ELS By Dawson E. Rambo drambo@azstarnet.com Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013 productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended. NOTE: This story is rated NC17. There are scenes of explicit violence and sexuality. Reader discretion is HIGHLY reccomended. NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it. Casting (in Alphabetical Order by Character) Captain Alex Cahill.............................. Helen Hunt Captain Stoltz, NYPD............................. Brian Dehenney Casey Tan........................................ Joan Chen Chief of Detectives Zolinski..................... Danny Aiello Deputy Evergreen................................. Kevin Dunn Deputy Williams.................................. Clancy Brown Detective Chavez, Portland, Maine................ Robert Beltran Detective Daryl Hicks, NYPD...................... Garth Brooks Detective Sam Cross.............................. Matthew Modine Doctor Larkin.................................... Lindsay Frost Doctor Payne..................................... James Spader Don Peters....................................... Nathan Lane Jesus Cruz....................................... Andy Garcia Lieutenant Barrington, NYPD...................... Rachel Ticotin Lieutenant Hamel, NYPD........................... Rober Piccardo Mark Dupree...................................... Russel Crowe Officer Mary Lou Swanson......................... Martha Plimpton Officer Patrick Donnely.......................... Chris Noth Portland District Attorny........................ Ed Harris Sergeant Clayton Allen........................... George Dzunzda Ted.............................................. Curtis Armstrong Tim Everett...................................... Chaz Palmentari Tony Littleton................................... Alec Baldwin Walter Chavez.................................... Steve Buscemi Yuki Tanaka...................................... Tamylin Tomita Enjoy! ------ Chapter 1 Tucson Police Department Headquarters Tucson, Arizona Tuesday Evening Special Agent Dana Scully parked her rental in the spot marked "Visitors Only" and twisted the ignition key to the OFF position. The only outward manifestation of her anger was the fact that she had twisted the key so hard that it had almost snapped off in the ignition. That, and the fact that her lips were pressed so tightly together that they almost disappeared. She glanced at the mirror, running a hand through her hair more by habit than anything else. The man she was going to see wouldn't give half a good goddamn how she looked, and she didn't really care how she looked for him. Not tonight, anyway. Getting out and locking the car, Scully turned and walked into TPD headquarters, head down, counting how many steps she took to keep her mind off what was coming. Control, she reminded herself. Got to keep in control. Ascending the short staircase leading to the front door, Scully reached out for the right-hand door and pulled, hard. At some point since its installation, the pneumatic door-closer attached to that particular glass-and-metal construction had weakened, and the door almost shattered as it hit the side of the building. Scully stopped, her head coming up and then lowering again as she took a deep, slow breath, trying to calm herself. Ahead and slightly to the left was the TPD's front desk. Two uniform Sergeants stood behind it, hands on hips, glancing with annoyance down the hall towards the front door, wondering who had just slammed it into the building. Scully sighed again and began the long walk towards the desk. "Scully," she said, offering her ID. "FBI. You have my partner here...somewhere?" The two Sergeants exchanged a glance and then nodded. "Detective squadroom. Second floor." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Elevator's over there." "Thank you," Scully said, clipping her words as she turned towards the elevator. The ride up did nothing to alleviate her anger and frustration; the elevator was filled with the soft, soothing tones of Muzak. The doors slid open to reveal a familiar sight: It seemed that the same interior decorator had the contract for every detective squadroom in the country. About twelve desks, paired off to face each other, littered the center of the room. Filing cabinets lined two walls, forming a large metal "L" shape. Wanted posters, departmental memos and cartoons clipped from the newspapers were taped, tacked and stapled to two large bulletin boards. There were about half a dozen detectives seated at various desks. Two were buried deeply in paperwork and studiously ignored her. Another pair worked the phones, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, taking copious notes. One was standing at a filing cabinet, idly flipping through folders with a practiced air of disinterest. The final detective was seated behind a typewriter, using two fingers to hunt-and-peck some kind of report out. She approached the typist, her ID in her hand. "Special Agent Dana-" she started. "Scully," the typist finished, ripping the pages out of the machine and turning to face her. "We've been hearing a lot about you." His eyes cast across Scully, making a perfunctory sweep from her head down to her toes and back again. It wasn't a lecherous glance, but Scully did feel slightly uncomfortable. A small part of her wondered what, exactly, he had been told about her. "I apologize for-" She stopped, at a loss for words. "What did he do this time, anyway?" "This time?" The detective arched an eyebrow, and Scully suddenly knew what Mulder felt like when she did it to him. "Is he under arrest?" Scully asked. The detective shook his head at the same time he offered his hand. "Tom Russ. No, Mr. Mulder is not under arrest. He's in custody though. My understanding is that...well, there are no charges to press, really. It was a public place. He was causing a disturbance, so we could charge him with that...but no one here wants to...cause problems with the Bureau." Scully nodded, his admission that once again Mulder had escaped the consequences of his actions only making her angrier. "Have a seat," Russ said, pointing to the uncomfortable- looking metal chair set next to his desk. Scully collapsed into it, tiredly crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. "Do you want to see him?" Russ asked. "No, not right now. I might..." she trailed off, glancing away from the detective. "Shoot him again?" Russ said, a light teasing tone in his voice. Scully's head snapped around, her eyes locking on his. "Excuse me?" "Mr. Mulder, as I said, has told us a great deal about his... enigmatic partner. I understand that you had occasion to shoot him some years back." Scully said nothing. "Well, that's almost understandable," Russ continued. "Mr. Mulder does have a rather considerable ability to...annoy." He finished his sentence with a small nod, as if he was pleased with the word he'd selected. "Yes," Scully agreed. "He does. And how did my partner manage to annoy the Tucson Police Department?" Russ smiled thinly. "I guess that means that you were unaware of Mr. Mulder's...reasons for being in Tucson?" "Please tell me it had nothing to do with Davis-Montham," Scully said, referring to the huge air force base located at the southeast edge of the city. "No, actually. Mr. Mulder managed to incur not only the wrath of the Tucson PD, but the Pima County Sheriff's office, the T'ohono O'odham Tribal Police Department, the Arizona Department of Public Safety...and the US Border Patrol." Scully tipped her head back, taking another deep breath and releasing it slowly. She counted mentally. "Five separate agencies," she said softly. "How did TPD end up with him in custody?" "At the scene, we all drew straws," Russ explained. Scully felt it, saw it, heard the joke coming and beat him to the punchline. "And you lost," she said wryly, smiling. Russ grunted a laugh in response, nodding. "Yeah, that's about it, Agent Scully. So...I assume you'd like all the lurid details about Mr. Mulder's escapades?" Scully shrugged, sighing again. "Sure. Fine. Whatever." She paused. "Lurid?" "Well, perhaps lurid is a strong word. How about 'interesting?'" "Sure." "I'll start at the beginning. At about nine this morning, a DPS trooper found an abandoned, or what appeared to be abandoned rental car on the side of the highway about five miles west of here, in an area that borders the T'ohono O'odham reservation. The plate was run, and it came back as rented to a Special Agent Fox William Mulder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Since the rental was with an official Bureau credit card, a BOLO was issued for Mr. Mulder immediately. The DPS suspected foul play." He grinned around the phrase that the local media loved to use. "Two hours later, the T'ohono O'odham tribal police requested the assistance of the Tucson Police Department and the Department of Public Safety in removing one aforementioned Mulder from the San Xavier Mission." "...which is?" Scully prompted. "A sixteenth century Spanish mission on T'ohono O'odham land. It's quite the historic monument. Your partner had locked himself in the vestry and was acting...well, I guess the word is irrational. He claimed that he was there to find his sister." Scully closed her eyes. Of course. A MulderDitch wasn't really a MulderDitch unless it involved either Samantha or the Consortium, preferably some evil mixture of the both of them. "Did he give you any details?" she asked carefully. Russ nodded. "Yes," he said softly, looking away. "He said that he had information that a spaceship would be dropping her off." Scully said nothing. There was nothing _to_ say. "Ok, so...what? He ordered everyone out of the mission? Why was he being...irrational?" Russ reached for a folder in his IN basket and handed it to her. "Here. Read this, and then we can go see your partner." =+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Special Agent Fox Mulder sat in the interrogation room, dressed in the bright-orange surgical scrubs that were issued to all prisoners. Paper slippers adorned his feet. His hands were cuffed in front of him. He'd been in the room for close to six hours, without a bathroom break or anything to eat or drink. He was starting to get a little annoyed at the Tucson Police Department. More than a little annoyed, he thought. Downright pissed off. As soon as he managed to get out of here, he was going to fire off a letter to the chief of police. Mulder was staring at the table when the door to the interrogation room opened. He looked up to see Scully entering the room, carrying a manila folder. "Hey!" he said smiling. Scully sat down in the chair opposite his, dismissively tossing the folder on the table. She regarded him silently. Mulder could see her jaw muscles working and knew that he was in very deep trouble. "I was going to call-" he started. "Save it." Her voice was cool, distant, remote. She cocked her head to the side, studying him. "What is it with you?" she asked. The question obviously being rhetorical, Mulder didn't answer. She lowered her gaze to the table, her eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance. "Do you know," she started softly, "how many times I've covered your ass over...stunts like this?" Mulder felt something flare inside him. "I never asked-" "SHUT UP!" Scully said sharply. "Just listen." Mulder fell silent. "Too many times to count," Scully said, answering her own questions. "Too many calls in the middle of the night to bail your ass out of one crack or another. Too many private meetings with Skinner and the OPR gang, explaining that although you are unorthodox, you get results." She paused. "It wouldn't be so bad, Mulder...I wouldn't _mind_ Mulder, if I just some damn clue of what the _hell_ you were thinking before I get a call at home from Skinner asking me if I know where the _hell_ you are and what the _hell_ you are up to!" She paused, taking a moment to stand and walk around the perimeter of the room. She stopped in the corner, facing the wall, hands on her hips. "What was it this time, Mulder? A phone call in the middle of the night, some shadowy informant whispering sweet nothings in your ear? Or was it an encrypted email message that sent you on this wild goose chase? Huh?" She heard him take a breath and spun on him, her eyes flashing. "Just sit there and listen to me, Mulder. When I want an answer from you, you'll know." She turned to face the wall, so angry she couldn't even stand the sight of him. "Do you even care?" he asked softly. She turned and moved to the table with two swift strides. She was beside him in an instant, her mouth an inch from his ear. "How _dare_ you ask me that, you sanctimonious son of a bitch! I may not have earned your trust, Mulder...although God knows what the hell else I have to do to get it, but I have earned your respect! And no matter what you want to call this and all the other times you've dragged me out of DC to bail your ass out, no matter how you rationalize it in that little brain of yours...it's nothing if not completely and utterly disrespectful of me. I don't _have_ to go with you, Mulder, but you can at least tell me where the _hell_ you are and what the _hell_ you're thinking before you do it!" She paused, lowering her voice. "Partners are supposed to cover for each other, Mulder. That's what I do for you. That's what I've done for you." She paused again. "No more," she whispered directly into his ear. Straightening, she moved her head to his other ear, "Never again." She backed away, catching his gaze and spreading her arms. Her face said it all. She shook her head silently, and then added, "No." Moving to the free chair, she sat, drawing the folder to her with nimble fingers. Opening it, she began to read. "Tribal police. Tucson city cops. Pima County Sheriff's Office. Arizona Highway Patrol, also known as the Department of Public Safety. United States Border Patrol." She closed the folder with a flicking motion. "And now, the OPR. _They_ want to know exactly why you were using Bureau funds to chase...what? An alien spaceship?" "You're mocking me," he said softly. She snorted. "Well, Mulder...you invite it." "My sister-" he started, his voice sad and forlorn. Scully's palm slapped against the table, hard. "This is _not_ about your sister, Mulder. I know all the words to that song by heart, and frankly, I'm sick of it. This is about you behaving in a self-destructive manner, in a way that is going to lead to your downfall, to the end of your career and the closing of the X-Files. Is that what you want, Mulder? Because if it is, you're really doing a good job." "Scully-" he tried again. "Be quiet, Mulder. I have to decide what, if anything, I'm going to tell the OPR team tomorrow." She hesitated. "I have to decide what, if anything, I'm going to do about salvaging our partnership." His eyes flicked to hers. She saw the sudden fear there, the pain. Good, she thought. Maybe he's finally beginning to understand. She doubted it, but it was a comforting thought. She opened the folder again. "Waving your gun at civilians without good cause. Trespassing on federal property. Trespassing on reservation property. Disorderly conduct. Conduct unbecoming a federal agent." Closing the folder, she slid it away. Spreading her hands again, she looked at her partner. "What am I going to do with you?" "Support me," he said stubbornly. Scully sighed. "Unconditionally, right? Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies? Mulder...that day has long since come and gone. You and I both know the circumstances under which I came to be associated with the X-Files. At first, your suspicions were well-grounded. Over the last four years, I've done my best to put them to rest. We haven't always agreed. Most times we don't, at least about the conclusions. As you once said, these files are your life and I just work on them." She stood and walked to the corner again, crossing her arms and leaning against the juncture of the two walls. "That's not true anymore, Mulder, and you damn well know it. I am sick of you going off on your own to investigate yet another goddamn theory or sighting or whatever you want to call them and expecting me to be there to pick up the pieces." "I never asked-" "Mulder, you are still talking. Why are you still talking?" He fell silent again, his head dropping. "Yes," she said, "you never asked. But you expect it, Mulder. I checked, you know. I went back into your personnel file. Skinner let me look at it the last time this happened. You didn't pull this shit before I was assigned to work with you. You requested Bureau resources, and when they were refused, more often than not, you took personal time, sick time, owed time, and vacation time and went off on your own. You didn't put your career in jeopardy...or mine." She walked a few steps, her arms still crossed in front of her, turned and paced back. "So, the only answer that I can come up with is that you expect me to be there to pick up the pieces. You expect me to run interference for you with the brass. You expect me to take whatever morsels of information you deign to share with me and have that be enough. You expect me to nod and smile and take whatever you give me, no matter how little, how tiny it is...and do your dirty work. Making sure that you're available at a moment's notice to go tearing off onto one of your little adventures. Never mind that I might want to go with you, to protect you, to protect _us_, Mulder. I'm just the woman, right? The little, fragile woman." "That's not it!" Mulder insisted. Scully chose to ignore the fact that he'd spoken without her permission. "Then what is it, Mulder?" "Scully, can we get out of here? This place is driving me up the wall." She said nothing, choosing instead to move back to the table. "No," she finally said. "We can't 'get out of here,' Mulder. Not until I'm satisfied." "But-" "But nothing, Mulder. The TPD won't release you without my say-so, and I'm not giving it until this is _settled._" Scully punctuated her last three words by stabbing the table with a fingertip, emphasizing each syllable. "Settled according to who?" Mulder asked, his tone insolent. He's defensive, Scully thought. And when he gets this way, there's no talking to him. Softening her tone, Scully sat back. "What is our relationship, Mulder? Are we colleagues? Partners? Friends? More than friends? Are we lovers, Mulder?" Mulder's eyes widened. "You don't have to sleep together to be lovers, Mulder," Scully pointed out. He swallowed. "I asked you a question, Mulder. I want an answer." "I...uh..." Scully nodded. "I see. You can't even articulate what we are to each other. Well, Mulder...I'll tell you what I feel. I thought we were friends. Best friends, as a matter of fact. But I guess I was wrong." She looked away, letting the disgust flood into her voice. "Friends don't treat each other this way. Friends talk. Friends communicate. Friends share. So, that leaves partners, I guess. But not even that, really, right, Mulder? Not unless it suits you and your agenda. We're partners as long as I'm helping you, either on a case or covering your ass when you go off the reservation, pardon the pun. "But when push comes to shove, when the chips are down, I'm an obstacle to be avoided, nothing more." "Scully-" "Quiet, Mulder. You had your chance." "I thought we were more than friends," he said softly. "I thought you understood about...everything." Scully had no immediate answer for this. He was trotting out the puppy-dog look, the pout, the bottom-lip-thing. "Give it up, Mulder. That might have worked on your mother and teachers...it doesn't work on me anymore." "What do you want?" he asked. She snorted. "You still don't get this, do you?" She leaned forward, speaking slowly, carefully, her finger stabbing the table. "I am going to tell you what is going to happen from now on. Without exception, without excuse. I am giving you one more chance, Mulder. One last chance. If you don't agree to and abide by these terms, I will transfer back to Quantico or to a field office." She could see the disbelief in his eyes. He truly didn't believe that she would carry through on her threat. Scully grinned. She reached inside her jacket and returned with a single sheet of paper folded lengthwise. Opening it, she smoothed it flat and then turned it to face him, sliding it across the table. "Do you know what this is?" she asked, her voice tight, dangerous. "A transfer request," he said, his voice flat. "Yes, Mulder. Signed by Skinner. All I have to do is fill in the date and sign it. He gave this to me about a month ago. A get out of jail free card, he called it." "Why would he-" "Because he trusts me, Mulder, which is more than I can say for you." He glanced up at her. "I'm listening." She nodded. "One. You will no longer go off on your own without contacting me. Contacting me does not mean leaving a message on my machine, sending email or using smoke signals or carrier pigeons. You will speak to me personally. Under any circumstances that you think, you feel, you even DREAM might come back to bite me or you in the ass. Without exception. I do not care if Samantha Mulder herself calls you and tells you to meet her at the corner of Fifth and Main. You _will_ call me. You _will_ contact me. Agreed?" Mulder squirmed. "What if I can't get a hold of you?" Scully's cellphone hit the desk with a soft slap! "I'm never out of touch, Mulder. If my battery is dead, page me. If my pager is dead, then you leave a message on my machine and wait for me to call you back." "What if I lose my phone?" he asked. "Like on the train-" Scully sighed, fighting for control. He was already trying to weasel his way out of it. "Mulder...then I'd suggest you keep a supply of quarters for payphones handy. I will not accept any excuse, no matter what the circumstances. Unless you have a gun to your head, I expect to be notified. _I_ will then decide if this is a Bureau matter or a personal one and act accordingly. Agreed?" "I have a question," he said, and the tone of his voice told Scully that it was a serious question. "Go ahead." "What happens if you don't agree that it's a Bureau matter? Technically, I am your-" "Don't say it, Mulder. On paper, you are my boss. That is IT. We are equals in the eyes of Skinner, and he's the one that counts. His opinion matters, not yours." She took a deep breath. "But to answer your question, you can go on your own time. If it's important, time critical, I am sure that AD Skinner will approve time off without pay. Any other questions?" "Will you go with me?" he asked softly. His need was so obvious, so plainly written across his face. "It depends, Mulder. It depends on what evidence you have. That's all I can commit to at this time." He nodded. "What else?" "Two," Scully said, stabbing the table again. "If, for some reason, you are unable to contact me and it is literally a matter of life and death, you are to contact me at your first available opportunity. Without fail. Without exception. Agreed?" He nodded. "Agreed." "Three. If I decide to transfer for any reason, you will not stand in my way. As you said, technically you are my superior. You can block my request for up to sixty days for administrative review. You agree, here and now, you give me your word of honor as a man, as my friend and as an FBI agent that you will not do so. Agreed?" He nodded. "Agreed." "Four. You will stop treating me as a bastard step-sister and start treating me as your partner. That means full disclosure about everything you know, everything you think and every single thing that you suspect about every single case we investigate. I will _not_ be surprised again, Mulder. I will decide if the information you share with me is pertinent to the case. I will _not_ have you deciding for me." "Agreed. Can we leave now?" Scully leaned forward, her voice a whisper. "Mulder, this is your last chance. I am not toying with you anymore. Do _not_ call my bluff." His eyes found hers and she saw something there, something she had never seen before. True, honest regret. "I won't," he said softly. "Thank you," he added. Scully sat back, amazed at how easily he had defused her anger. "I had a date tonight, you know," she said quietly. Mulder's eyes widened. "Mark. Our first date. I had to call and cancel. I had to tell him that I had to fly to Tucson, Arizona to rescue my partner from the evil clutches of the local constabulary. He was quite understanding, Mulder. But I can't count on him being very understanding in the future. No one can expect the things you expect from me. "No one." She was satisfied to see that he had no answer for that. "Just because I want to have a personal life doesn't mean that I don't have the same dedication to your quest and the X-files that you do, Mulder." "I didn't-" "Yes, but you thought it." Again, he had no answer. "So are we agreed?" He nodded. She stood, taking the folder with her. "I'll be right back." