Free Skin : the X-files by Ben Mezrich

equally hard to find a drawer.
    “Here it is,” Eckleman finally said, lifting a folder out of the cabinet. “Mike Lifton, that was the other kid’s name. Both were in their third year at Columbia Med.
    They signed for your donor at three-fifteen A.M. Derrick 70

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    Kaplan—Caucasian, mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes.
    Locker fifty-two.”
    Mulder was already moving toward the wall of drawers. Scully turned to Eckleman as Mulder scanned the numbered labels. “May I take a look at the file?” Eckleman shrugged, handing her the folder. “Not much to see. Kaplan came into the ER complaining of chest pains, then died in the ICU of an aortic dissection.
    Had a donor card in his wallet. The skin boys got to him first, because the van from the eye bank got stuck in the mess on the FDR Drive. The big accident, you know.
    Collected seven bodies that same night, but only Kaplan had the vulture card.”
    “The vulture card?” Mulder heard Scully ask, as he finally located the steel drawer with the number fifty-two written in black Magic Marker across its cardboard label. “Is that what you call it?”
    “You work down here, you get to be fairly morbid.
    In my opinion, there’s nothing wrong with vultures.
    Damned efficient birds—they don’t let anything go to waste. Not so different from the harvest teams, when you think about it.”
    Mulder wasn’t sure he wanted to think about it. He grasped the handle beneath the numbered label and gave it a gentle yank. The drawer rolled outward with a mild, metallic groan. Mulder paused for a brief moment, then glanced at Scully. She was engrossed in Kaplan’s folder. Mulder cleared his throat.
    Scully looked up. Mulder pointed, and Scully’s face 71

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    momentarily blanched. The locker was empty. She quickly turned toward the ME’s assistant. “Mr. Eckleman?”
    Eckleman rubbed the back of his hand against his thick lips. Then he laughed, nervously. “Whoops. That’s not good. You sure that’s number fifty-two?” Mulder rechecked the label. “Is there any chance the body was moved?”
    Eckleman quickly crossed back to the file cabinet.
    “Shouldn’t have been. But sometimes they get switched around. Especially on the busy nights. And Friday was a busy night. Seven bodies, like I said. And there’s always a chance the kids put the body back in the wrong drawer.” He paused as he pulled a handful of files out of the cabinet. He began reading to himself, and Mulder crossed back to Scully, who was still looking through Kaplan’s chart. “Anything significant, Scully?” Scully shook her head. “Nothing noticeably viral. But we need the body to know for sure. Or, at the very least, a sample of his skin.”
    Mulder felt his adrenaline rising. First the missing trays at the skin bank—now the missing body. Then again, he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He glanced at the flustered, semidrunk ME’s assistant; certainly, the man could have gotten the drawers mixed up.
    “I’ll check the other six that came in that night, and all of the empties. Odds are, we’ll find our boy.” Eckleman tucked the files under his right arm and hurried back to the storage wall. He began pulling open the drawers, 72

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    humming nervously to himself as he worked. Mulder could tell the man was embarrassed. Perhaps this sort of thing had happened before. “Locker fifty-three is all right. Angela Dotter, one of the victims from the accident.
    Got a steering wheel right through her rib cage. Fifty-four and fifty-five look good, too. And here’s another from the accident. Kid can’t be more than twenty . . .” Eckleman paused midsentence as the next drawer slid to a stop by his knees. He began mumbling, half to himself. The stack of files slipped out from under his arm, the pages fanning out as they hit the floor. “What the hell? This can’t be right.”
    He reached forward, and the sound of a zipper reverberated through the room. Mulder moved forward as