr. Samantha Waters, wore her shoulder-length blonde hair loose. Instinctively, she brushed stray locks back into place with her hand. That was her only involuntary movement, though. Waters, like Madeline, cultivated a studied and deliberate manner. Paul pictured Madeline's eyes, like ice on fire, as she spoke with him over canteloupe and croissants: "There must be no unnecessary movement. Every gesture must convey that you're as blank and unyielding as the walls. The hostle will either project the truth on to you, or you will painfully reflect the lies back on to him."
Martelli matter-of-factly projected the truth on to federal walls: "I strangled Smithers, Reitman, Nesbit, Fehr, and Wolfe with the same bit of cord." A momentary look of confusion crossed his face, as he questioned the profiler: "I always took that cord with me, and I wore gloves. How did you track me?"
"You weren't wearing one glove when you closed the victims' eyes," Waters stated. "We found prints on all the eyelids. You probably didn't even realize that you took it off."
"They looked creepy with them open." Paul wished he was suprised by Martelli's coldness. "Anyway, isn't it difficult to get prints off of the skin?," asked the man who closed his son's eyes.
"Our forensics people are very motivated," assured Waters.
Martelli sighed, "Oh, well. That's what I get for crossing state lines." He chuckled, "It must've been a shock when the prints went nowhere."
Waters replied, "Nowhere is somewhere, Mr. Usher. Your true identity may be classified, but your false one was hidden in plain view -- earning traffic tickets."
"Then, arrest me," mocked Martelli. "Oh, wait. I forgot. That would require interagency cooperation." Silence greets him. "You know, you're about as verbal as my handlers."
"Why did you strangle your victims?," continued Waters, unmoved.
"Like I told you before, it was business," said Martelli, "strictly business. They saw and heard what they weren't supposed to see and hear."
"Yes," responded Waters, "you've told me why you killed them. I want to know why you strangled them. Why didn't you shoot them or blow them up?"
"It was the simplest way," answered Martelli.
"Was it?," queried Waters. "Guns and bombs allow for a certain level of distance and plausible deniability. You can say, 'I didn't kill him -- the weapon did.' Strangulation requires proximity. You have few or no barriers between yourself and the victim. As a business man, I would think that you'd prefer to keep your hands clean, literally and figuratively."
"The only weapons that I trust are my own, Dr. Waters. I can't make a gun, and I didn't have the time to build bombs to my usual standards." Martelli beamed, "I'm proud to say that I've never produced a dud."
"I'm sure you haven't, Mr. Usher." Waters swept a stray hair back into place, as she spoke. "Otherwise, you'd be dead by now."
"True," confirmed Martelli. "My clients and my handlers are very exacting. That's the only reason that I agreed to have this little conversation with you in the first place."
"What do you mean?," asked Waters.
Martelli laughed softly: "Oh, really now, Dr. Waters. I know that you Fed-Heads are smarter than the average lemming. Surely, you've realized that the spooks I'm employed by won't stand for there being a record of my activities outside of their control. The wannabes at Quantico are never going to see this 'educational film.' The tape will disappear shortly after I do."
"As I said before," countered Waters, "nowhere is somewhere. When the tape disappears, it will reappear in front of those same spooks, and they'll review the content to assess their exposure. The truth about one particular serial killer will never be public, but it will at least be known. It's far from the closure that your victims and their families deserve, but it's better than nothing."
"Hey," protested Martelli. "I'm not a serial killer; I'm part of the terrorist community. There's a difference."
Waters sighed: "No, there isn't, Mr. Usher. You've killed more than three people with your own hands. By definition, that makes you a serial killer. What's more, you have been directly or indirectly responsible for four or more deaths at the same place and time, whenever one of your bombs goes off. By definition, that makes you a mass murderer, which is another classification of serial killer."
"But, my clients and the people who oppose them all believe they're at war," reasoned Martelli.
"When we can face ourselves without that rationalization," said Waters, drilling into Martelli with her eyes, "profiling will no longer be necessary. I carry that hope with me every day."
What hopes did he carry? With Steven's death, Paul didn't think he had any left. Then, he looked at the paused frame of video. His only choice remained what it had always been -- to work to save those who hoped for him.
Dr. Samantha Waters, recently retired from the F.B.I., never really stopped using her skills as a forensic profiler. Once a puzzle solver, always a puzzle solver. While driving back from Angel Brown’s farm, she listened to the radio and contemplated an enigma posed during the Cold War with help from Elton John:
Oh, I saw you by the wall --
Oh Nikita, you will never know anything about my home.
Do you ever dream of me?
And if there comes a time
Samantha visualized Bailey Malone, her friend, mentor, and former boss. In her mind's eye, she saw one of many casual dinners they had together. They ate macaroni and cheese and drank red wine. As Bailey smoked the Cuban that he wasn't supposed to have, the subject of Vietnam came up:
Disclaimer: La Femme Nikita, Profiler, and all characters therein are the property of the respective copyright holders. No infringement of those copyrights is intended.