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Outside, Detective Russ was waiting. "Want us to kick him loose?" Scully shook her head. "Give him another hour or two. It'll do him some good." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Arlington, Virginia Next Week Saturday night, and Scully's got a date, Mulder thought. He was on the couch, staring at the TV, absently flipping channels. This Mark fellow seemed nice enough. He'd stopped by the office to meet Scully for lunch earlier in the week. He'd offered his hand and Mulder had shook it, wondering what Scully saw in him. It wasn't that he was ugly or too tall or too short or anything; Mulder honestly wondered what attracted Dana Scully to a man. Mark Barry was an accountant. How exciting, Mulder thought. How totally...boring. They were doing the dinner and movie thing tonight. Seven Years in Tibet, at the dollar theater. Dinner at Antonio's. And then what? Mulder forced thoughts of Scully and Mark...necking... from his mind. He felt something twisting in his stomach, something unfamiliar, something...bad. It wasn't jealousy, he tried to convince himself. Being jealous of Mark meant that Mulder thought Mark didn't deserve dating Scully, didn't deserve to be in her company. Envy was more like it. Envy just meant...what? That he wished he was in Mark's place? No, that wasn't it. Not really. The phone rang. "Mulder." "Mr. Mulder." The voice was clipped, with a faint British accent. A voice he had never heard before. "Who is this?" "That is of no consequence. I'm sorry that your little excursion into the desert didn't work out." Mulder was instantly alert. "Who is this?" "Never you mind. But I do have something that you might wish to explore, Mr. Mulder. A small tidbit of information that you might enjoy having." "What?" "Althea Martin, Mr. Mulder. San Antonio, Texas. She's in the phone book. She has the answers you seek to the questions you ask." "Questions about what?" "Why...your sister, of course. Why else would I refer to Tucson, Mr. Mulder? Have a safe trip." And the voice was gone. Mulder bolted upright, tossing the phone on the couch beside him. San Antonio. Four, four and a half hours by plane. He had most of the American Airlines flight schedule memorized by now. Washington National had a flight in...about an hour. If I hurry, he thought, I can just make- Scully. The scene in the interrogation room came back to haunt him. That, and the aftermath. Scully had appeared before the OPR committee, explaining away his actions as neatly as a magician's trick. She'd tried hard, that was true, but the OPR had insisted on keeping the investigation open. As much as Mulder wanted the entire thing to just go away, there was still a better than average chance that there would be repercussions in the near future. But not for lack of trying on Scully's part, that much was for sure. He was already in the bedroom, shoveling through his drawers, grabbing clothes and underwear and socks as he thought. She insisted. Life or death. He walked back out to the living room, staring at the phone. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. He reached for it, intending to dial Scully's cell. She had asked for it, after all. Instead, his fingers dialed her home number. After four rings, the machine picked up. "Hi, sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message, and I'll call you back just as soon as I can." "Scully, it's Mulder. Please call me when you get this. I have something important to tell you. I'll be...home all night." He hung up, returned to the bedroom and finished packing. He put the bag on the table by the front door and returned to the couch, wearing his leather jacket. The moment she called, he would leave to pick her up. It would cost more to buy the ticket at the gate, but it would be worth it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland 11:30pm Scully closed the door behind her with a sigh. Mark was a nice enough man, but he had the personality of lettuce. His entire world was his job. The entire dinner discussion had been about the approaching tax season, and how he had automated his office to speed filings. Exciting stuff, Scully thought. To him. She saw the flashing light on her machine. Glancing at the faceplate, she saw the digital "01." Pushing the RETRIEVE button, Scully moved to the kitchen to make some tea. "Scully, it's Mulder. Please call me when you get this. I have something important to tell you. I'll be...home all night." The call clicked off, and a digitized voice said, "nine...thirty...one....end ...of...messages." Scully glanced at her watch. It was late, he was most likely fighting for sleep. I'll call him in the morning, she decided. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 0630am Alexandria, Virginia Mulder hadn't slept a wink. He'd been pacing the apartment for hours. He'd made and then canceled six separate pairs of reservations, all in the hope that Scully would call. Why hasn't she called? he thought. Surely...she didn't spend the night at his place? He thought about calling, about paging her. But the comments she'd made in Tucson haunted him. She _was_ entitled to a personal life. And if that personal life meant that Scully spent the night at her boyfriend's apartment...then so be it. He'd already called information in San Antonio and obtained Althea Martin's home address. A quick trip to the computer with his US MAP CD-ROM, and he had directions from the airport ready to go. All that was holding him back was Scully, and the fear that she would leave him. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 0714am Annapolis, Maryland Scully woke and stretched, groaning with the effort. Getting out of bed, she padded into the kitchen to make the coffee, and then went to the front door to grab her paper. Returning to the kitchen, she saw the blinking light on her machine; she'd forgotten to erase Mulder's message. He's probably up, she thought. In the kitchen, she dialed his number, staring at the fat, brown drops of coffee splattering into the pot. "Scully?" he answered, his voice frantic. "Mulder. What's wrong?" "I have a lead. San Antonio, Texas!" "A lead about what?" "SAMANTHA!" Scully felt her breath catch. "What kind of lead, Mulder?" "A man called me last night. He...he told me about a woman in San Antonio, a woman he says has answers to my questions about Sam. I checked her out as best I could. She lives there." "Mulder...I'm not trying to shoot you down, but how do you know this man is telling the truth?" "I won't until I talk to her, Scully." "Why do you believe him?" "Because he knew about Tucson." She nodded. "When did...last night? He called you last night?" "Yes." "Why didn't you call me?" she demanded. Silence. "I did!" he finally exploded. "I did exactly what you demanded, Scully! I left a message on your machine! I asked you to call me as soon as-" He stopped. "When did you get home?" he asked. Scully felt heat in her face. "About eleven-thirty," she said softly. "Why didn't you _call_ me?" he wailed. "Why didn't you call my cell? Or page me?" Silence again. "You were on a date," he said softly, gently. "I didn't want to...." he trailed off. She remembered the conversation in Tucson. About her personal life. Her demands. He had done exactly what he had promised. He'd called her, left a message, asking her to call him back as soon as she got it. And she had ignored it. "Mulder..." she said softly. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea." He said nothing for a long moment. "Can we go now, please?" "Of course," she replied. "This is on us, Mulder. I can't see the Bureau paying for-" "Whatever. I'll pick you up in half an hour." "Fine," she said softly. "I'm sorry," she added. But she was talking to an empty phone. He'd hung up. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= San Antonio, Texas 1534 hours Mulder turned the corner and felt the blood drain from his face. It was a familiar scene, but totally unexpected in this context. Half a dozen police cars, parked at haphazard angles to the curb, doors open, bubble-lights on. An ambulance parked towards the end of the street, and next to it, a San Antonio PD van with the word "CRIME SCENE UNIT" stenciled along the door. Yellow tape stretched across the front of the house and vanished up the driveway. Scully felt her breathing quicken as she watched Mulder's face drop. "Is it the house?" she asked. He nodded, parking the car. They got out and made their way to the uniform officer guarding the entrance to the scene. "Mulder, FBI," he said, offering his ID. The copy looked at the both of them, curiosity written all over his face. "We got a tip," Mulder explained. The cop shrugged and lifted the tape. They walked towards the house slowly, their heels tapping on the front walk. Inside, they found Althea Martin. Dead, in a pool of blood, surrounded by two SAPD detectives and two forensic technicians. "Help you?" one of the detectives asked. Mulder identified himself. "Althea Martin?" he asked, using his chin to point to the victim. The cop nodded. "When?" Mulder asked. "Bob?" the detective asked one of the forensics techs. "Midnight...one, two am. Thereabouts." Mulder did the math. He could have made it in time. "Cause of death?" he asked. "Two shots to the back of the head, execution-style. And..." the SAPD Detective paused, and then glanced at Scully. "Her tongue was cut out." Scully nodded. "What's the FBI's interest in this?" he asked, openly curious. "I received a tip last night that she had information relating to an ongoing investigation." The SAPD Detective nodded, opening his notebook. "About what case, if I may ask?" "An abduction," Mulder said absently. "Kidnapping," Scully quickly corrected. "But I doubt that one has anything to do-" "Save it," the detective said. "You get a tip, and I get a body. That's pretty simple math even for a detective from a podunk department. Give. What case?" "My sister," Mulder said softly. "Twenty-five years ago." The cop glanced at Scully, who nodded, pleading with her eyes. "I see. Well, since the vic is only twenty-two, I doubt she had much information to share, Mr....Mulder, was it?" "Yeah. Mulder. Listen...do me a favor. Ask the ME to forward a blood and tissue sample to the Hoover building, attention Dr. Scully." "Can I ask why?" "Hunch. If I get a hit, I'll let you know." "Sure," the cop shrugged. "We can do that." Without another word, Mulder turned and left, Scully trailing behind him. They made their way back to the rental, got in and buckled up. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, reaching out for his arm. His muscles were stiff under her touch. "I know," he said coldly. "But...this. This is why, Scully. You wanted to know why I run off half-cocked." He pounded the steering wheel. "THIS IS WHY!" Scully said nothing. "The next time I leave you a message," Mulder said slowly, "I'd appreciate it if you'd return it as soon as you get it. You asked some things of me that I'm trying...I'm really trying to adhere to. And I know this is the first real test of these new rules. I'm not angry with you Scully...but..." "I'll answer it, I promise," Scully said quietly. "Fine," he said, reaching to start the car. Scully's hand on his arm stopped me. "Next time," she whispered. "Interrupt my date. Call my cell. Don't...don't worry about my...just call, ok? Just call." He nodded, saying nothing. "Mulder, I don't know what to..." She wanted to tell him that she was proud of him, but it was so patronizing, so condescending. "I appreciate the fact that you stuck to the agreement," she said gently. His tortured eyes found hers. "I can't lose you," he said through gritted teeth. "I can't." Scully smiled gently at him and patted his arm. "You won't." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Two Days Later Wednesday had turned out to be a travel day for the both of them; returning from Tucson had been harder than either one had imagined. By the time the TPD had out-processed Mulder, it had been almost four in the morning. The first flight leaving Tucson in any direction even slightly towards Washington hadn't left until 7:30 that morning, which meant that it was already 10:30 in Washington. The two hour delay in Dallas/Fort Worth hadn't helped much, and by the time they finally landed in DC, it was well past quitting time. Which is why they both missed the voice mail from Assistant Director Skinner informing them that the Office of Professional Responsibility would be conducting a preliminary investigation starting bright and early Thursday morning into what Skinner was already calling "The Tucson Matter." Which is how Scully came to find three OPR investigators not only in her office first thing Thursday morning, but going through both hers and Mulder's desk and the filing cabinets. Scully was reaching for her pistol before she noticed that all three men were wearing the appropriate FBI credentials pinned to their jackets. "Special Agent Scully?" one of them asked, stepping towards her with two handfuls of files. "Yes?" "Special Agent Miller, OPR. I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Agent Scully, but as of right now you and Agent Mulder are on modified duty." "We're suspended?" Scully asked. That didn't take long, she thought. "No," Miller said delicately. "Not exactly, Agent Scully." He sighed, looked down at the files in his hands and moved to find some free horizontal space to set them on. "Let's just say that your duty assignment has been temporarily modified until such time as the OPR can make a determination as to whether or not the X-Files division should continue operating as it has been in the past." Scully crossed her arms, regarding the man coolly. "I wasn't aware that the OPR had taken over the day-to-day administration of the Bureau, Agent Miller." Miller shrugged, glance over his shoulder at the other two agents who were still busy going through the desks and filing cabinets, and moved towards Scully, taking her arm and guiding her out into the hall. "Please excuse that," he said softly, looking down where his hand had touched her elbow. "I meant nothing-" Scully nodded, making a come-on motion with her hand. Miller glanced over his shoulder into the office and then reached back to close the door. "Listen," he said softly. "You're right. What I said in there is bullshit. This job came down from the Seventh Floor." Miller glanced around again as if to make sure that they were truly alone. "My personal opinion? Someone very heavy is gunning for you and your partner. If I were you, I'd watch your back." Scully took the news with her usual cool aplomb. "So what are we supposed to do?" Miller shrugged. "My best advice is to get with your SAC and find out what he wants you to do." Scully frowned. "We don't have a SAC. We report to AD Skinner." Miller's eyebrows rose. "Well, I'd get in touch with him if I were you." "But we're not suspended," Scully said slowly. "No," Miller said. "We'd be asking for weapons and credentials if that were the case. Like I said, this smells to high heaven. OPR isn't supposed to be the Director's hit squad." Miller paused. "They didn't even tell us what we're looking for in here. Normally when we get orders to sweep an office, we have a list of things to look for. We got nothing. Just the order to go through the entire office." Scully nodded, accepting this. "If you don't mind, I'd like to wait for my partner to show up." Miller shrugged. "Fine by me. I'm supposed to ask this: Is there anything personal in there that you want to retrieve?" Scully shook her head. "No. A few pictures, a lipstick, nothing important." "Your partner?" "You'd have to ask him." "Ask me what?" Mulder said, coming around the corner. "Let me handle this," Scully said to Miller. The OPR agent nodded and vanished back inside, closing the door softly behind him. "Scully, what's going on?" Sighing, Scully rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of one hand. "It appears that your little stunt in Tucson has already had some rather serious ramifications, Mulder. That gentlemen is from the OPR. He and two of his friends are at this moment going through our office, inventorying everything." "The hell they are-" Mulder said, moving towards the office. Scully moved with him, effectively blocking his entrance. "Mulder, don't. They have a job to do, just as you and I do. Getting angry at them isn't going to help." Mulder stopped and looked down at his partner. "You're right." He paused. "Now what?" "We go see Skinner. Officially, we're on modified duty. We're not suspend, which is a good sign. But, that's open to... interpretation, I guess. I get the feeling that our status could change from modified duty to suspended pretty quickly, depending on what the outcome of the OPR investigation is." Mulder nodded, already turning to head back up the hallway towards the elevator. "C'mon...let's go see Skinner." Scully uncrossed her arms and followed her partner as she always had. And always would. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Office of Walter S. Skinner "Is he in?" Mulder asked, hooking a thumb towards Skinner's door. Abby nodded. "Yes, and two things: First, he's expecting you. And second, I don't know what you did, Mulder...but he's hot. Handle him with kid gloves." Mulder nodded, moved to the door and knocked twice. "Come!" Skinner called. The partners entered Skinner's office and took their customary position in front of his desk. "Have a seat," he growled, staring holes through Mulder. They sat. "Mulder...I guess it goes without saying that you've really done it this time." "Sir-" Mulder started. "Save it," Skinner said softly. "It's out of my hands now. It wouldn't have been so bad if you hadn't used a Bureau credit card for the rental car, and if you hadn't gotten arrested by the Tucson Police." "Sir, technically, Agent Mulder was not arrested. He was taken into custody, but I was assured by the Tucson PD that there would be no official record of the incident." Skinner sighed, used to Scully defending her partner by now. "Scully, I appreciate what you're saying, but the fact of the matter is that at this point, the reality of the situation is that perceptions count for more than paperwork. The perception on the Seventh Floor is that Agent Mulder, and by extension, you and the X-Files Division have grown out of control, that it's a rogue operation." Skinner paused. "I convinced them not to shut the division down," he said evenly. Both Mulder and Scully released a breath that neither had been aware they were holding. "However," Skinner said, "that does not mean that either of you will ever be assigned there again. That decision is still being made." "Sir-" Mulder said, shifting forward in his seat. "Agent Mulder, the best thing you can do at this point is keep your mouth shut and listen to me. By continuing to talk, you're only hurting yourself." Scully reached over and put a hand on Mulder's forearm, silently urging him to sit back. Mulder leaned back, his body still tense. "In the meantime, I have managed to keep both of you on active status. And, I might add, I also managed to make sure that you would remain partners. The first instinct of the brass was to split you up, send each of you to a separate Field Region and try to forget you ever existed. Cooler heads prevailed. We have another job for you, a temporary assignment that will suffice until a final decision can be made as to the future of the X-Files and your association with it." Scully nibbled her lip. "If I may ask, sir, what is that assignment?" "Investigative Support Unit." Scully's head swiveled to the side just in time to see Mulder's face collapse. "Sir," he said, the pleading down in his voice obvious and at the same time somehow pathetic. "Please..." "Agent Mulder," Skinner said forcefully. "This is the only assignment that I could find on such short notice. You will take this assignment. It is the only way that I can guarantee that you will _both_ still have a job in the near future. However, I am aware of certain...limitations on your part regarding any kind of serious work with ISU. I have not forgotten the Roche case. "Therefore, you will be carried on the books as a consultant to ISU. You will be working with them to streamline certain profiling processes. You will not be actively profiling. Agent Scully, you will be performing much the same function for the Forensics Science Team. No actual autopsies that you do not wish to perform yourself." Skinner hesitated. "This is the best I could do," he said softly. "I know it's not the best solution...but I hope you both understand that I did what I thought was in the best interest of your careers, and the X-Files division. This keeps you close to headquarters so that if a final determination is made in your favor, you have less to go through to rejoin the department." Mulder nodded, already standing. "Sir, if I may have a word with you in private?" Scully felt her eyes widen at Mulder's words. Carefully controlling her expression she stood, moving towards the door. "Agent Mulder, I'll see you outside." She closed the door softly behind her as Skinner turned to face his most complicated personnel management issue. "What is it, Mulder?" "Sir, I would like to formally request that Agent Scully be transferred from the X-Files division to the Teaching Unit at Quantico." Skinner collapsed into his chair, placing the V of his right thumb and forefinger against his chin. "Why now, Mulder? Haven't you done enough damage to her career? You have to do more?" "Sir!" Mulder protested. "That is what I'm trying to prevent! I don't want to damage her career any more than I already have!" Skinner leaned forward, his hands interlacing on the desk. "Mulder, it is no secret inside the Bureau that you and Agent Scully are now under active investigation by the OPR. To transfer Scully now would be to send a red flag to the Seventh Floor, and even higher, into the Justice Department and the Attorney General's office. The best thing either of you can do right now is to go Quantico, lay low, and let me handle this as an internal matter." He paused and pinned Mulder with his gaze. "Mulder...don't rock the boat. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, that we haven't always agreed about methods and your constant deviation from policy and protocols. And God knows that if the X-Files division went away, my largest headache would go with it." He hesitated, softening his tone. "But the fact of the matter is that I do think that the X-Files division does important work, and by extension, that you do important work. I need you to understand that I'm going to be fighting for you and for Agent Scully." Skinner paused one last time. "I need you to trust me." Mulder didn't know what to say. "Trust," he finally said quietly, "is not something I'm accustomed to giving." He waited a beat. "But you've more than earned it. I'll go quietly to Quantico." He stood, walked towards the door and stopped. "Thanks...for keeping Scully and me together." Skinner nodded, hearing the naked need in Mulder's voice and not trusting his own to reply. Chapter 2 =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Investigative Support Unit Marine Barracks, Quantico Later That Morning Scully smiled as Mulder pulled the car through the front gate of Marine Barracks, Quantico, Virginia. As much as she loved working on the X-Files, and working with Mulder, part of her always missed her teaching days at the Academy. No mutant liver-eating serial killers, no sincerely demented recently-divorced-and-tattooed maniacs wanting to take her to bed...unless you counted Jack Willis. Pushing that painful thought as far from her mind as possible, Scully glanced through the windshield, spotting the ISU headquarters building up ahead. Casting a glance over at her partner, Scully saw the worry lines creasing Mulder's face. "Relax," she said softly. "You heard what Skinner said." He shook his head. "You don't understand, Scully. It's just not that easy to say, 'No profiles, Mulder. Just consult.'" "If anyone gives you any problems, just tell 'em to call Skinner," Scully offered helpfully. His head swiveled to face hers. "You don't understand. It's not them I'm worried about. It's _me_." "In what way?" He snorted. "Don't tell me you haven't heard the stories, Scully." Arms folded across her chest, Scully shook her head. Mulder knew that posture well; she was preparing herself to hear something that she didn't particularly want to. "No, Mulder, as a matter of fact, I'd heard very little about you up until we were partnered. I'd heard that you were a star profiler, one of the fastest-rising analyists in the entire Bureau, and that you had some wonderful things in your future. Of course, that was before I realized that you'd assigned yourself to the X-Files." "Assigned myself?" Mulder asked. "Yes," Scully nodded, "That's what Blevins told me that first day. You assigned yourself." "Be that as it may," Mulder replied dryly, his tone letting Scully know that they would be revisiting _that_ particular topic sometime in the near future, "...the general consensus was that the reason that I was such a good profiler is because..." He trailed off, unable to find the exact words he wanted. "Because you have an uncanny ability to get into the minds of your suspects," Scully finished. "That...and a little more. The rumor was that I was able to do it so well because I had the same tendencies that they did." Scully's head whipped around. "What?" "The rumor _was_," he said heavily, "that I was a domesticated sociopath, the FBI's pet potential serial killer. That I had the deep psychological wounds based in childhood that seem to be the calling card of all the truly 'great' serial criminals, and that it was only by happenstance that I managed to use my power for good instead of evil." He said it with a light, teasing tone, but Scully could detect the hurt behind his words. She felt a flash of sympathy for her partner, wondering what it must have been like to have to endure the stares and silent taunts of co-workers more concerned with earning political brownie points for early promotion than catching the damn bad guy. "So, are you saying that you were a bedwetter, Mulder?" she asked lightly. Scully saw something flash behind his eyes and was immediately ashamed. She knew the answer of course, and to think that someone like Mulder could have completed the textbook-triad of sociopathy by torturing small animals was ludicrious. "I'm sure it'll be different this time," Scully said softly, and then added, "Besides...your reputation has certainly changed in the last five years." Mulder nodded, agreeing. "That much is true, Scully." He shot her a sideways glance, eyebrow raised. "But then again, so has yours." He's right, she realized. For better or worse, I've been associated with him for five years, and my reputation is... What? Sullied? Tarnished? No, she temporized. Just questionable. Guilt by association. "Well," she said slowly, "I guess ISU's about due for a taste of the Mr. and Mrs. Spooky Magic." Mulder laughed, appreciating the joke. "We're here," he said, parking and turning the car off. "So we are." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City It was an addiction, he knew. The more he did it, the stronger the need grew, until it was an uncontrollable hunger that demanded constant attention, constant feeding for its abatement. The first few had been clumsy. It had taken him a while to realize that he enjoyed it, that he lived for it. How odd, he remembered thinking once, that he lived for other people's death. And not just any death, or just any person. They had to be chosen. Mark Dupree sat at his neatly ordered desk in the basement of his house. He was in the middle of three carefully arranged desks that formed a "U" shape. Computers, keyboards, monitors, mice and other assorted technological goodies were spread out before him like a silicon buffet. He had his choice of machines to use, from a high-powered Pentium II workstation all the way up to a the blindingly fast SparcStation/30. The middle section of the desk, forming the base of the "U" shape, was his work area. Sixteen folders were carefully arranged, four to a column, each spaced so he could see the tab of the one behind it. He cast his eyes over the names, waiting to be told what to do. Waiting for the little voice to speak inside his head. The only comfort that Mark Dupree got at moments like this was that when the spoke, it spoke in his own voice. Had he heard another voice in his head, Dupree knew he would have sought professional help. But since it was his voice, there was nothing to worry about. He was sane. He was in control. He was ready to move. A name caught his eye. King, the label said. Leon King, followed by a code, a series of letters and numbers that made very little sense except to the people that had originally put it there. Interested, Dupree reached for the folder. The front of it was stamped with the seal of the Department of Justice. He opened it and began to read. In the manner of most legal documents, it was arranged so that the most recent information was on top. The first document was the release order from the Federal Penitentiary at Leavanworth, Kansas. Mr. King had been a guest of the United States Government for the crime of narcotics trafficking and being the mastermind behind an continuing criminal enterprise. He had started as a member of the Gangster Princes in Chicago, worked his way up the ladder to mid-level dealer, and then undertaken a violent bloodbath to secure his position at the head of the most brutal organized crime gang in Illinois. And then he had gotten caught. A four-month trial later, and Mr. King had been convicted on sixteen counts. His sentence was life in prison without possibility of parole. Until he decided to turn government's witness. He knew people, he told the feds, knew people and places and things. And he was willing to share, if only to get his ass out of Leavanworth. A deal was struck, and King, to use a phrase from the 50's, had started "naming names." The arrests had come fast and furious for two years. Dealer after dealer fell under King's testimony, and at the end, the federal government had kept up its end of the bargain. Leon King had been given a new name, a new face and a new life, courtesy of the Witness Security Program. As of right now, he was living in working in the North Bronx, near Gun Hill Road, just over the border from Westchester County. According to the DOJ's file, Mr. King was gainfully employed as a consultant to a security company. Which, of course, meant that he had a no-show job at the taxpayer's expense. Perfect, Dupree thought. Just the one to start game for real. Spinning his chair and duck-walking over to the SparcStation, Dupree entered the proper parameters into the search engine and kicked it off. It took less than twenty seconds. The page snapped into view. Dupree studied the characters on the screen, looking for the pattern. There. He saw it. Clear as a bell. With a smile, Mark Dupree realized that Leon King had been Chosen. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Quantico, Virginia Tony Littleton was the current head of the ISU, and he greeted Mulder and Scully with what could only be described as a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I realize why you're here, Mulder. I have two things to say to you: Stay out of our way, and we'll stay out of yours. Secondly, stay the fuck out of our way." He paused, glancing at Scully and frowned slightly. "Please accept my apology, Agent Scully." "I've heard the word before." "I'm sure you have. I'm sure you've even said it. But please excuse my frankness just the same." "It was my understanding," Scully said carefully, "that Agent Mulder and I were here to consult on specific policies and procedures of the ISU and to suggest changes and improvements." "Sure, on paper. We all know that the real reason you're here is to have a hiding place while the OPR finds a way to crucify the both of you. And I won't have this division tarred by the same brush. I've arranged some space for you in the basement-" Of course, Scully thought. "-with all the necessities. Phones, faxes, computers, desks-" "Two desks?" Mulder interrupted. "Yes, of course," Littleton said, as if the question made no sense at all. "Good, good," Mulder mumbled. "Anyway...as I was saying...you are both on modified duty. That means you don't have to report to me, you don't have to report to this building, anything. Both of your lines have voice mail attached; you can check your messages from home for all I care. Bottom line: If you come here, stay in the basement. I have no desire to hear from you at all. Is that understood?" Mulder nodded. "Understood." Scully started to object, even going so far as to open her mouth and take a breath when Mulder's warning gaze caught her eye. He shook his head slightly, just enough for her alone to detect. Scully said nothing, turning and following Mulder as he left the office. "What the hell was that about?" she asked once they were safely out of Littleton's earshot. "Later," Mulder hissed. They made their way to the elevator and took it down to the basement. The office Littleton had provided was only marginally better than the one they normally inhabited. Two desks, devoid of any personal touches, two telephones, two computers, two chairs. One filing cabinet. Nothing else. "Home sweet home," Mulder said softly. Scully moved past Mulder into the office, staking out the desk closest to the door as her own. She collapsed into the chair, once again folding her arms across her chest. "Want to tell me what that was all about?" Mulder nodded and shut the door behind him, walking to the other desk. "Tony Littleton joined as a profiler just as I was getting ready to leave. He had three big cases right out of the box. A serial strangler in New Mexico that preyed on prostitutes, a child killer in Utah, and a rather nasty serial rapist in Chicago. This was before we started organizing assignments based on geographical regions. Actually, we were in the process of that when I joined. Normally, policy states that new profilers are supposed to be partnered with someone more experienced, someone that can show them the ropes-" "That makes sense," Scully interjected. "Yeah, don't it? Anyway...Tony didn't get that chance. I was working my own cases, and Tony was floundering. He didn't know up from down, left from right, whatever. He got into ISU because he had a few powerful relatives. Father was a senior supervisory agent in Seattle, and his older brother was working counterintelligence in Washington, sitting on what was then the recently-minted Commonwealth of Independent States embassy. So, what it boils down to is this: Tony Littleton had no business being in ISU, but he saw it as a way to make a name for himself, fast. Catch a few serial murderers, take all the credit, medals, honors, awards, statues, that sort of thing." Scully nodded, seeing what was coming. "You solved his cases." Mulder nodded, and then shook his head. "Sorta kinda but not really, Scully. His ASAC asked me to check his UNSUB profiles. They were crap. I rewrote them. Two of the three cases were solved within days, the last two weeks later. I made Tony Littleton look like a moron to his ASAC, and a hero to three municipal police departments." "Why a hero?" Then Scully nodded again. "He took credit for your work." Mulder pointed a thumb and forefinger at her and shot Scully. "Bingo. And he has never forgiven me because he knows that he owes everything he is to little old me." "Five years to section head?" Mulder shrugged. "Five years, a huge turnover rate, and two powerful relatives in the Bureau. What more do you need?" Scully shrugged. "Talent? Dedication? Competence?" "Scully, Scully...you expect so much from the people you work with!" "I've been spoiled," she said softly. Mulder smiled but said nothing. "So, since we're stuck down here in the basement with nothing to do, I was thinking of starting up a Naked Twister League." Scully snorted. "Fat chance, Mulder. I just have to make one little phone call..." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Two hours after making a rather urgently phrased phone call to Assistant Director Skinner, the atmosphere around the ISU changed dramatically. First to appear was an administrative assistant dangerously close to retirement age, bearing a load of paperwork. "Cold cases," she said simply, dumping them on Scully's desk. Scully immediately set about organizing and categorizing them for Mulder, who was busy working the phones trying to rustle up some lunch. Second to appear, (actually second, third, fourth...) were the profiling staff members. Men and women, one and two at a time, trickled down from upstairs to see the prodigal son returning. Some of them Mulder knew, judging by his reactions, and some of them he wished he didn't. He greeted them all warmly, as lost friends and fellow colleagues; only Scully could tell which ones he liked and didn't. "So," one of them said, "Working the morgue, eh?" "Cold cases, right," Mulder said "Any of them worth a first glance?" "Some of them," the profiler acknowledged. "But not most of them. They all have profiles already constructed. Local law enforcement was just unable to act...and you know about the caseloads and the...er, concern about statistics." Mulder knew. ISU wanted solutions. They only announced solutions, not as a percentage of cases reviewed. If a case got cold, then it was filed in the morgue pile and forgotten. Only the highest-profile cases got the full-court press for more than a few weeks. "Ok," Mulder said agreeably. "I'll take a look at all of them and see if there's anything interesting out there." The profiler nodded, then turned and smiled at Scully and left them alone. "Who was that?" "I haven't the foggiest, Scully. But he seemed to know me." "Legend in your own time," she teased. He shrugged. He had to admit it; part of him was glad to be back on his old stomping grounds. The gnawing feeling in his stomach had abated somewhat, and some of the staff had been glad to see him. "You know," Scully said, "It might be kind of...interesting if we were to warm up some of these old cases." He nodded, staring at the pile of paperwork on her desk. "After lunch," he said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The Next Day Quantico, Virginia 1543 Hours Amazing, Scully thought. One day, less than a day, really, and Mulder was already on the prowl. His desk, Spartan-neat yesterday, was a mass of case paperwork, coffee cups, pens, pencils, case files, medical and psychological texts, and a freshly-minted DSM-IV. She watched him from her desk, trying to appear busy by putting the other cold cases into a computer program that Mulder had developed years ago. It had never been adopted as an official tool, but he'd asked quite nicely, so Scully had agreed. Scully watched as Mulder picked up the phone. Running a finger down one page of a report, Mulder quickly dialed. "Detective Simmons," he requested. There was a wait of perhaps thirty seconds. "Detective Simmons? Agent Mulder. I'm with the FBI." He paused. "No, the ISU. I'm calling about your serial murderer." Pause. "Yes, I'm aware the case is two years old, sir. I've just been reassigned, and they give us newbies all the cold cases." Pause. "Mulder." Pause. "Fox Mulder." Longer pause. "Yes, that Fox Mulder." Scully tried to hide a smile and failed miserably. "Well, thank you, sir. Anyway-" Pause. "Yes, sir. So... what's the status of the case? The last thing we have is..." As Mulder went on and on, Scully tuned him out, focusing her attention on the computer screen. Thirty minutes later, Mulder hung up the phone. "Well, they have a new profile for their suspect," he muttered to no one in particular. "Next case." He started gathering the paperwork together, stacking it into a neat pile. "So, were you able to help?" Scully asked, trying to be polite. Mulder nodded absently. "I think so. The original profiler overlooked some things. He had some of the underlying psychological causalities wrong, and that had a ripple effect into his profile." "Such as?' "Thinking that the reason he cut their tongues out was that he didn't want them, symbolically, telling the police who did it. The truth of the matter is, in my opinion, that he'd been put down by a strong female presence in his life from early childhood, most likely starting around the pre-adolescent stage. So, that gives them a new area to look into." Scully felt her admiration for Mulder grow by another small notch. "Think they'll catch him?" "Who knows?" he shrugged as he finished straightening the desk. "All I know is the original profile was wrong." "Who did it?" "Tony Littleton, of course. He's gotten better, I'll give him that. But...he still can't see the forest for the trees." Scully frowned. "Do you think it was wise to take on as your first case one your boss screwed up?" "For better or worse, Walter Skinner is our boss. We're just visiting here. And frankly, I don't care how many toes I step on." Scully shrugged and went back to entering cases into Mulder's program. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Four Days Later Scully was standing in front of the copy machine listening to the cycling ker-chunk-chunk sound when the phone rang. She glanced over her shoulder as Estelle, the administrative assistant, snatched the phone and jammed it under her ear. "Cold Case Squad," she barked. Scully smiled. Beneath that grandmotherly exterior beat the heart of a true paper warrior. Someone had done them a favor by assigning Estelle to the "Cold Case Squad." "Scully? Sure. Hold on." Estelle dropped the receiver back into the cradle and punched HOLD all in the same motion. "Someone named Jarvis on line one for you," she said, not unkindly. Scully picked up the extension on Mulder's desk. He was deep inside another case file, oblivious to everything around him. "Scully," she answered. "Special Agent Scully, this is Detective Jarvis, Seattle Major Cases Squad. I was given your name by an Agent Fox Mulder in regards to a serial murder case he consulted with us on." "Oh, yes, Detective. What can the FBI do for you today?" "Oh, I think you've done enough, Agent Scully." There was a tone in his voice, a certain something Scully couldn't place. He didn't sound angry...exactly. "Oh?" "Thanks to your...I'm sorry...is Agent Mulder your partner?" In more ways than one, Scully thought. "Yes, yes he is." "Your partner gave us enough to narrow a suspect pool from about 30 names down to six. We interviewed all six, and well, to make a long story short, one of the suspects' story didn't exactly jibe with what we knew. We dug a little deeper and managed to flip him. He confessed this morning to all seven murders. It turns out he was planning the next one as well." Scully smiled down at the back of her partner's head. "I'll be sure to tell Agent Mulder, sir. Thank you for calling." "Thank you," Jarvis said. "You people are lifesavers. Literally. Tell Agent Mulder that his profile was dead on. The little worm was killing his older sister over and over again. The next victim looked like a Xerox copy of her. Tell your partner he saved this woman's life." Scully smiled wider. "I'll be sure to do that." "I don't know how you people manage it," Jarvis said, the excitement in his voice evident. "But...thanks. Without you folks, we'd still be searching for this jerk. Have a good day, Agent Scully, and tell your partner that if he's ever in Seattle, dinner is on the Seattle Major Case Squad. You, too." "Thank you, Detective Jarvis. Have a nice day." Scully hung up and turned to tell Mulder the news. She was reaching for him, preparing to tap him gently on the shoulder, but something stayed her hand. She could tell by the look on his face that he was concentrating, but it was a different kind of concentration than she was used to seeing. Moving back to her desk, she sat slowly, her brows knitting together in concern. From this angle she could see his face more clearly, and there was something there, something behind his eyes that she had never seen before. "Mulder?" she asked softly. He didn't respond. He turned a page of the file he was reading, his eyes scanning quickly down the page. Scully saw them moving, and there was something odd about them. After a moment she realized what it was: Mulder's eyes were moving right to left, not left to right. He was reading the page backwards. "Mulder?" she said again, a little louder this time. He blinked, and she saw his brows draw together in annoyance. "What?" he asked. "Um...the Seattle police called. Jarvis, with Major Cases. He wanted to you know they interviewed a suspect based on your profile and they managed to get a confession out of him for seven rape-murders." Mulder nodded as if trying to hurry her along. "He also said that the suspect was preparing to take his eighth victim when he was arrested. They wanted to congratulate you on a job-" "Sure, whatever," Mulder said, turning his attention back to the file on his desk. He blinked twice, and then he started again, his eyes moving from right to left. At least he was going from top to bottom, Scully rationalized. The idea of Mulder reading the page completely backwards, from bottom to top and right to left was just a little unsettling. Scully glanced over at Estelle, who was busy at one of the three new filing cabinets. They shared a glance but said nothing, each of them keeping their thoughts private. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree got out of the rental car in front of Leon King's apartment. Quickly, he reviewed what was about to happen. In a holster under his left arm was a Ruger .22 pistol with an extremely effective homemade silencer attached to the end. The magazine was hand-loaded with special subsonic hollowpoint rounds. In his right jacket pocket was a glassine envelope with a single folded sheet of paper inside it. Dupree glanced up at the building in front of him. It wasn't exactly a luxury apartment building; the rents ran to around twelve hundred a month. It sounded like a lot, but it was New York City, after all. Leon King lived in 12F, on the penultimate floor. Mark reached into his left jacket pocket and returned with a black leather wallet. Opening it, he stared at his prize. It had cost him almost four thousand dollars, but it had been worth every penny. The silver star of a United States Deputy Marshall stared back at him, along with an authentic-looking but quite fake identification card. Mark knew from his research that the USMS WITSEC operatives had long ago left King to his own devices; after he'd provided the required testimony, and had gotten settled in his new life, the USMS kept him under periodic but uneven watch. There were just too many protected witnesses and not enough protectors to go around. And Mark also knew that this week was not a week when the WITSEC observation teams would be keeping an eye on Mr. King. But Mr. King didn't know that. Which suited Mark's needs perfectly. Getting out of the car, he glanced around, getting acclimated to his surroundings. A white face in this predominantly black and Hispanic neighborhood might be remembered, but since he was driving a specific kind of rental car, and dressing with care, Mark was hoping that the impression that would be left with anyone that happened to be watching was that a police officer or detective was routinely investigating one of the hundreds of crimes that was committed in this part of the city every day. No one seemed to pay him any undue attention, and so Mark walked to the front door of the apartment building. The door was unlocked, and he entered. The elevator deposited him on the twelfth floor, and Dupree exited and turned right smoothly, his mind working overtime. He felt the tingle in his fingertips, the racing heart, the shallow, almost gasping breaths. The hallway seemed overly bright; Dupree would have been surprised to see his own face at this moment: His pupils were dilated, his eyes wide and feral. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his brow. It wasn't nervousness. It was anticipation. Dupree stopped twelve steps from King's apartment to calm himself. He needed to be steady, in control. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, forcing himself to take slow, steady breaths. He torqued his neck, listening to the vertebrae popping. Breathe, he thought. His mouth suddenly dry, Dupree took those final steps and knocked on King's door. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Quantico, Virginia Scully couldn't take it anymore. "Mulder!" she said sharply. Mulder started, blinking and shaking his head. "What?" "Time to take a break, partner. You've been at it a while." Mulder leaned back in his chair, reaching under the lenses of his glasses with his fingers to gently rub his eyes. "What time is it?" "Six-thirty." Mulder snapped forward, his glasses dropping back onto his nose, raising his wrist to glance at his watch. "It's almost a quarter to seven!" he said. "I rounded," Scully explained. "I'm hungry," Mulder announced. "I'm not surprised. You didn't eat lunch." "When was..." he trailed off. "When was the last time we...uh ...spoke?" "Nine-thirty this morning, when I told you about Seattle." "Seattle?" Scully sighed, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Yes, Seattle. You _do_ remember calling a Detective Simmons in Seattle? The tongue thing?" Mulder shook his head, frowning. "Oh, right. I remember. What's up with that?" "You don't remember our conversation?" He shook his head. "I was thinking." Scully pursed her lips nodding more to herself than to him. "Right. Anyway, they got a confession from a suspect off your profile. He was stalking the next victim when they arrested him. Seattle PD owes you dinner, according to them." "Dinner," Mulder mumbled. "Maybe Estelle-" "Estelle went home a hour and a half ago, like the rest of the normal people, Mulder." He was rubbing the back of his neck with the palm of his hand, but stopped at her remark. "Scully, when was the last time you went upstairs to the bullpen?" "About four hours ago," she admitted. He nodded, as if he expected that answer. "If you were to go upstairs, you'd find that most of them are just getting started, Scully. If anyone has gone home already, it's only because they were here all last night working." Scully shook her head. "I don't get it, Mulder." "Night...has something to do with this. This ability all of us share. The good ones, at least." "So you admit that you're good at this." "Four days and I closed a case. I'd say that's pretty good." Scully nodded, agreeing with his assessment. She felt the confused expression cross her face. He was good at this, and he knew it. She was seeing an aspect of Mulder she couldn't remember ever seeing before. He was confident...almost arrogant. He'd been arrogant before, but never with the underlying confidence. Before, it'd been boorish. "Can I ask you a question? Two, actually?" "Sure, Scully." "What did you mean about the night?" Mulder sighed, leaning back and thinking. "Did you ever notice, when you were a kid riding your bike around in the summer how the air seemed...thinner at night? It wasn't as hard to pedal? How the sun seemed to...did you ever see a dust pattern in a sunbeam inside a house?" Scully nodded, leaning forward, interested. "You don't see that in moonlight. You don't see the dust particles. Those dust particles can clog your nose, make your eyes red, make you sneeze. They can distract you. I can't tell you the hours that I lost as a kid studying the gentle movement of dust particles in a warm sunbeam. "That was wasted time, Scully. I mean, as a kid it wasn't. A kid needs to waste time, needs to be able to stare at a sunbeam and see the poetry in the gentle shifting of the particles. But a profiler can't. A profiler can't be distracted, can't be...can't let himself be drawn into those flights of fancy. And night, when the sun goes away, when the phones are quiet, when the assistants go home, when life finally slows down enough for us to concentrate...really concentrate, we can see the things that we can't see in the bright, rational sunlight of the day. When the sun goes down, Scully, the madness comes out. Remember what it was like during those summer nights? When you thought that anything was possible? How the light danced in your eyes when you stared at a campfire? The patterns of orange and blue and white? That's what I need, Scully. That's what all profilers need, that ability to find the night inside us. "There's just something that the night gives us. The quiet. The stillness. The sense that the monsters are lurking in the closets, that the bogeymen are ready to come out and dance." Scully nodded, taking it all in. "That's why you like that basement office...back at headquarters. That's why the lights are always so low in there." He nodded, his eyebrows rising a little. "You know it, Scully." "Your apartment." He nodded again. "What was your second question?" he asked, obviously uncomfortable with the subject. "You...earlier, you were reading right to left." Something crossed his features. "That was nothing," he said slowly. "Nothing to be worried about." "I'm not worried about it, Mulder. I was just curious." He sighed, leaning back in his chair again. How to explain it to her? he thought. "It's a technique I use. It's something I developed when I first joined the unit nine years ago. I...read things backwards, out of order, out of sequence, and wait for something to jump out at me. A word, a phrase, something. It opens my mind to..." "Extreme possibilities?" Scully asked, deadly serious. He nodded. "Yeah, to coin a phrase." Scully thought about what he'd said, trying to assimilate it. "Well, Mulder, whatever it is...it seems to work. You've cranked through six cold cases in four days, and you already closed one." As if on cue, the phone rang. Scully glanced at it, arching an eyebrow towards her partner. "Scully," she said, lifting the receiver to her ear. "Mulder there?" a voice asked. "Can I ask who's calling?" "Inspector Boyle, Chicago Homicide." Scully hit the HOLD button and lowered the phone into the cradle. "You working anything out of Chicago?" "Yeah. A buff case." A what? Scully thought. Mulder reached for the phone, hooking the receiver with two fingers. "Mulder." "Hey, Mulder. Inspector Boyle, CPD. I wanted to call and thank you and to ask a favor." "Thank me for what?" Mulder asked, glancing at Scully. "We got a suspect off your profile." "In one day?" Mulder asked. "Well, we'd been looking at this guy hard, but your profile kind of narrowed it down. We confronted him, just like you suggested." "Did he confess?" There was a pause. "Not exactly. We have him on a 72-hour hold and he hasn't lawyered up yet. But we told him we had a profile that matched him to a T, and he agreed to come in. Once we got him here, we started interviewing him, showing him what we had. As you know, we got nothing physical connecting him. Just the fact that he's a buff, and he was in the general location at the time of the murders. His alibi is just vague enough so that if we take him to court it'd be obvious that we don't have shit. If he did it, you'd think he'd have an airtight story all set. He's smart. Too smart, it turns out." "What do you mean, too smart?" Mulder asked. "He wants to meet you. He wants to meet the guy who wrote the profile." Mulder sighed. He'd seen this one coming. "I'm not sure-" "CPD would pay for the whole thing, Mulder." Mulder shrugged. He looked around the office, searching for inspiration, something to latch onto, something he could insist required his continued attention. His eyes settled on Scully. He covered the mouthpiece with his free hand. "Wanna go to Chicago?" Scully glanced at the piles of paperwork on her desk. She nodded. "Ok, me and my partner," Mulder said. "First class." "Mulder!" Boyle groaned. After a minute, he agreed. "Fine. First class. United. Shit, I'll pay for it myself if it closes this case." "Tomorrow morning, United. I'll call you with the flight information. One night, Mulder. One night only." "Deal," Mulder said. "Ok, who do I route the 491 paperwork through?" Boyle asked, referring to the official request for Bureau assistance by a municipal police department. "That won't be necessary," Mulder assured him. "We're sort of...undercover here. No need to get the bosses involved." "Whatever, Mulder. It's your butt, not mine. See you tomorrow." Mulder hung up the phone. "Another solve?" Scully asked. "No, but a suspect in custody on a 72-hour hold. Suspect wants to meet the man who profiled him. CPD's going to pay for two first-class tickets. We leave tomorrow." "Littleton-" Scully started to say. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" Mulder said, holding up a hand. "Let's not ruin this beautiful thing with a lot of paperwork and rules, Scully." "Mulder-" Scully warned. "Fine," he said, picking up the phone. He dialed Littleton's extension, and was surprised to find the man still in his office. "Tony, Mulder. Chicago Police Department called and requested that Scully and I go out to work an interview-" Mulder paused. "I realize that the budget is tight, Tony, that's why I talked them into paying for it." Pause. "Yes, that's right. Two tickets, two hotel rooms, one night only." Pause. "Sure, no problem." Mulder hung up. "I get the distinct impression," he said slowly, "that Mr. Littleton, our esteemed and fearless leader, would not mind it too much if we were to leave town for longer than just two days and one night, but since that is all the Chicago Police Department are willing to pay for...it will have to do." Scully nodded. "You ready to quit for tonight?" she asked. Mulder glanced at the paperwork on his desk and shook his head. "Not yet. I still want to do some more reading on this one," he said slowly, as if trying to talk himself into it. "Backwards reading," Scully pointed out as she stood, gathering her things together. "Whatever works, Scully," Mulder cheerfully replied, turning his attention back to the case. "Have a nice night." He searched his memory for a name, and finally remembered it. "Meeting Mark for dinner?" Scully, standing next to her desk, drumming her fingers against her laptop case, wondered how to reply. "Mark... was not as understanding about the demands of my career as I was originally led to believe," she said. Mulder's shoulders slumped a little. He sat back, removing his glasses. "It was because of Tucson, wasn't it?" Scully lifted a hand in a "what can you do?" motion and dropped back onto her laptop case. "I'm sorry, Scully," Mulder said sincerely. Scully nibbled her lip and looked away. Mulder knew that posture as well. She didn't want to talk about it. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said. I didn't ask, Mulder thought, but didn't say. "Anyway, I should be going. I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow, Mulder, bright and early." Scully walked to the office door and paused. "Don't work too hard," she said softly, and left. Mulder stared at the closed door for a moment before turning his attention to the case before him. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark raised his hand and knocked. "Just a minute!" a voice called. Dupree took another short, harsh breath and centered himself. The door opened. Dupree had the sensation of falling down a deep well. Leon King stood in the doorway, an expression of confusion and expectation on his face. And it was there. The mark. The mark of the Chosen. It glowed, pulsing light emanating from his forehead, the writing clear and readable. Six characters, written (carved?) in all capital letters, starting above his right eyebrow and marching across the skin, equally spaced, ending exactly at the apex of his right eyebrow. CHOSEN. "Can I help you?" Leon King asked, his voice friendly, his expression open. Sure, Mark thought. He's got nothing to worry about. He sold drugs. He killed people. He corrupted the young and the weak, and made money...profited...from the suffering of others. King was bright, almost glowing, in Dupree's vision. The apartment behind him seemed dim, flat, like an old color movie from the 40's. Three-strip Technicolor, Dupree's mind announced wildly. Dupree reached into his left-hand pocket, returning with the black leather credentials case. "United States Deputy Marshal," he said. "Spot check." King's face smoothed at the words, as if he'd been expecting it. "Of course. Won't you come in?" He sounds cultured, intelligent, Dupree thought. Not at all like... What? The undereducated, ignorant street Negro you were expecting? his mind answered. Don't be fooled. Monsters come in all shapes and sizes and colors and heights and weights. Hitler was an art student. Idi Amin held three post-graduate degrees and he people. Dupree stepped inside the apartment, casting one last glance towards the hallway to determine if he'd been observed. All clear. "What's this about, Deputy...?" Dupree didn't answer right away. "I had a spot check not a month ago. I was told that they wouldn't occur more often than four times a year. Does this mean I only have two left?" Dupree glanced around the apartment, trying to determine if King was alone. "Is anyone else here with you now?" he asked. "No...not now," King admitted. "Are you expecting anyone tonight?" Dupree asked. "Uh...no. I was going to have a friend stop by, but-" King stopped, some lizard-like basal neuron triggering. "What's this about again?" he asked. "This," Dupree said, turning and drawing the pistol in a single motion. King saw the fat, stubby silenced end of the pistol center on the bridge of his nose and opened his mouth to scream. He never made it. @ The pistol discharged. There was a muted, soft, wet smack! as it impacted against King's face. The slug traversed King's skull, moving a little faster than 200 feet per second. After it had penetrated perhaps two to two and a half inches inside King's brain, the bullet mushroomed, blooming like a metal flower, the razor-sharp edges of the hot metal shredding brain tissue, blood vessels and nerves as it moved. The hydrostatic force of the shot cracked King's skull in four places, Dupree fired again, almost on the heels of the first shot. The second bullet entered King's skull an inch lower than the first, moving swiftly through the nasopharynx, neatly severing the brain stem from the spinal column. King's higher brain functions ceased. For all intents and purposes, Leon King was dead. Mark Dupree didn't know that, of course. He continued to fire, each successive shot impacting against King's face and throat. Finally, the magazine exhausted, Mark Dupree stopped firing and waited. It took less than a second, but to him, to Dupree, it felt like it took a month. The body teetered and then slowly fell, face-first, onto the carpet and was still. Dupree felt the hunger tugging at him as he lowered the gun. He felt the desire to go the kitchen and slide open a drawer to find a knife, a long, gleaming, sharp knife. A knife he could then use to... To... He closed his eyes, seeing it in his mind, feeling the saliva return to his mouth as he savored the mental image. He craved it; hungered for it, wanted to feel the bounce and the flex in the steel as he slid it inside King's body, opening him up, wanted to listen to the soft, wet sucking noises as the flesh pulled away from the bone and the muscle and the sinew beneath it, wanted to see the red of the meat, of the muscle, the white of the bones and the tendons. But he resisted. As hard as it was, Dupree resisted. He turned to leave, remembering at the last minute to place his clue. Reaching into his jacket once more, he holstered the weapon with one hand and then switched sides, finding the glassine bag. He removed it, walking over to King's body and carefully leaned over, opening the bag and upending it over the prone form. The paper slid out and landed against King's skull. Normally, it would have slid off, but the sticky, gruesome glue of blood, brain tissue and matted hair adhesed to the paper firmly. Satisfied with his work for the most part, Dupree turned to leave. He stood at the door, mentally cataloging his actions since entering the apartment. He hadn't touched anything. From his reading, he knew the theory of transference in homicide investigation: Anyone entering the scene of a crime both left something behind and took something with him. As quickly as possible, Dupree planed to dispose of all the clothes he was wearing, as well as the murder weapon. The false ID would go into a safety deposit box under a different name. Although continued possession of it posed a severe threat, Dupree hated to part with it; it had cost a lot of money and it might become useful again someday. Convinced that he'd taken all the necessary precautions, Dupree exited the apartment, leaving the rapidly-cooling body of Leon King behind. # +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Quantico, Virginia The Next Morning Special Agent Dana Scully, MD, entered the Cold Cases Squad office bright and early at 7:30. She found Mulder already at his desk, buried inside another case file. Walking to her desk, Scully gently set her laptop case down on top of the smooth surface and claimed her seat. She studied her partner silently for a few moments, and startled, realized that he'd spent the night here. He was wearing the same clothing. "Mulder?" she asked, concerned. He didn't respond. "Mulder?" she asked again, a little louder. Again, silence. "MULDER!" "What?" He looked up, dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't shaved in two or three days. His tie was loose, his sleeves were rolled up. He looked like hell, she thought. "Scully, I thought you went home." Scully felt her eyebrows crawling up her forehead. "Mulder, it's seven-thirty in the morning. Tomorrow morning, to your mind." Mulder frowned and then glanced at his watch. "Shit," he whispered. "Our plane leaves in two hours," he said, standing. "I have to go and get ready." Scully watched him depart, shaking her head in amazement. Opening her laptop, she clicked it on and began to work. She was surprised when after only ten minutes, the door opened to readmit a freshened Mulder wearing a new suit. He was still unshaven, however, and the circles under his eyes were still starkly evident against his pale skin. "I thought you were going home," she started. "I had an extra suit in the car," he explained. "It's an old habit from...before. I tend to lose track of time." That was an understatement, Scully thought. You lost an entire day, my friend. Then she remembered Mulder's words as they were driving up that first day. Scully had the sinking feeling that his premonition was going to prove correct. "C'mon," Mulder said shortly. "We have a plane to catch." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Chicago Police Department 12th District Detective Squadroom Detective Stan Boyle was a large, rotund man, the type of cop that every movie director wanted to cast in the part of 'hard-ass homicide investigator.' Only the twinkle in his eye belied the hard edge he tried to portray. He shook Mulder's hand eagerly, casting his glance up and down the tall agent's frame twice to assure himself he was talking to the real deal. "So you're the notorious Agent Mulder, huh?" "So I'm told," Mulder replied dryly. "Thanks for coming out on such short notice. I really appreciate. We...really appreciate it." "No problem," Mulder said. "This is my partner, Special Agent Scully." "Pleesedtomeetcha," Boyle said, pumping Scully's hand. "So..." Mulder started, trailing off. "Yeah, right. The suspect." Boyle reached behind him to a cluttered desk, and without looking grabbed a thick folder. "One Laslo Moran, age 31-" "Laslo?" Mulder asked. Boyle nodded. "You actually expect me to believe that's a real name?" Scully hid her smile. A wistful smile, as it turned out, as the memory of an insurance salesman cursed with the gift of foreseeing the death of every person he met crossing her mind. "That's his real name, Agent Mulder. Anyway, he's refusing to make a statement to our detectives, and asked to speak to the man who profiled him." Mulder nodded, reading from the file. "It says here when you arrested him, you discovered a car registered in his name that a records check later revealed had been sold by the Illinois State Police at auction. He was driving an old police car?" "Not only that," Boyle said, nodding, "but he'd...improved on it. He replaced the engine with one of the old Ford 440 Interceptor engines, had two police scanners inside, and a red bubble light." Boyle paused. "We wrote him for the red bubble light, even though we can't prove he ever used it." "And other police paraphernalia found inside the car or the suspect's home?" Mulder asked. "We found a few fake police badges, but no matching ID, so we didn't charge him with impersonation. But we did find about six years worth of _Police Product News_, all old issues. We found twenty or thirty Wanted posters from the post office that had obviously been stolen. We found some police science textbooks. A serious buff." "Pornography?" Mulder asked. Boyle nodded, frowning. "Yeah, how'd you know?" "Hard-core stuff? Bondage, domination, that kind of thing?" Again, Boyle nodded. "Yeah, as a matter of fact. Sick, twisted shit. How did you know?" Mulder's lips twisted in a wry grin. "Typical for buffs. They want to be cops...a control issue. I would also imagine that you found his car bumper covered with "Support Your Local Cops" bumper stickers, that he belonged to several police-civilian fraternal organizations, and that he had an alarm system on his house that would put Fort Knox to shame." Boyle nodded again. "Right on all three counts, Agent Mulder." He blinked. "I'm amazed." Mulder grinned. "Thanks. Do me a favor...take your suspect into the interrogation room and have one of your detectives try and interview him again. I want to watch from the observation room." Boyle nodded and turned back to his desk to make the arrangements. "Mulder, I'm impressed," Scully murmured. "Thanks, but it is a typical profile," he whispered. "For you," she pointed out, crossing her arms and smiling. His tired, haunted eyes smiled back. "What do you have planned for this guy, anyway?" "A few mind games," he said, arching an eyebrow. "I think I know how to get to this guy, but I want the Chicago detectives to warm him up for me." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room C 12th Police District 30 Minutes Later Mulder stood behind the two-way mirror, watching as one of Chicago's Finest attempted to break the story of Laslo Moran. Mulder stood three inches away from the glass, his arms crossed, all thoughts focused on the suspect on the other side. The audio coming from the hidden microphone was tinny and slightly distorted, but it made no difference to Mulder. "So, is he here yet?" Laslo asked. "Whom?" the interrogator replied. Mulder glanced at him; he was young, well-dressed, wearing a power suit with suspenders and small rimless glasses. He looked like an accountant, not a homicide detective. "The guy who knows me so well," Laslo replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. "We'll get to that," the interrogator replied. "You realize we can hold you for 48 more hours." "Charge me or let me go," Laslo said. "I know the rules." "Then you should know we can hold you for 72 hours without charging you." "Yeah, and gain a lawsuit in the process." "You haven't been arrested, Mr. Moran. We are investigating your potential involvement in a multiple homicide case." "You already told me that, boy-o," Laslo replied. "You keep singing the same tune, and I know all the words by heart. They never change." "He's been like that since we brought him in," Boyle said quietly. "Won't budge." Mulder nodded. "I'm going to go change," he said softly. "Keep your guy talking to him." Change? Scully thought. Mulder vanished from the observation room, leaving Scully and Boyle to observe the fruitless interrogation of Laslo Moran. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Ten Minutes Later Scully was leaning against the back wall of the observation room, arms crossed, when Mulder entered the interrogation room. Well, Scully thought, it looked like Mulder...sort of. He'd changed from his Bureau-standard business suit and tie into jeans, boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. He wore his pistol in a never-before-seen shoulder holster. His FBI badge was hanging from a chain around his neck. His face, still unshaven, gave him a street-toughened look that Scully didn't file all that unappealing. He was carrying a thick CPD case folder. He stepped into the room, head down, studying the contents of the folder. He looked up, as if confused. "Sorry," his tinny voice came through the speaker. "I wasn't aware this room was in use." The CPD homicide detective looked annoyed. Scully studied Laslo. The suspect's eyes were pinned to Mulder's chest, where the small gold FBI shield dangled. He was squinting, trying to identify it. It didn't look like the five-pointed star of a CPD detective. Laslo grinned. "You the profiler?" he asked. Mulder nodded. "Yeah. Who're you?" "Laslo. Laslo Moran." Mulder glanced down at the paperwork in his hand and then back up at Laslo. "Oh." "So, you finally came to talk to me, huh?" Mulder shook his head. "No. I was coming off another job." Job? Scully thought. Laslo smiled. Finally, someone was speaking his language. "Rough job?" he asked. "Enough," Mulder granted. "Three vics, one, possibly two UNSUBS. Sorry to intrude-" He turned to go. "No!" Laslo said quickly. "Stay. Talk a while." Vics? Scully thought. He sounds like an extra from _NYPD Blue_. Mulder nodded to the CPD detective who got up, grumbling, and left them alone. Scully watched, mesmerized, as Mulder moved to the table and sat down. He put one leg up on the table, and as his jeans slid up, she saw another pistol, a Baretta .380, snugged into an ankle holster on the outside of his boot. "So, you're a profiler," Laslo started. "Among other things," Mulder granted, nodding. "Such as?" "SWAT. HRT. Counterintelligence." Laslo pursed his lips, nodding, obviously impressed. "I thought you guys had to specialize." "Some of them do. Not when you're good," Mulder said, a shark's grin splitting his face. Suddenly, Scully saw the game Mulder was playing. She reached for her cellphone and dialed. Inside the room, Mulder's phone chirped. Annoyed, he reached for it, extending the antenna and pushing SND. "Mulder." "Hey," Scully said softly. "Pretty smart." "What can I do for you?" he asked shortly. Scully noticed Mulder didn't even glance towards the mirror. "Thought you might need some help." "Sure. Call SWAT and set up a perimeter. Call the hostage negotiators. Find out what he wants and get it to him. I don't care what it is. I'll be there as soon as I can." Mulder hit END and collapsed the antenna again. "Listen," he said, standing. "I gotta go-" "Wait!" Laslo said, his eyes wide and desperate. "I gotta ask you a question!" "What?" Mulder said, hesitating at the door. "How did you find me?" Mulder turned back to face Moran slowly, flashing a quick smile at the mirror. "Pretty simple, actually." "Tell me. Please!" Mulder moved back to the table and glanced over his shoulder as if he really wanted to be leaving. "Ok, in a nutshell: You left a signature at every scene." "Such as?" "You kicked the doors open. Typical cop move. Right on the doorknob, obviously needed only one good kick to go. Witnesses reported an undercover car in the area at the time of the murders. No prints inside, no fibers, nothing. Means you wore gloves and were careful with the crime scene specifics. All the victims were handcuffed, and the cuffs were double-locked. Only a pro does that." Laslo beamed with pride. Inside the observation room, Scully frowned. Kicking the doors, using the buff car, wearing gloves...none of that was a signature. That was modus operandi, the method of the crime, not a signature, the forensic evidence that telegraphed the reason, the emotional _need_, the drive, the release of the crime. Scully bit her lip, trying to figure out what Mulder was doing. After a moment, she got it: Laslo was a buff, as Mulder had correctly predicted. He was expecting terms like "signature" and "professional." His signature, so to speak, was the need to be recognized by the police as one of them, as a brother in the fraternity, as a fellow cop. Scully nodded with approval. Mulder wasn't just good. He was...spooky. "The marks on the wrists indicated the victims had been speed-cuffed. Again, mark of a pro." "But how did you figure out it was me?" "Once we figured we were dealing with an LEO," Mulder said, using the Ineternet shorthand for Law Enforcement Officer, "we started running cross checks on magazine subscriptions, stuff like that. When your name came up registered to that car, plus you were an Auxiliary cop over in Skokie a few years ago..." Mulder shrugged. "You fell. Bing bang boom." He stood and turned to leave. "Wait!" Mulder stopped, visibly annoyed. "What?" "What should I do now?" Mulder shrugged again. "You need to help yourself, Laslo. You need to get out in front of this. Maybe...I dunno...maybe there were extenuating circumstances. You know...maybe you're sick in the head or something. Wasn't your fault." Mulder paused, opened the folder he was carrying and pulled out a blank yellow pad. Slapping it on the table, he slid it across to Laslo. "Write it out. Show remorse. Judge sees remorse, he understands...man-to-man, sometimes things happen. Judge sees remorse, then the jury sees remorse. Jury sees it, you don't get the bitch." "The bitch?" Scully asked Boyle. "25 to life," Boyle answered without taking his eyes off the window. "I thought I was gonna get the needle!" Laslo said. Mulder shook his head. "Nope. Not anymore. Not for serial jobs. Bad for business. Makes you a celebrity. Costs too much to have the state prosecuting all your appeals." "So you think I can beat it?" Mulder shrugged. "You want to help yourself, Laslo. We got you clean. You forgot one thing, my man. Forensics." "I was in and out clean!" Laslo said. "You get that?" Boyle said to another detective standing next to him. The cop nodded. Boyle turned to Scully. "You got that?" Scully nodded. Mulder sat down. "So you're admitting it, Laslo. Free and clear. There's three..maybe four, five cops in that observation room. You just copped to all the murders. Am I reading you right?" Laslo nodded. "You said you got me clean. On the forensics. So...why fight it?" He paused. "What forensics? What gave me away?" "Bootprint on the doorjamb. We matched it to your boots." Laslo shook his head. "But I always bought new boots. For every job." "Yeah, schmuck," Mulder said, standing, "but you always bought the same KIND of boots. And we found the box of gloves in your apartment. Powder in the gloves matches powder found at the scene. We got you. We had you, close, but you just copped to it." Mulder moved to the door. Holding it open, he turned back. "Have a nice life, Laslo." "Hey...you gonna be at my trial?" Moran asked. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," Mulder said, exiting the room and closing the door behind him. Five seconds later, he entered the observation room. He moved directly to Scully. "Didja get it?" She nodded, letting him invade her space. "All of it." Turning to Boyle, Mulder said, "Get someone in there to get his statement before he realizes what we did to him." Boyle nodded to one of the other detectives, who quickly left the room. "What _did_ we just do to him?" Boyle asked. "He's a buff," Mulder explained. "He's in love with everything having to do with the police. But your homicide cops dress, walk and talk like MBA's, not the image of the street cop that he's come to expect from movies, television and books. He wanted to talk to what he thought was a cop. A real cop, a street cop." Mulder shrugged. "So...I gave him one." "Brilliant," Boyle said, shaking his head. "Just brilliant." In the interrogation room, Laslo was talking to the CPD detective. "That guy," he was saying. "That Mulder fella. He's a cop. You guys could take a lesson from him." Indeed, Scully thought. Boyle held out his hand. "Agent Mulder, the Chicago Police Department owes you one. Thank you, sir." Mulder shook the offered paw. "You're welcome, Detective Boyle. Glad to be of service." He shrugged out of the shoulder holster. "God, I hate these things. Makes my back hurt." "Where did you get that, anyway?" Scully asked. "Borrowed it from some guy out there. A Detective...Chavez." Boyle smiled. "Andrea, huh?" Scully arched an eyebrow. Mulder's ability to find a statuesque blonde cop in whatever municipality they happened to be operating in never ceased to amaze...or annoy...her. "Yeah," Mulder said, holding the now-empty holster out. "Would you mind making sure that gets back to her?" Boyle took it, smiling. "Sure. You two have a nice night." Chapter 3 =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The Drake Hotel, Chicago The Chicago Police Department, in the persona of Detective Stan Boyle, had indeed gone whole hog with the accommodations. Mulder wasn't aware of it, but Stan Boyle was married to one Jeanie Boyle, born Jeanie Kazinski. Jeanie Kazinski Boyle had one sister, Margie Kazinski, who had met and married Ted Adams. And Ted Adams was the Assistant General Manager of the Drake Hotel. Stan had found the relationship between him and his brother-in-law such that he could call on Ted from time to time for a favor, in the reasonable expectation that at some later date the favor would be repaid. This usually took the form of having detectives assigned to the Public Morals Squad (Vice) of the CPD stopping by and visiting the bar and restaurant lounge of the Drake Hotel to make sure that the ladies of the evening that tended to ply their trade there were aware that the CPD knew of their presence, and did not appreciate any half-assed attempts by them or their 'managers' to cause undue trouble with the guests. It was an arrangement that worked out well, as Mulder was pleased to see, even if he was unaware of it. Ted Adams had made sure that the two adjoining rooms, while not suites, were lavish and comfortable just the same. Each room came equipped with a pair of California King-sized beds, a bathtub large enough to hold several members of the Chicago Bears starting offensive line, a well-stocked and comped minibar, and a Sony 35-inch XBR flat-screen television that received over 200 individual satellite channels. Which is why Special Agent Dana Scully, upon entering Mulder's room from the connecting doorway, found him sprawled on the bed, remote in hand, a small bottle of peanuts balanced on his chest, engrossed in what appeared to be some form of team sport from a country with a name that had more consonants than vowels. "What are you watching?" she inquired. "As far as I can tell, it's some odd strain of football," Mulder replied, using the remote to silence the excited cries of the announcer. Something had just happened on the screen, a goal of some kind having been scored, but Mulder would have been hard-pressed to describe the exact method for that goal having been scored, or how many points the goal was worth. "So..." Scully started. "So...?" Mulder asked. "Chicago," Scully explained. "Case is done. We don't leave until tomorrow..." She raised her eyebrows, hoping Mulder would take the hint. He didn't. She moved directly into his line of sight to test a theory, and her supposition was correct; Mulder moved slightly on the bed, craning his neck around her body so that he could keep the television screen in view. "Mulder," she said, hoping the tone of her voice would catch his attention. "I have no desire to sit in a hotel room and watch satellite television for the next eighteen hours. Nor do I wish to watch you do the same." Her tone, if not her words, did indeed catch her partner's attention, and he quickly shut the TV off. "What would you like to do?" he asked softly. "Dinner?" she offered. Mulder glanced at his watch. It was barely after four in the afternoon. "Little early for dinner, Scully." Hands on hips, Scully turned and walked back to her room. "Think of something," she called over her shoulder. Mulder chewed his bottom lip. Chicago. What to do? Go down to Rush Street and cruise the thousands of bars they had? No, not Scully's style. Plus, he'd spend the night shooting daggers with his eyes at the men who hit on her. Bad idea all around, he mused. A sudden inspiration striking him, Mulder grabbed his cell phone and quickly dialed. "Boyle," a voice answered. "Stan, Mulder." "Hey, Mulder. What's up? I hope you got some good rooms." "They're wonderful, Stan. I don't know who you know, but tell them I owe 'em one." "Done. What can I do ya for?" "If my memory serves, the Knicks are in town..." Boyle groaned. "And you were wondering if I knew anyone that had a ticket or two to spare, correct?" "Something like that." A sigh from Detective Boyle was Mulder's answer. "Well, as a matter of fact, my partner happens to be dating an officer from the Traffic Division who's father just happens to have two tickets that are going unused tonight." "I see..." Mulder said. "I could ask my partner to inquire as to the availability of those two tickets," Boyle offered. "If your partner's girlfriend's father doesn't mind giving them up in the name of interagency cooperation, I'd be very appreciative," Mulder offered. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Well, let me ask Bill, and he can ask...his friend to ask...er..." Boyle trailed off. Mulder felt something shift in the air between them. "Uh, Stan, did I just make an incorrect assumption as to the gender of your partner's...friend?" "Yeah, Mulder. Is that a problem?" "Not for me. How about you?" "No...Bill's really nice, and so is his...friend, Richard." "Well, if Richard's father wishes to part with two Bulls tickets in the name of interagency cooperation-" "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Stan said. "Hold on a second, let me make the call." Mulder heard a click! as Stan Boyle put him on hold. Forty-five seconds later, Boyle was back. "Richard's father was more than happy to contribute to the cause. They'll be at the box office under your name. Have a good time, and say hello to that pretty little partner of yours, Mulder." "Thanks, Stan. I owe you one." "We're even, Mulder. Have a nice night." The two law enforcement professionals said their good-byes just as Scully re-entered Mulder's room. "Who was that?" she asked. "Detective Boyle," Mulder answered. "He wanted some information for the case file. Formalities, paperwork, that sort of thing." Scully nodded. "Figure out anything for us to do?" "Why is it always my job?" Mulder asked. "Because, Agent Mulder, you dragged me out here." "I got you away from a mountain of paperwork," he pointed out. She nodded. "Point granted. Now, did you figure something out, or am I going to have to?" "Let me ask you a hypothetical question, Scully. We've been partners for a while now; I think it's time I discover your opinion on a very important, very personal topic." Scully leaned against the door jamb, her arms crossed. "Do I want to hear this, Mulder?" "How do you feel about two partners...a man and a woman... in a city far, far away from Washington, DC...two partners that have known each other for a long, long time..." As he spoke, Scully felt the air in the room shift and change. "...doing something together that might be frowned upon by their superiors?" "Mulder..." Scully started, letting out a huge sigh. It had taken long enough, but the day Scully had feared had finally arrived. How to tell him? she wondered. "I mean, if anyone ever found out what I am about to suggest, they'd be green with jealousy." "Mulder..." Scully said, flattered that he would think that anyone would be jealous of her, "I really don't think that..." "I mean...going to the Bulls game while on the road... It's just not done, Scully!" Bulls game? Scully thought. "Did you just say 'Bulls game'?" His face the picture of innocence, Mulder nodded. "Yes, the Chicago Bulls versus the New York Knicks, tonight, at the United Center." He paused. "Why? What did you think I was going to suggest?" "Nothing," Scully said, a little too quickly. "Sounds good," she added, "but do you think you can get tickets this late?" Mulder nodded. "I'm sure of it. So, tell you what... let's take the El down to the arena, walk around a bit, maybe get some dinner. We'll get some tickets, watch the game...?" Scully nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I'll just go and... change." She left Mulder on the bed in his room, softly closing the connecting door. She leaned against it, re-crossing her arms, nibbling her bottom lip. She was trying to decide if she was offended, scared, or disappointed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The elevated subway car was packed with people heading to the game. Mulder and Scully were not only forced to stand for the entirety of their trip, but the crowd density pressed them together, Mulder's front to Scully's back. The car went around a curve, and the sudden change in inertia caused Scully to start sliding to the left. She felt two strong arms snake around her waist from behind, steadying her, bringing her body closer to his. "Easy, killer," he whispered in her ear. "Don't want to bump into the natives..." The track straightened, but Mulder left his arms where they were. Sighing, Scully leaned back just a bit, just a little bit, closing her eyes as she felt Mulder's arms squeezing her gently. Part of her knew it was dangerous, that it sent a signal Scully wasn't sure she wanted to send. He's my best friend, her mind rationalized. Friends hug, and touch, and...do this, whatever 'this' is. It should make no difference that Mulder was an extremely attractive man, that his warm, strong arms felt wonderful around her body, and that she was taking just a little bit too much enjoyment from the feeling. For his part, Mulder was thinking many of the same things. Scully felt wonderful in his arms. She fit just...so. He wasn't romantic enough to believe that she was 'made' to fit into his arms, but there was no denying the fact that it was a very comfortable arrangement, that the warm, soft length of her pressed against him was not an unwelcome or uncomfortable feeling. It was a train ride, he told himself. Just a train ride. When the ride is over, and we step off this car, she'll separate herself, put some distance between us, put that invisible wall back up brick by mental brick. And then everything will return to normal, and I'll have a nice memory to carry around with me for a few years. His chin was lightly resting on the crown of her head as the train swayed back and forth. Scully moved her arms until they were over his, her fingers lightly teasing the hair at his wrists. Mulder decided to take a small chance. He leaned down just a bit, until his mouth was next to Scully's left ear. "I love the way your hair smells," he whispered, and then straightened. Scully felt the heat in her face, felt the blush crawling up her neck, flaming her cheeks and ears. Damn the man, she thought with a grin. Three hundred and sixty days of the year, he acts as if doesn't notice her as a woman at all, and those other five days he makes some soft comment to remind her that he's not a statue. The train hit the Ashland station and slid to a stop, the doors hissing open to admit the passengers to the platform. Scully and Mulder waited for everyone to pile off, not wanting to separate just quite yet. Finally, there was no choice but to leave. Reluctantly, they separated, exiting to the platform. Scully stood to his left, glancing around, trying to orient herself, already missing the feeling of his body pressing against hers. She remembered a case in Louden County, Virginia, a case about a man with the gift of the Whammy. She remembered standing in the doorway of his hospital room, reaching down with her hand to find Mulder's. She remembered how natural it had felt then, even as she had known the chance she was taking. Without her consciously thinking about it, Scully's hand repeated the motion, her fingers reaching out to tickle the back of his hand. Mulder took her fingers in his, and together, they set off down the platform. They went down the stairs and turned right and walked south and then west, ending up on West Madison. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Mulder!" Scully protested. "There's no way we're going to get tickets!" Mulder glanced at the lines streaming from the box office windows. Twelve separate windows, each with about forty people standing in line, all with hopeful, expectant looks on their faces. "Have no fear, Scully," Mulder said with a smile. "For my heart is pure, and God rewards the pure of heart." Scully bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "How much do you want to bet?" she asked. He glanced down at her. "A kiss," he said gently. Scully felt her jaw drop. "Excuse me?" "A kiss, Scully. I bet you we can get two tickets to tonight's event. If I win, I get a kiss." "A kiss?" she asked again. "What kind of kiss?" "A normal kiss. On the lips." He thought about it a moment. "From you," he added, realizing he was dealing with Scully. "A kiss from me, on the lips. A normal kiss. If you get two tickets." He nodded. Scully glanced at the lines again. "In this crowd, for this game, tonight." Mulder nodded again. Scully calculated her odds. "What if I win?" "What do you want?" he asked softly. Scully felt his fingers tightening around hers. "Paperwork," she smiled. "If I win, you do all the expense vouchers and case reports for...two weeks. A kiss against two weeks of paperwork." "Deal," Mulder said quickly. Way too quickly, Scully thought. Something's up. He left her standing there as he made his way up to the Preferred Customer's line at the box office. The clerk regarded him with a bored, distracted expression. "Help ya?" "I believe you have two tickets for Mulder?" he asked. The clerk reached into a bin filled with white envelopes and began flipping through them. "Mahoney...Meyer...Mulder...here ya go." Mulder took the envelope, opened it, and withdrew the tickets, sliding the envelope back to the clerk. "Thanks." Walking back to where Scully stood, Mulder fanned the tickets in his hand, holding them up in a "Y" for her to see. "Told you," he said softly, smiling. Scully felt the bottom of her stomach fall out. "Mulder, I don't know how you did it, but this feels rigged." Mulder shrugged. "Welshing, Scully?" "Never," she said. "Not here. Not now." "That's fine...I can wait. Let's go see the game." And with that, he took her hand again, leading her into the arena. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= They were good seats. Hell, they were GREAT seats, Mulder thought. Half-court, about six rows back from the wood. Scully sat to his left, her forearms on her thighs, leaning forward, watching the game intently. He realized that she probably had other things on her mind when she remained in that position even as the Bulls cheerleaders took to the floor during a 30-second time out. "Scully?" he asked. "What?" she replied, her eyes still focused somewhere in the middle distance. "I did have it rigged," he said softly. "Boyle got us these tickets. His partner's boyfriend's father." Scully nodded, slowly turning her head to face him. "I thought Boyle's partner was Bill..." she trailed off, noticing Mulder's expression. "Oh!" was all she said. "Yeah," Mulder nodded. "So...you don't owe me anything." Scully saw the guilt in Mulder's eyes and decided to have fun. "Oh, no, Mulder. A bet's a bet. I owe you one kiss on the lips. Deal's a deal." And with that, she turned back to the game, careful to keep Mulder's face in the corner of one eye. He looked miserable, she thought. Good. Serves him right. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= They made it just past half-time. "What's that beeping noise?" Scully asked, glancing around. "If I had to guess, I'd say it was my pager," Mulder replied. Scully absorbed this. Mulder hadn't moved, his attention focused on the game. "Are you going to check it?" "Eventually," was his answer. "Mulder?" He sighed. "Aw, Scully, it's probably Littleton wanting to know the outcome of the case." "So..?" "If I call him from half-court at a Bulls game, he'll never forgive me! I'll never hear the end of it!" "Mulder...it could be important." He rolled his eyes and reached for his pager. Glancing at the number, he shrugged. "Hmm..it is Tony's number, but he added '911' at the end." "Call him, Mulder." "Yes, dear," Mulder said snidely, reaching for his cell. He dialed quickly, his eyes on the game. "Littleton," a voice answered. "Mulder, Tony. What's so important it couldn't wait-" "Where are you?" "In Chicago. You know that." "I mean...can you get to the airport in the next...three hours?" Mulder sighed again. "I'm sure we could manage it, if it's important. What gives?" "I'm going to book you two on a flight to Jacksonville, Florida. I'm faxing the case notes to your hotel as we speak. We have a mess down there, Mulder. A kidnapping case that's gone sour." "We profile serial criminals, Tony-" "I _know_ that, Mulder. This started out as a serial murder case. Four boys, all between the ages of eight and ten, found murdered over the last year. Only this time, the jerk calls it in. We need you down there, pronto." "But-" "Hey, you refusing to take an assignment?" "No, but-" "Three hours, Mulder. Delta airlines. Information will be at your hotel. Get moving. Now." Littleton hung up on him. "Shit," Mulder grumbled, collapsing the antenna on his phone. "C'mon, Scully...we gotta go." "What's up?" she asked. "Jacksonville, Florida. Kidnapping." She nodded, taking one last glance at the game. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The Drake Hotel Mulder was zipping his overnight bag shut when he detected Scully standing behind him, her shoulder pressed against the jamb. "You ready?" he asked. "Yes," she said. Something in her voice made him turn. Her eyes were soft, moist, and she was looking at him with the strangest expression he'd ever seen. "What?" "I..." she stopped. "I want you to collect on the bet, Mulder." He shook his head. "Scully, I told you, that was rigged. You don't owe me anything." She shook her head, taking a step towards him. "A bet is a bet, Mulder. And I know you. If you don't collect on this bet, you're never going to let me forget it. You'll hold it over my head for months, and I can't deal with that. So come here, let me kiss you, and we can just get it over with." He sat down on the bed, hard. "Just forget about it?" he asked wistfully. Poor choice of words, Scully thought. "You know what I mean," she amended, stepping still closer. Mulder looked at the carpet, searching for the words. "Scully..." he started. She stepped between his spread legs. "We have time," she said softly. She gently placed her hands on his shoulders. He looked up, his expression miserable. "Scully..." "What's the matter, Mulder? Don't you _want_ to kiss me?" Danger, his mind warned. "No," he said gently. Scully felt the color drain from her face. She removed her hands from his shoulders and started to step back. "Well then why did you even-" she started. She felt his hands at her waist, pulling her back towards him. She resisted for a moment, and then gave in. "Scully," he said, staring at her stomach, "It's not that-" "Look at me, please," she demanded quietly. He glanced up, meeting her eyes. "It's not a 'yes or no' question, Scully. If we ever do kiss...like that...I don't want it to be as a result of a silly little bet. I want it to be-" "Hush," Scully said, pressing two fingers against his lips. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he went and did something like this, something so generous, so wonderfully gentle... "Mulder...just by saying that, you make me want to kiss you." Danger, his mind warned again. Extreme danger. "Scully..." She moved then, her hands back on his shoulders, her head lowering to his. A moment before their lips would have touched, the phone rang. "Dammit," Scully muttered, moving out of Mulder's arms. He leaned back on the bed, snagging the phone with one hand. "Mulder." "Your taxi is here, sir," the desk clerk announced. "We have a rental," Mulder replied. "Oh, sorry, sir. Special Agent Littleton made it clear that-" "Well, dismiss it. We'll drive the rental to the airport." "Yes, sir." Mulder hung up the phone, thankful for once for Tony Littleton's interference. "C'mon," he said. "We have go to." Mulder stood and reached for his bag. Scully moved to block him. "Mulder..." "Scully...we have a kidnapping case waiting for us in Jacksonville." "But we're here now." "Scully, it was just a stupid bet. A stupid, rigged bet!" Scully put a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed. Mulder's knees hit the edge of the bed and he sat down, hard. Scully straddled his waist, draping her arms over his shoulders. "Listen to me," she said softly, pinning him with her eyes. She reached back to tuck a lock of fiery hair behind one ear. "If you back out now, that makes you a welsher, too." He opened his mouth to protest, and she placed the same two fingers across his lips. "If you were willing to risk my getting angry over rigging a stupid little bet in order to get a kiss from me, the least I can do is grant such an obviously deeply held desire." She shrugged. "It's just a kiss, Mulder. It will... satisfy a long-standing curiosity." Mulder couldn't focus his thoughts. All he knew was Scully's warm weight in his lap, her arms across his shoulders, the nearness of her, the look in her eyes. This was not what he had planned at all; he'd never planned on collecting the bet. It was too dangerous, too filled with chances for hurt; for him and for her. "Fine. Kiss me." Mulder said, his voice distant, remote. Slowly, bit by bit, the emotion and animation drained from Scully's face. She stood. "Screw you, Mulder," she said softly, staring at the floor. "Just...screw you." She turned and walked back into her room, reappearing a moment later with her overnight bag. "Let's go. As you said, we have a plane to catch." Shit, Mulder thought. Doesn't she understand? He stood and grabbed his own bag, took two steps towards the door and stopped. Dropping the bag, he spun on her, grabbing Scully by the shoulders. One hand slid around and into her hair, arching her neck, tilting her face towards his. The other hand slid down her side, around to the small of her back, bringing her close. His mouth found hers. Scully's eyes fluttered and then closed, her own arms coming around, snaking under and through his, one around his back, the other around his neck, her own fingers in _his_ hair, using it to guide him, to pull him harder against her. It was magic, he thought. Pure, sweet, simple magic. A kiss like he'd never known or suspected. Her lips, lips he had wondered about, fantasized about, peered at and lusted after...were perfect. They fit against his own as if made for them, her breath in his mouth, the small itch of her fingernails against his scalp only contributing to the overall sensation. Amazing, Scully thought as the kiss deepened and grew heat. Standing in a hotel room in Chicago, in Mulder's arms, feeling his mouth working against mine: Who would have ever thought? He pulled away, his hands moving to cup her face, thumbs stroking the arches of her cheeks. "See?" he whispered. "It's not _just_ a kiss, Scully." His need, his hunger, his desire spoke more through those six words than any other could have. She looked into his eyes and saw the complex, whirling emotions behind them. Desire, fear, pain...all of it. She knew the same emotions were reflected in her own eyes. "Mulder-" she said softly, reaching for his mouth with her own again. He pulled away, reaching for his bag. "Time, Scully. We both need time to think about this." He paused. "Let's go. We have a long flight." She nodded, a little hurt that he didn't want to continue kissing her. But he was right, dammit. In the grander scheme of things, the kiss was both expected, and not. A small part of each of them had known it was coming...someday. Neither had expected today to be that day. Mulder had been... What? Teasing her? At the arena...he'd known he'd win the bet. And that had been all the impetus that Scully had needed. She'd wondered about Mulder that way once or twice... Liar, she thought. More than once or twice. A hell of a lot more. And she knew that he had as well. It was only human nature. They were attractive, intelligent people in the prime of their lives, with exciting, interesting careers, and a wonderful relationship. Well, she amended, at least an exciting one. And it was getting better. Baby steps, to be sure...but it was getting better. Jacksonville, her mind announced. She followed Mulder out of the room and down the hall to the elevator. They rode down in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. The desk clerk handed them a thick pile of flimsy fax sheets as they checked out. Scully took it and began reading; it was the case file from Littleton. Two paragraphs into the summary, she knew that the next few days were going to be hard. For her, and for Mulder. Especially for Mulder. Child abductions just hit too close to home. Together, still silent, they headed for their rental car. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Aboard Delta Flight 2066 Two Hours Later The beverage cart had just rattled up the aisle. They had both ordered coffee, black. Mulder had quietly instructed the flight attendant to keep the coffee coming. She'd seen the paperwork spread out before them and had nodded, understanding without knowing the specifics that it was important that these two passengers remain awake for the flight. She'd offered to move the people in the rows in front and behind the two Agents, so their light wouldn't keep them awake. Mulder was studying the profile that had already been written, taking copious notes. Scully eyed this with more than a passing interest; she'd never known Mulder to take a single note in all the years she'd known him. Which probably meant he was distracted. And taking that as a given, she had a good idea what he was distracted _about_. The same thing she was, as a matter of fact. "How does it look?" Scully asked. "Not good," Mulder answered. "Did you see the autopsy data?" Scully nodded, trying to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. The data had been gruesome, and that was being kind. The killer, what ISU profilers called an UNSUB, (for UNknown SUBject,) seemed to have a distinct antipathy towards young blonde boys. Four boys between the ages of eight and ten years old, had been taken from the Jacksonville area in the past nine months. All four had been found dead by the side of the A1A causeway. Each of them had been found naked, hands and feet tied, with evidence of severe physical and sexual torture prior to death. @ Death had been caused, in each case, by a blow to the head with a blunt object. All the victims had suffered fractured skulls, but it was the Arlington County Coroner's Office opinion that the blow to the head had taken place immediately prior to each victim being strangled with bare hands. Pinpoint hemorrhages in the whites of the eye had contributed to that finding. The coroner listed a dual cause of death, because in his opinion, death would have occurred within minutes after the blow to the head, regardless if the choking had not taken place. Each victim bore signs of physical torture. Some had cigarette burns on the backs, buttocks and genitals. Others had what appeared to be plier marks on the nipples and genitals. The coroner had removed a cement plug from the anus of the most recent victim, and the Florida State Police Crime Lab had determined through means unknown to Scully that the plug had been inside the body for up to three days before the victim was murdered. # "He likes it," Mulder muttered. "He really likes what he's doing." "So why call it in?" Scully asked. "Why draw attention to himself?" "Only reason I can think of is that he's getting ready to fly the coop. Change locales. He wants to brag to the cops that he got away with it." Scully nodded her agreement. "Makes sense. Or is it a cry for help?" Mulder shook his head, annoyed at something. "Not that, Scully. Look at the way the bodies were positioned. All face up, all displayed in such a way to call attention to the crime. If they'd been face down, or covered, or hidden, I might have believed there was some sort of post-rage remorse. But...not in this case. His anger is still to raw, still too hungry." Scully nodded again, glad that Mulder was talking. "So...what does Littleton expect us to do?" Mulder shook his head. "I have no idea. Maybe he just wants a headquarters profiler down there, some kind of presence from the Crystal Tower." Mulder began shuffling paper, looking for the UNSUB profile. It was standard: White male, 25 to 35, with a blue-collar job, driving a ten to fifteen year-old car. The car would be heavily customized, with a powerful engine and a loud radio. The UNSUB would be clean and neat. The use of the ligatures on the hands and feet indicated an organized killer, probably with a kit. The ropes used to bind the victims had been analyzed, and were standard clothesline, available at hardware stores across the country. He would smoke, but would be trying to quit. He would be of above average intelligence, but an underachiever, both professionally and personally. He would have failed relationships, several of them, with women his own age, and would prefer younger women, especially women that looked prepubescent. Mulder wasn't sure about that last one. He had the feeling that the UNSUB was... He closed his eyes, reaching up to turn the reading light off, thrusting their row into total darkness. Scully, in the process of going over crime scene photos, turned to complain and saw Mulder's eyes twitching behind closed lids. Darkness, she remembered. Mulder went deep inside himself, looking for the UNSUB. He felt around in the darkness of his mind, one hand holding a lamp cord, the other searching for the socket, feeling along the wall. His mind turned words and phrases from the reports over and over again, glancing at them askance, turning them upside down. It shouldn't be this hard, he thought. No, not little girls. He likes little boys. But not sexually. He's not gay, and he's not a pedophilie, even though the children were molested. His sexual high isn't from the actual molestation...it's from...the revenge? The get-back? Mulder touched on a memory, and his mind drew back as if burned. He approached the memory slowly, as if it might run if startled. Ten. He'd been ten years old. Little League game. His father, dropping him off, Sam in the car. He remembered wanting his father to stay for the game, wanting his father to watch him pitch. He'd been working on his fastball. His father curtly ordering him out of the car, telling him to find his own ride home. His father turning to Sam and calling her "Princess," and how they were going to go out and buy her a new dress, so she could be pretty. Pretty for who...? Mulder remembered thinking. And he remembered not wanting that question answered, remembered the hatred and the bile that had risen in his throat as he'd turned and watched his father drive away, smiling at his little sister, remembered how the departing form of the Mulder family car had slowly revealed the baseball field, how it had shown the other boys on his team, their fathers standing on the sidelines, calling encouragement, praise, shouting out words of love and support. And then the burn. He remembered the hatred he'd felt for those boys, how he wanted them all to die, to vanish, to disappear from the face of the Earth forever. How he wanted to be them, how he wanted to have fathers like they did, fathers that didn't scream and shout and yell and point fingers, fathers that didn't drink and hit. And then the memory doubled back on itself. Mulder saw his father screaming at him, his neck corded with anger, a huge, fat, blue vein throbbing in the center of his forehead. The one game his father had managed to make, and Mulder had walked in the go-ahead run. His father, on the sidelines, jumping up and down like an organ-grinder's monkey, shaking his fist. And the ride home, after the game, Mulder's father repeating over and over again how embarrassed he'd been, how humiliated and disgusted. His son...HIS SON... walking in a go-ahead run! Failing! And the hate and the bile and the anger and the shame came rolling back again, Mulder remembering the hatred he'd felt, upset that he'd gotten his fondest wish, for his father to see a game, to see him play, and how that still hadn't been enough, it was never enough, it would never _be_ enough. Never enough. Never. Ever. "Daddy," he whispered, and then whimpered. Scully, having watched the entire episode, knew that Mulder was...being Spooky. He was in the Dark Place, as she privately called it. He was reliving something from his past. Something evil and painful and dark. Dark like the grave, she thought, and shuddered. She considered reaching out to him, but didn't know if she should. Did he want her to? Need her to? Or did he need this more, these trips into his pain, into the horror that passed for his childhood? Mulder, still inside the memory, saw himself as a boy, saw himself trudging up the stairs to his room, closing the door softly, not wanting to alert his father, not wanting to incur the wrath again, saw himself sitting on the bed, tossing the mitt on the floor and... And... Crying. Sobbing. Letting his face fall into his hands as he struggled to let the pain out as quietly as he could. Private pain, not for sharing. Not with his mother, nor his sister. No one to listen. Even then, knowing he was different, smarter than the other kids. Knowing that baseball was the great equalizer, that when he was on the field he was just another one of the kids, just a faceless, nameless number in a uniform. Knowing that now, when he needed a friend, he had no one to turn to. No one. And the memory shifted. Memory became fantasy as Mulder's mind tried to deal with the overwhelming guilt and pain. A little girl walked into the room, a little girl with red pigtails and smart blue eyes. "It's ok, Mulder," the little girl with the voice of an adult Scully said. "It's ok...I'm here." She walked over to the bed and jumped up, putting her arm around his shoulder. He turned his face into that her shoulder and sobbed, letting the tears run out, letting the pain and rage and hurt and anger flow out of him in a never ending wave of grief and sadness and just plain hurt. She stroked his back, made cooing noises in his ear, letting him cry. "I know why," Mulder told the fantasy Scully. "I know why he did it." "Who?" the fantasy Scully asked, and Mulder opened his eyes to find that fantasy had become reality, that it wasn't a six or seven year-old Scully sitting on his bed in the Chilmark house, but the 33 year-old Scully, his best, only friend holding him and letting him cry into her shoulder. He raised his face from her body, tears streaking his skin, and looked into the eyes of his partner. "The UNSUB. I know why he did it." Scully raised her eyebrows but said nothing. He saw her expression. "Maybe not the specifics, but if he calls back, and I can talk to him...I think I can get him to come in." Scully let out a deep breath. "Let's hope he calls, Mulder." "Tired," he whispered, lowering his face to her shoulder again. "So, so tired..." "Shhhh," she said, stroking his hair with her free hand. "Go to sleep, Mulder. Rest." He sighed happily, closed his eyes and was asleep within moments. Scully continued to hold him, not minding, actually welcoming it. Is this what it's like? she wondered. Is this what it's going to be like to love this man? Would be like, she mentally corrected herself. Would be like. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Jacksonville, Florida The plane landed without incident. The bump of the wheels against the tarmac woke Mulder from his sleep, and he straightened, looking at Scully with a strange expression on his face. He doesn't remember, she thought. He thinks it was a dream. "Hey, sorry," he said, a wry smile on his face. "No problem, Mulder. I've drooled on you during enough stakeouts." He nodded, suddenly remembering the Modell stakeout, how he'd reached over and teased the side of her face with his fingers, thrilling to the silky, sexy feel of her skin against his. "Yeah, that's true." "So, Mulder...come to any conclusions?" He turned to her, opening his mouth to speak, and saw the guarded expression on her face. She knew. He must have said something. He sighed. "Listen," he started. "I...when I'm working a case like this... it gets weird sometimes. If you want to...go back to Quantico, I'll understand." She considered smacking him one, but remembered how... utterly vulnerable he'd looked during his...trance. "No, Mulder," she said softly. She leaned close to him, once again pinning him with her eyes. "Listen to me...no one should have to go through what you do when you...do that. But...if there's anyone in the Bureau with half a chance to bring this...UNSUB in, I know you're the man for the job." Impulsively, Scully leaned in as if she was going to kiss him, instead settling for gently patting his hand and smiling. Stunned, Mulder could only sit there and wonder what might have happened. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Joint Task Force Headquarters Jacksonville, Florida 0521 Hours Mulder strode into the building, flashed his ID to the uniformed officer at the desk and asked for directions to the task force. Scully trailed in behind him, attempting to cover a yawn behind the back of her hand. Mulder turned and continued walking, following the cops directions, and found the conference room in short order. There were two Jacksonville detectives and an FBI agent inside. "Hey," Mulder said as he entered. "Who was supposed to meet us?" The FBI agent looked up, bleary-eyed. He lifted a wrist in the general direction of his face. "Not s'posed to be here for another hour," he said, and dropped his wrist back to the table. "How long have you been awake?" Mulder asked. "What day is it...?" "If you don't know, that's too long," Scully said. "Go home, get some sleep. Leave your pager and cell numbers." The agent stood, nodded, and wrote two numbers down, handing the piece of paper to Scully as he walked past. "The Jax ASAC and SAC are going to be in at six-thirty. Have fun. Sorry I missed you." And with that, he was gone. "Anything new?" Mulder asked the two Jax detectives. "Who are you?" one of them asked. "Mulder, ISU," he said, shrugging out of his jacket. "Fox Mulder?" the older one asked. "One in the same," Scully confirmed. The two detectives exchanged a grim smile. "Coffee?" Scully asked. "Good idea," the younger detective said. "I take mine with one sugar, no cream." "Nice to know. When you get it, make sure you get me and my partner one," Mulder said instantly. "I take it black. She takes it one cream." The two cops exchanged a glance. "Now," Mulder snapped. Scully didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed. She settled for tired, and made her way to a free chair at the conference table. "God, I'm beat," she said, collapsing into the chair. "I'll see your beat and raise you an exhausted," Mulder replied. "Call," she said, surprising Mulder. "You play poker, Scully?" "Navy brat. Two brothers. You do the math." He nodded, too tired to explore this...fascinating concept any more. Scully realized that the uncomfortable feeling in her abdomen was the pressure of a full bladder. She got up to find the bathroom, and instead discovered the community coffee urn, with the two Jax detectives hovering around it, talking in quiet, subdued tones. "...heard about him," the older one was saying. "Rumor has it he can read people's minds." "No shit?" the younger one asked. "Yeah...but only scumbags' minds. He's some kind of... weirdo. But he gets the job done, from what I've heard." "Like what?" "Oh, Lord...about nine, what...ten years ago? A case down in Tallahassee. Standard hooker slayings. All black hookers. Tallahassee vice figured it was NVNNH." He said it as "En Vee En En Aych." Scully made a mental note to discover what the acronym meant. "So this Mulder guy comes down, does the profile, and they have the guy in like two days. Tallahassee cops thought it was a black man, because serial killers rarely cross racial lines. Turns out the guy was mulatto. Mulder figured it out because the only hookers that were getting chopped were ones that were black...real black. Coal black." "Blue black," his partner confirmed, sniggering behind an arrogant smile. "Well, anyway, Mulder figured it out in about ten seconds. Once he got a look at the crime scene photos, he put it together in the space between two heartbeats. I tell you, the guy is strange." Scully quietly made her way back up the hallway and finally discovered the ladies room. After finishing, she returned to the conference room to find a steaming cup of coffee waiting for her. "So, as I asked before," Mulder was saying. "Anything new?" "Nope. We have a trap and trace going, so if he calls, we'll have him within seconds." "Don't you guys have 911 Enhanced?" Mulder asked. The cops exchanged a what-a-dumb-question look. "Yeah. Doesn't work against cell phones. The phone he's using was reported stolen six hours ago. We haven't turned it off...for obvious reasons." "The newest upgrade can work cells," Mulder insisted. "What version of the software are you using?" Neither cop had any idea. "Well, perhaps if you contact your communications section, they'll be able to tell you," Scully offered. Again, with the exchanged glances. Mulder rolled his head. "Please." They started to go. Mulder got up and walked over to the door to meet them. He took the younger one by the shoulder and pulled him close. "How long you been a cop?" he asked. "Nine years." "Eleven for me. That little redhead over there is the best partner I've ever had, and the best goddamn cop I've ever seen. You do not want to be messing with her, playing your little local law enforcement mind games. She will hurt you," Mulder whispered. "You guys call yourselves professional law enforcement officers. Start acting like it." With that, he turned and walked back to Scully's side. She could tell by the look on his face what had just taken place. The only thing that saved Mulder from getting a serious what-for was the fact that he looked like he was dead on his feet. It can wait, Scully decided. The two cops returned in ten minutes. "The third-quarter 96 version," the older one announced. "Need an upgrade," Mulder groaned. He was seated at the head of the table, leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed. "Did he say he was going to call again?" he asked. "He said that he might call us so we could listen to him kill the kid." "Ok, lemme see what you got on the most recent victim," Mulder said, opening his eyes. The older cop slid a thin folder across the table top to Mulder. The FBI agent opened it and began reading. "Nine ears old, blonde and blue. Upper middle class. Good grades. Plays sports. Hates girls, loves frogs. A typical kid. Average, maybe a little above. Still has both original parents, and a bratty little sister that he secretly adores. Everything the UNSUB isn't, and always wanted to be." "Excuse me?" the older cop asked. "Your UNSUB," Mulder said, slipping into his Lecture Voice, "is killing himself. Over and over." "Whaaaat?" "He's killing the image of what he thought he was supposed to be, what he thinks he's entitled to. A normal childhood with two loving parents. He hates...despises...the fact that these kids have a life that he never could, never did." "And you know all this because...?" Mulder grinned. "If I said it was because this is what I do for a living, would that make any difference?" "The other profiler said that he did it because he has a problem with his pedophilia and latent homosexuality." "pedophilies are not necessarily homosexuals. In most cases, they aren't. You didn't find any semen in or on the bodies. The torture of the victims is inconsistent with pedophilia. Pedos try and arouse the kids, try and get them to admit that they like it. Pedos prey on kids from dysfunctional families, kids that are lonely, not very well adjusted. This kid fits none of those profiles. Trust me on this one, guys. This guy is not a kiddie-didder." Scully winced at the term. She knew it was a defense mechanism, but it was still crude. "So what do we do?" "How big is your suspect pool?" "We're convinced he's a transient." "Good. Ok, here's what you do. Start calling all the day care centers, all the grammar and middle schools. Start waking people up if you have to. Get a hold of the personnel records. Find out anybody hired within the last sixty days that recently resigned or was fired. Doesn't matter the reason. Don't look too hard at anybody that was fired for being too close to the kids or too friendly with them." "Why? That makes no sense." "Listen to me...take these names, cross-reference them with your suspect pool. Anybody that turns up in the records check against the schools...eliminate." "Eliminate?" "This guy can't stand to be around kids, get it? He hates them. This is a quick way to narrow your suspect list a little." "Process of elimination?" "Something like that," Mulder agreed. "What if you're wrong?" the younger cop challenged. "Then we got another dead kid on our hands," Mulder answered, "and I get a new matinee for my ever-revolving series of nightmares. Now stop talking and start doing." "Anyplace besides day cares and schools?" "Sports leagues. Ice rinks. Any place where kids congregate that has blue-collar workers. Get as many men as you can spare on this as quickly as possible. We've got a clock, gentlemen. I'd like to beat it this time." "The press is going to start screaming if they get wind of this," the older cop observed. "Fuck 'em," Mulder replied cheerfully. "Easy for you to say," the cop observed. "Ride into town, solve the case, take the credit, ride out. We gotta work here. We gotta-" Mulder's hand came down on the smooth, flat surface of the table with a loud smack! "I don't care _who_ gets the credit for this," he hissed. "Just get me that goddamn information." The two cops stood and walked towards the door. "Fuckin' prima donna," the younger one whispered. "Should I order a Bundt cake?" Scully asked. Mulder grinned. She had a great memory. Almost as good as his. "What was that...fifth case?" "Something like that." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 7:30am The phone in the center of the table rang, two short trills, then a longer third, and then two shorts again. "That's him," one of the cops announced. The room had filled up; there were several detectives, the FBI SAC and ASAC, both of them giving Mulder and Scully a wide, cold berth, and much of the senior Jacksonville Police Department brass. Mulder made a motion for the phone. Someone handed it to him. "Hello?" "Who is this?" The voice was harsh, strained. He sounds as if he's out of breath, Mulder thought. "My name is Mulder. I'm an FBI agent." "Oh...from Washington, I assume." "Quantico, actually." "Oh, a shrink?" "Yes, as a matter of fact. But I don't practice." "Ready to play?" "Is this a game?" Mulder answered. "To me, it is." "No, it's not." "What?" "A game. It's not a game. I know what it is, and it's not a game." "What is it, then?" "You know." "Tell me." "Tell _me_," Mulder insisted. "You're so fucking smart, Mr. FBI man...you tell _me_." Mulder ran a hand over his face, spinning his chair so he didn't have to look at the other people in the room. "Trace started," someone said quietly. "Keep him talking." "Tell me something," Mulder said, his voice smooth, comforting. "Did it hurt?" There was no answer. "Did it hurt, the way he looked at you?" Again, no answer. "So much hate. As if...as if he never wanted you to be born, right?" A choking sound on the other end of the phone. "Shut up." "No, really...talk to me. I know you, pal. I know you inside and out." "You don't know SHIT!" the voice screamed. "Almost got it," the same quiet voice announced. "Sure I do," Mulder said. "I mean, look at them. All perfect and cute, not a care in the world. They don't know, do they?" Silence. "They don't know about the nightmares. About the pain. About what it's like to get up in the morning and think that you might as well be dead, right? Nobody'd notice. You could just...give head to a twelve gauge, and no one would care. Is he still alive?" "Y-yes." Everyone in the room except Scully let out a breath. Only Scully and Mulder, and the UNSUB, knew that Mulder hadn't been asking about the victim. "In a home somewhere? Or is he still in the house you grew up in, drinking himself into oblivion every single day?" A strangled cry. "HOW?" the voice asked. "Because," Mulder said slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. "I. Am. You. I was you, at least. I know, pal. I know exactly where you are. Inside your head, I mean." "Shit!" the quiet voice in the room said. "He's...we can't lock in on it." "Tell me," the voice begged. "He hit you, but that didn't hurt," Mulder started. "Not after a while, anyway. Pain was just something to remind you that you were still alive, that he could still touch you. You hated the hits, but the hits were better than nothing. It was the words that hurt the most, and more than that, the looks. He'd look at you across the dinner table like you were scum, like he blamed you for who he was. He'd get drunk and come and find you, tell you how worthless you were, and you believed him. You believed him because she wouldn't stand up to him. You believed him because he was your whole world, and when you did something, no matter how small, now matter how insignificant, when you did something to please him, it almost made you forget about the rest. He'd smile, and take your hand, put you up on his knee and ask you how come you couldn't always be that good little boy that had just made him happy. He wouldn't understand how long you'd searched to find that one thing, and he didn't know then, but you did, he didn't know that you'd do that same thing over and over and over again, hoping to make him happy all the time, you'd keep doing it until it annoyed him, until it wasn't a good thing anymore, you'd keep doing it until it set him off, until it made him angry, until he was hitting you and calling you names again, because the pain and the names and the anger and the hate were comfortable, familiar. You recognized those as something that you knew...it was all you knew, pal. Nothing but pain and hatred." Mulder stopped, reaching behind him blindly to hit the MUTE button on the phone. He let out two huge, gasping breaths, and then hit MUTE again. "And you see these little kids, all perfect, with a nice Dad and a nice Mom in a nice house with nice things and nice sisters and brothers and cats and dogs and you just get so angry, so jealous. You should have been them. It should have been you in that house, not in the house you were in, not living the life you were given. It should be you, not them. "Not them." The UNSUB was crying by this point. Every single person in the conference room was holding their breath. "It's not his fault," Mulder said softly. Again, everyone but Scully, Mulder and the UNSUB thought he was talking about the little missing boy. "He was weak. Don't hurt the boy, pal. He's like you were then. Afraid. He wants his father and his mother and his brother and his sister. He wants to see his dog again, wants to see his bedroom again, his bedroom with the Ninja Turtles bedsheets. He wants to wake up and go down and have pancakes for breakfast again. He wants to go to the mall with his family and play video games while his mom shops for bras because he's embarrassed to be in that adult place. He wants to stay up late and read comic books under the covers. He wants to grow up, pal. He wants to grow up to be like you want to be now. Normal. Loved. Let him. "Let him grow up." "It's not FAIR!" the UNSUB screamed. "Got him!" the voice called. Everyone in the room shifted into motion. They had a target now. The senior commander in the room lifted a portable radio to his mouth and began giving quiet orders. Somewhere in the city, two SWAT helicopters lifted off, nosed over and down, and headed south. "No one ever said life was fair," Mulder whispered. "My sister ... she was taken, when I was the boy's age. I never saw her again. She just...vanished. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't even the man who took her's fault. It just happened. Life isn't fair, pal." Mulder paused. "Will you tell me your name?" "Clay." "Clay...listen to me. You have a chance here. You have a chance to make it all right. Not for you, not for me, but for that little scared boy that wants to play another season of Little League." Mulder hit the MUTE button. "Tell SWAT to wait for my order before they go in," he said urgently. "This guy's on edge. No telling what he could do." The senior commander, grim-faced, nodded his assent. Mulder punched MUTE again. "Listen, Clay. They know where you are." Every head in the room, Scully's included, snapped around. Please, Scully thought. Please, Mulder, be right. Know what the hell you're doing. She walked over to him and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. One of Mulder's free hands came up and found hers, cupping her fingers. "They know where you are. They're on the way. I know you don't want to hurt him...I know you feel you have to. But talk to me. Stay here, on the phone, talk to me. I promise, I won't let them hurt you." "What's going to happen?" Clay asked. "The SWAT team is going to kick your door in. When they get there, they're going to let me know. I want you to do exactly what I tell you. If you do that, you won't be hurt. I promise." Mulder's gaze found and pinned the police commander. He nodded, his face stark and angry. His men had been running on coffee and bloodlust since this entire thing had started. But they had no choice. "They're going to hurt me," Clay whined. "No, they're not," Mulder promised. "They're going to do exactly what I tell them, and nothing more. Clay...is the boy all right?" "I...hurt him," Clay said. "I'm sorry." "How bad did you hurt him?" Mulder asked, his fingers tightening on Scully's. "...bad." Scully's free hand started rubbing Mulder's other shoulder. She didn't care how it looked to the room at large. "Is he alive?" "Y-yes." Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good, Clay. As long as he's alive, you and I can work together." "Touchdown," one of the cops called. "They're four minutes out." "Clay...it's almost over." Mulder hit the MUTE again. "The name! What's the boy's name?" "Tommy." Mulder hit MUTE. "Clay, I want you to put Tommy on the phone." "I can't. He's...asleep." Mulder leaned forward, breaking the contact between Scully and himself. "Asleep, Clay? Did you make him go to sleep?" "Yes." "Can you wake him up?" "No, I gave him...a pill." "What kind of pill, Clay?" "Demerol." Mulder glanced at Scully. She shrugged. "Where did you get the pill, Clay?" "From my doctor. Sleeping pills." "How many did you give Tommy, Clay?" "Two." Again, Mulder twisted to study Scully. She see-sawed her hand back and forth. Depends on his weight, she thought, and how much food he's had. She stuck a finger down her throat and then shrugged. "Did Tommy throw up when you gave him the pill?" Mulder asked. "He...moaned a little, like he was sick." Scully had moved and was flipping through the file that held Tommy's vital statistics. He weighed 76 pounds. She did a quick mental calculation. "Is there a medic on the SWAT Team?" The commander nodded. "Tell him...if he can't get Tommy to wake up to give him five milligrams of Narcan titrated in a D5W IV." The commander recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "I'm a doctor," Scully explained. "They're at the door," the quiet voice said. "Ok, Clay...listen to me. I want you to stick the phone between your head and your shoulder, and get down on your knees." "Why?" "Just do it, Clay, please?" "Oh...ok." The sound of shuffling movement filled the speaker. "Now, cross your legs at the ankle. Put your hands on your head and interlace your fingers. It's ok to lean against the wall so you can keep talking to me. Let me know when you're ready." More movement. The commander raised the radio to his lips. Mulder waited. "I'm rea-" "GO!" the commander radioed. The sound of a door being kicked in filled Mulder's ears. He heard the SWAT team calling " DOWN DOWN DOWN " through the phone. The sound of a brief struggle, and then, loudly, clearly, two sounds at once. The cold metal ratcheting sound of handcuffs closing, and, softer, in the background, a voice. "CLEAR! I FOUND HIM!" And then, seconds later, "He's alive, but barely. MEDIC UP!" The phone was lifted, and a new voice spoke. "This is Captain Taggert. We have the suspect in custody. The boy is alive, but pale. And...God...he's messed up." Mulder slumped against the table, burying his face in his arms. His shoulders sagged as the adrenaline rush dissipated. The police commander grabbed the phone from Mulder's hand. "What do you mean, messed up?" "Kid's naked, bruises all over his face and body. Burns on his butt and back. There's blood in the...in the crack of his..." "Understood," the commander said. "Get him to a hospital. Use the bird if you have to, but get him there fast." "Roger that," Taggert said. A moment later there was a click! as the phone was disconnected. For two long, long beats there wasn't a sound in the room. Then the men exploded, cheering and clapping. Scully saw more than one macho cop trying to rub tears out of his eyes. They started moving, exiting the conference room, moving to make telephone calls, lifting radios to mouths, shouting orders, getting responses. One by one, they filed by the head of the table. Some stopped, looked as if they were about to say something, and patted Mulder's back as they passed. Some mumbled thanks, congratulations. Finally, it was Scully, Mulder and the commander. "Nice work," he said to Scully, his expression asking another question, his eyes flicking to Mulder's slumped form. "Thank you," she said crisply, jerking her chin towards the door. The commander nodded and quickly made his exit. Scully sat down next to her partner. She saw him take a single hitching breath. She quickly moved to the door, stuck her head outside, glanced both ways, and quickly withdrew, shutting it. Moving back to Mulder, she reached out a tentative hand and placed it on the shoulder closest to her. "Door's shut, Mulder. It's just you and me." And then it started. Softly at first, a gentle, high keening sound that tore Scully's heart in two. Slowly, it deepened, until Mulder's body was wracked with wet, shuddering sobs. Scully had the feeling that she was seeing something no one else ever had: Mulder in in the terminal, total stages of utter emotional and psychological meltdown. She rubbed her hand across his back, saying nothing. Nothing to say, she thought. "You did it," she finally mumbled. "You got him back." "M-my job," he gasped wetly. She smiled at her partner's slumped form. "No, Mulder... your gift." And your curse, she thought. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Ten Minutes Later The two cops from before barged into the room and stopped dead in their tracks at the sight before them. Mulder was on the floor, bent at the waist, his face in his hands, sobbing loudly. Scully was kneeling by his side, holding him by the shoulders, gently rocking him. "Get OUT!" she hissed. They turned and left without a word. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Later Mulder finally stopped sobbing. He opened his eyes and glanced around. "How long?" he asked. Scully shrugged. "A bit." "How long, Scully?" "Half an hour, give or take." He nodded and stood, moving to the table and reclaiming his seat. "Thanks," he said gently. "No problem, Mulder." "Call Tony for me, ok?" Mulder asked, his voice making him sound like a lost little boy. "Now?" "Please." She dialed the phone. Littleton answered in the middle of the first ring. "Littleton." "Scully," she said. She opened her mouth to continue, and then saw Mulder waggling his fingers, asking for the phone. She handed it to him. "...going on?" Littleton asked. "Mulder, Tony. We got the suspect in custody." "The victim?" "Not this time. A survivor. He's on the way to the hospital now. He's in for a life of nightmares and therapy...but it's a life, at least." Littleton paused. "Mulder, I know it's not your thing, but would you mind speaking to the press?" Mulder's head snapped back. "What?" "Well...this is a high profile case. Could really give a shot in the arm to the ISU, if you know what I mean." Mulder shook his head. "No...Tony, I can't." "Mulder-" Scully had been listening on the speaker. She took the phone from her partner and gave him her back as she spoke to Littleton in hushed, urgent tones. "Listen to me, sir. Mulder's...he's in no condition to talk to the press right now. He'd do more damage than good." "Will YOU speak to them?" Scully twisted to face Mulder, wrapping the phone cord around her waist. He nodded. "Sure. I'm going to give the basic statement. I won't answer any questions about methods." "Understood. Thanks, Scully." "Sir?" "Scully?" "We need...some time off." "You got it. Three days enough?" "Plenty," Scully said. I hope, she silently added. "We'll fly up tonight." "Come in Monday, then. Take five days." "Deal," Scully said, hanging up. "Mulder, I'm going to talk to the press, and then we're getting the hell out of here." He nodded, lowering his head into his arms again. "Tha's fine, Scully. You talk to the press. I'll wait here." She studied his face for a moment and then strode from the room. Dana Scully had one thing on her mind: Getting Mulder back to DC where he belonged. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Outside Jacksonville Police Headquarters "...and with the cooperation of local law enforcement, we were able to generate a profile of the suspect and effect an arrest," Scully finished. "Questions?" The reporters were gathered on the steps of police headquarters. They all started shouting at once, jumping up and down, arms pumping. "Miss Scully! Miss Scully!" "Dr. Scully," she corrected. "What kind of doctor are you?" one shouted. "I'm a forensic pathologist," she answered. "Did you generate the profile?" "No, my partner, Special Agent Mulder did," she announced. "What's his first name?" a third screamed. "He prefers that you just use his first initial, "F"," Scully answered. Pointing, she said, "You." "When did you arrive?" "Four this morning," she answered. "You." "Why didn't the police call you in sooner?" a fourth asked. Scully ignored the question, pointing to a fifth reporter. "One more question, and then I'm afraid I have to leave to return to DC." "Why isn't your partner here?" "He's...finalizing some of the paperwork," she answered, knowing that it sounded like a lie. "He's not available to answer your questions right now." She paused. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That is all I have for you." She stepped to the side, and the Jacksonville Chief of Police took over, holding up his arms to silence the reporters that were still shouting questions at Scully's retreating back. Quickly making her way back to the conference room, she found a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Mulder sitting up and drinking a cup of coffee. "I'm ready," she said. "Good. So am I. Let's get the hell out of here," he said. "Let's go out the back way. The front is mobbed with the press." He nodded and followed her out. They snuck out the back door to their rental car and quickly drove to the airport. Neither one of them glanced in the rearview mirror. After turning the rental car in, they jumped on the bus to take them to the terminal. Mulder settled into his seat, leaned back and closed his eyes. Scully studied his profile as the bus chugged through the airport. From the moment they'd arrived in Jacksonville up until now, she'd all but forgotten about the kiss they'd shared in Chicago. Without thinking, Scully reached over and grabbed Mulder's face, pulling him to her. She kissed him, long and hard. He pulled away, sleepy eyes regarding her. "What was that for?" he asked. "Not that I'm complaining," he hastily added. She smiled at him. "The hero always gets a kiss from the pretty girl," she gently teased. "You're the hero, so..." "And you're the pretty girl..." he mumbled, leaning back and closing his eyes again. They rode in silence for the next few minutes. Just as the bus pulled to a stop in front of the terminal, Mulder spoke. "I'm glad you're the pretty girl, Scully." Chapter 4 =+=+=+=+===+=+= Aboard Delta Airlines Flight 220 Mulder was dreaming. In the dream, he was in the basement office of the X-Files, working away at his desk. He would glance up from time to time at Scully's desk, but it would be empty. More than that, it looked dusty, as if she hadn't been there in a long time. In the dream, this fact bothered him, bothered him deeply. Her chair was pushed completely against the desk, her computer was off, even the phone looked lonely and forlorn. Mulder thought about getting up to check the door to see if she was standing in the hallway, but something kept him at his desk. Every time the dream-Mulder thought about getting up, every time it considered opening that door, a sense of dread filled his body, and he remained seated, working away. But whenever he looked down at what he was working on, he would see...nothing. It was an X-File; he could tell that from the folder. But the pages inside were pure, blank white. No writing, no printing, no forms, no pictures, no fingerprint cards, nothing. It was an empty file, devoid of even the smallest nugget of information. Dream-Mulder continued to wonder where Scully was. Then a knock came at the door to the office. Mulder knew that he didn't want to answer it, but he knew he had to. It might be Scully, and she might need his help. In the dream, the distinct possibility that Scully was on the other side of that door, and that she needed his help grew as the dream-Mulder walked towards the door. He opened it, and found himself staring at... Himself. Another dream-Mulder stood in the hallway. He was dressed in a tuxedo, or what looked like the remnants of one. The shoes, pants and shirt were there, as were the suspenders. The tie, cumberbund and jacket were all missing. And the shirt was soaked with blood. Well, not really _soaked_, Mulder's unconcious mind noted, but spattered. Yes, that was a better term, a term more in line with what was expected of an FBI-certified National Criminal Profiler. The splotches and dots of blood indicated that the second dream-Mulder was not wounded or hurt; it was someone else's blood. That much was obvious. "Can I help you?" the first dream-Mulder asked the second. The second didn't speak. He smiled, an odd smile that Mulder had never imagined would ever be on his face. The second dream-Mulder, who Mulder was beginning to think of as Mulder2, started moving his hands like a magician. He showed both empty palms, and then backs of both, as if trying to prove that he was holding nothing. He twisted, turned, twisted again, and then was holding something in his right hand, pointing to it with the flat edge of his left, as if to say, "Ta-Da!" Mulder, in his dream, knew that he didn't want to look, but that he had to, that Mulder2 was holding something he had to see, that was _vital_ to be seen. @ He glanced down and almost screamed. Mulder2 was holding a severed head by the hair. The face was frozen in a mask of absolute terror, pain and rage. Both eyes were screwed shut, the mouth was open, a blue-black portion of tongue sticking out between the lips. With a shudder, Mulder realized that Mulder2 was holding the head of Melissa Scully. With a flourish, Mulder2 spun the head. The face turned away, and when it came back, Mulder gasped. Mulder2 was now holding the head of Deep Throat; his face wore the same expression that Melissa's had. With another flourish, Mulder2 spun the head, and Mulder waited for it to come back around. The face of Dana Scully, eyes closed, mouth open, appeared next. # Mulder screamed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully snapped her own eyes open and turned to face her partner. He was gripping the armrests with shaking, white-knuckled hands. He was whimpering, tears streaming from both tightly-shut eyes. His mouth was a grimace of pain and...what? she thought. "Mulder," she said softly, reaching for his hand. The moment she touched him, Mulder winced and moved sideways, away from her, bringing both arms up, across his chest, his fists balled under his chin. He began keening, rocking back and forth, looking like an autistic child. "No," he whispered, again and again. "No. No. No no no no no." "Mulder," Scully said, a little louder this time, glancing around to see what was going on. A flight attendant, a professionally concerned expression on her face, was striding down the asile. She knelt by their seats, her eyes finding Scully's. "Is there a problem?" "Bad dream," Scully said softly. "Would you get some water and an aspirin, please?" The flight attendant nodded and moved off, grateful to have something to do. "Mulder," Scully said for a third time. His eyes opened slowly and he blinked, looking around. His eyes fell on her and he smiled weakly. "Hey, Scully," he whispered. She had trouble hearing him over the constant, subdued whine of the plane's three jet engines. "Mulder...are you all right?" He slowly stopped rocking. "Why do you ask?" "You screamed," she stated simply. He nodded, accepting this, the images of the dream still fresh in his mind. He could still see her disembodied head in Mulder2's hands, held by her hair, gently swaying. He let out a breath and slumped back, trying to reconnect to reality. It had seemed so real, he thought. So vivid. "I'm fine, Scully," he said, taking perverse enjoyment from the look of disbelief that crossed her face. "Really," he added, in what sounded like a much more normal tone of voice. She bit her lip. "Does that happen often? After...cases like that?" "Sometimes," he nodded. "But not normally like that. I haven't screamed on a plane since..." He thought back. Before her time. The Arrowhead case, he remembered. Thirteen women, all killed by an arrow to the head. It had taken weeks to track that particular monster down. "What was the dream about?" Mulder shook his head. No way was he going to tell her that he'd dreamt about her decapitated head. No fucking way, he amended. "Nothing. I really don't remember." Scully hesitated. "Mulder...look at me." He glanced down the asile. "Where's the flight attendant with that water?" he asked. Interesting, Scully thought. He heard that, even though he was still apparently asleep, still in the clutches of that dream. "Mulder, look at me." He turned his face to hers, his eyes looking anywhere but at her. "Mulder, look _at_ me." Finally, his eyes found hers. "Mulder..." Softer this time, more understanding, more gentle. "Tell me what the dream was about." He shook his head. "No, Scully. I can't." "Can't...or won't?" Mulder shrugged. "Either. Both." Scully studied his profile for a long moment. The decision made, she announced, "Mulder, when we land, you're spending the night with me." He smiled and sighed. "Scully, as flattered as I am-" "Shut up, Mulder. Just nod your head and say "Thank you." That will be all that's required." "Thank you," Mulder said, and a moment later, he nodded. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Noon, and Grand Central Station was teeming with people. Situated on 42nd Street in Manhattan, Grand Central was the terminus of the Metro-North railroad line that served the suburbs north of the city, as well as a major transfer station for the New York City Subway system. A shuttle could be taken to the Port Authority Building, connecting commuters with the NJ Transit train system for travel south of the city. Amtrak made regular stops here, giving Grand Central commuters access to the entire country. Literally millions of people made their way through Grand Central every morning and evening rush hour. For a people-watcher, Grand Central was like the Central Park Zoo: Human animals of every possible shape, color and description walked through Grand Central at all hours of the day and night. Mark Dupree sat at the bar on the upper level, peering out over the huge main room. His eyes scanned the crowd, flitting from face to face, never staying on one person for too long. Mark Dupree was scared. Very, very scared. Every single person he looked at held the mark of the Chosen. No, that was not correct, he thought. They all had words etched into the skin of their foreheads, but none of them had the magic word: CHOSEN. Take the waitress. The writing on her face was small, almost undetectable, unless you knew where, and more importantly, how to look. If he looked at them directly, straight in the eyes, the writing vanished. But if he caught them out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the words. And it was always just one word, although a different word with each person. The waitress had "adultress" on her forehead. She was sleeping around. Dupree knew it. He'd seen the wedding ring on her finger he'd seen the brand. So he knew he wasn't going crazy. He thought that he might already _be_ crazy. The waitress brought his drink (club soda) and left it on the corner of his table, smiling in that cool, distant way service professionals had. He was just a Customer to her, not a person. Dupree didn't mind that, in fact, that was why he had chosen Grand Central for this particular morning. He needed a place he could sit and think. The hunger was inside him again. It had taken a much shorter time to return. Part of him knew the reason for this. He had not taken the time to enjoy Leon King's murder. He had been cold, efficient, shooting an entire magazine into the man's head and throat. He had not taken the time to open him up, to peer inside at the grisly remains of the body while it was still warm. He missed that. He needed that. But Dupree was afraid. Afraid that if he did it again during this series of murders, that he would mark himself. He would leave a signature. Mark Dupree knew a lot about signatures. Both the kind that were made with pen in hand, and the kind that was made with a knife. He knew that a competent enough police officer, someone who know how to profile the psychology of the crminial mind, would be able to use a signature against him. The clues he was leaving were one thing; they were a challenge, a way to force the cops' hands. He needed that, too. He needed to know that he was putting one over on whoever was investigating these cases. He wondered if the USMS or the NYPD was going to catch these cases. After all, the victims were all protected witnesses. But, would the USMS want to announce that they were losing protectees? Would they want the world to know that the vaunted WITSEC had been penetrated? Probably not, which meant that the NYPD would catch the cases. And in Mark Dupree's experience, the NYPD's ability to track a serial killer was laughable at best, downright scary at worst. In his basement office, near the computers, were sixteen four-drawer steel filing cabinets. They were jam-packed full of clippings from the New York _Daily News_, the _Post_ and _Newsday._ All of them cross-referenced and categorized in a computer database of Dupree's own design. He could locate dozens of articles on topics that interested him. And one of those topics were the techniques and methods used to identify, track, arrest and prosecute serial criminals. So leaving a signature was something Mark Dupree very much wanted to avoid. But the problem was that he knew, he knew in his bones, that if he didn't start...opening them up, as he called it, he would have to kill more and more of them, and more quickly, in order to be satisfied. So the idea was to satisfy himself without leaving a signature. And the best way to do that, he decided, was to figure out a way to hide his real signature inside another one. If he could leave a false trail, a way to throw the cops off, there was no telling how long he could go on. Preferably, Dupree thought, he should come up with several "other" signatures so that the cops would be completely flummoxed. He should be able to figure a way to satisfy his needs, his urges, and still confuse whomever was looking at these crimes, be it USMS, NYPD, or God Forbid, the FBI. If the ISU got involved, all bets were off. Especially if one specific profiler was called in. Dupree cracked open his laptop and booted it, entering the four passwords that were required to get past his own security system. You got one attempt at each of them. If you entered them wrong, the system detonated. If you turned it off without entering the four passwords, the system detonated. The next time the machine was turned on, every single file would be deleted in a matter of seconds. There was no one good enough, fast enough, to defeat this security. He had thought of everything. He scanned his files quickly, using a search engine of his own design. Anyone shoulder-surfing would have quickly turned away, gagging. He was searching for the most violent, the most gruesome signatures he could find, because only with those would he be confident that his own would be hidden inside them. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland Scully pulled her car into the slot provided by her building's management and twisted the key to OFF. Mulder was in the seat beside her, his eyes far away. "Penny for your thoughts," she offered softly. "Can't make change," he teased back. "C'mon, Mulder. Pizza, movies, wine, and/or beer await." "Iced tea?" he asked, a pout in his voice. "Sure, what the hell. I'll have the pizza guy bring a six-pack of that new stuff." Mulder shot her a quizzical glance. "You know, the ones with those claymation cartoons?" Mulder shook his head. "I hear they're wonderful." "Ok." They got out of the car, retrieved their bags and made their way up to Scully's apartment. She noticed the way he made himself at home, and it warmed a part of her she often denied. It was nice to see a man comfortable in her apartment. God knew there were few enough of them lately. The bug man, she reminded herself. But he didn't count. For one, he was close to sixty. The last man she remembered having in her apartment besides Mulder was Skinner. And he _really_ didn't count. "I'll buy," Mulder said. "Good," Scully agreed. "I don't have much cash." "Antonio's takes plastic," Mulder pointed out. "Mulder, I'm not going to pay nineteen percent on a pizza!" He shrugged. "Use Amex, then." "That's even worse!" "Whatever." She tossed the cordless phone into his lap. "You buy, you choose. Anything but anchovies. I'm going to go change." Mulder stood. "Good idea," he said, moving towards her bedroom. Scully stood there, hands on her hips, wondering exactly what the hell Mulder was thinking. He moved to the chest of drawers that sat perpindicular to her bed, opening the bottom one. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and an Oxford T-shirt he kept there. Without thinking, Mulder began stripping out of his suit, the door to the hallway still open. Scully wanted to look away, she really did. The pants came down, revealing a pair of blue and white boxers. The shirt was next. In socks and boxers, Mulder neatly folded his suit, his face still a thousand miles away. Finished, he re-emerged into the hallway, carrying his suit. "Finished?" Scully asked. "Huh?" Shaking her head, Scully moved past Mulder in the hallway. They both had to turn, backs flat against the wall, as they passed. He stood in the hallway, looking at her as she entered the bedroom. She started to close the door. "You want to hear about my dream?" he asked suddenly. "Now?" "Huh?" "Mulder...unlike you, I have some sense of...privacy." "Oh..." He seemed to come awake then, realizing where he was. "Sure, right. Sorry." He turned to go back to the living room. Once there, he quickly placed his clothes in his overnight bag and returned to the couch. Glancing over his shoulder, down the hall, he saw... Scully. She hadn't closed the door all the way. Just enough light was visible for him to catch glimpses of her as she moved around. He saw her shed the jacket from her business suit, and then cross out of sight into the closet to hang it up. She was there for a minute, and then she came back, minus the blouse as well. Mulder saw her in her bra and skirt, reaching to her left ear to remove the earring. Mulder's mouth went dry. "Did you order yet?" she called. "No," he said softly, not wanting his loud voice to alert her that she'd left the door open wider than she'd intended. "Good. Extra cheese and pepperoni," she requested. "Ok," he called back. Scully moved towards the closet again, her earrings left in a jewlery box he'd spied once or twice before. Oh God, Mulder thought. When she comes back across she's going to be- She was. Bra and panties, bare feet. She passed out of view for a second, and then she was back in his line of sight, bent at the waist, opening a drawer. He could see the gentle curve of her rump, and the soft slope of her naked back. Mulder knew at that moment what a peeping tom saw, what one felt, what one wanted to see. She didn't know he was watching, and her naturalness made it that more exciting. If she had been doing it for him, knowing he was watching, she would have put a wiggle in her hips, or a sway in her walk. Something, something to let him know that she knew he was watching and enjoying. Not only could he never see Dana Scully doing something so...adolescent for a boyfriend or lover, but if she found him looking, she'd kill him. He turned away. Just in time, too, because ten seconds later a barefoot Dana Scully crossed her bedroom to the door and reached for the handle, only to discover that she'd left it open much wider than she'd thought. She stared at the door, her hand reaching for it. Her eyes rose from the knob, through the crack, to the back of Mulder's head. She felt her eyebrows draw together. She'd asked him if he'd ordered yet. His answer had been soft, muffled, as if through a closed door. He'd known, she realized, which meant that he'd probably... What? Peeked? The word seemed so innocent, so childish. As if Mulder was a ten year-old boy still discovering his burgeoning sexuality, that the only way the burning questions in his mind about female bodies and their mysterious sexuality could be answered by sneaking peeks. No, peeking wasn't the right word. But he had seen her. Scully wasn't sure how she knew, but she was as positive of that as she was of anything. All these thoughts crossed her mind in milliseconds. She opened the door and walked down the hall, wondering what the big deal was. Mulder had seen her in less. He'd seen her in bra and panties, on their first case together, in Oregon. It wasn't anything new. But coupled with the fact that they'd kissed twice in the last few days, it meant more than it would have a week ago. Deciding, for the moment, to ignore it, Scully joined her partner on the couch just as he was finishing his conversation with the pizza place. "That's right, you got it. See you soon." He hit the off button on the cordless and gently placed it on the coffee table. He was unable to meet her gaze, and any lingering suspicion Dana had about his wandering eyes was confirmed. "Enjoy yourself?" she asked. His head snapped around. "What?" "You know exactly what I mean, Mulder. If you had really wanted to get away with it, you should have turned away and answered me in a normal tone of voice. Then I would have seen the door open and closed it, and you would have gotten away clean." He shook his head. "I've been a really bad influence on you, Scully. Years ago, you wouldn't have noticed something like that." "I had a good teacher," she announced. He smiled, accepting the compliment. "Don't wish yourself too much like me, Scully. You wouldn't like what it did to your social life." "What social life?" she asked. "Ok, point granted. Still...trust me. Not everything I can teach you is goodness and light." And that was the crux of it, Scully felt. Mulder's desire not to talk about the dream wasn't an attempt to hide something from her, rather a reluctance to share that part of himself that made him such a good profiler. "I know that, Mulder," she said softly. "And I don't want to know all your secrets. Like what's in that drawer full of videos that don't belong to you." He smiled, accepting her gentle rebuke. Didn't she realize that she had the ability to replace whatever power those videos had over him with a simple smile and a beckoning hand? Maybe she did, he thought. "So..." she said. "Want to tell me about that dream now?" He shrugged. "Not really. I'll tell you the general outlines of it, but not the specifics." She nodded, accepting his caveats. For now. "I was in the office. There was a sense of dread. You weren't there. When a knock came at the door, I answered it to find myself standing there, covered in blood. I was holding a head in my hand." "A head?" "Yes, a decapitated head." "Whose head?" He shook his head. "Sorry, Scully. That's the end of my description of that dream." "So, Dr. Mulder, what do you think it means?" He looked at her askance, wondering if she really didn't know, or was trying to get him to admit it. "Well, Dr. Scully, off the cuff I'd have to say that I'm feeling guilty about all the pain and suffering that I've caused over the years. But that's just a fifty-cent diagnosis. I'd have to charge more for a...more thorough investigation into the entire affair." Scully nodded, silently agreeing with her partner. "Ok, that makes sense. You do know it was just a dream, right?" "Yeah. Serious as a heart attack, but still a dream, right?" "Mulder, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You solved three cases this week!" He shrugged. "Seattle and Chicago solved two of them-" "With your profiles as impetus!" "...and Jacksonville wasn't exactly a solve. More like a capture under favorable circumstances." She nodded. "Ok. But still, you have nothing to feel guilty about!" "Scully, none of the heads had anything to do with these three cases." As soon as he spoke, he knew he'd made a mistake. "Heads?" Shit. She'd caught it. "Yes. Three of them. Subject closed. End of discussion." Scully reached across the couch for his hand, taking it between both of hers. "Mulder, you peeked at me as I changed clothes. I'm not upset. It's actually kind of flattering. That indicates a rather...intimate relationship between us." She saw his eyes widening, and felt his hand trying to pull from between hers as his mouth opened to explain. "Not that kind of 'intimate,' Scully said, and thought: not yet, anyway. "...but an intimate friendship. It doesn't bother me that you saw me change. It's actually kind of nice to know that I can still keep a man's attention." Mulder opened his mouth to avoid _that_ topic. "Shh...let me finish. What I mean to say is that...you owe me. I gave you a nice little treat, and now I want payback. Tell me about the heads, Mulder." Mulder's mouth fell open. "Scully...there is a huge difference between...friendly intimacy, as you call it, and telling you about three severed heads in one of my dreams. I really don't see how one-" "Tell you what," she said softly. "I'll let you watch-" "Ok, ok," Mulder said, pulling his hand away. "I give. And you don't have to let me watch." I'm not sure I could handle whatever it was she was about to let me 'watch,' Mulder thought. "The first head was Melissa's, the second was Deep Throat's and the third was...yours." Scully sat back, drawing her knees up to her chin, crossing her arms across her legs. "Oh," she said. See, Scully? he thought. See why I didn't want to tell you? "What do you think that means?" she asked. "The...selection of the...heads." "Obviously, three people I feel guilty about," Mulder said, matter-of-factly. "But I'm not dead." "There's more than one way to kill someone, Scully." She looked at him, tilting her head in that way she had that drove him up a wall. Did she know how the light hit her hair when she did that? The way the shadow of her nose made her eyes look even bigger, even bluer? Probably not, he decided. And that was what made it all the more attractive. "I'm responsible for killing..." Mulder trailed off, counting on his fingers. "...your career, your social life, any chance of a normal existence, three months you can't account for..." "Mulder, stop," Scully said softly. "...not to mention the fact that your mother must hate me. I mean-" "Mom doesn't hate you," Scully said sharply. God, if you only knew how many times my mother has defended you! "Mulder, she invites you over to every single family event, and more than a few private ones." "She just wants to remind me that if anything happens to you, it's my ass." Scully nodded. _That_ much was true. "Your brothers hate me," He pointed out. "My brothers don't even _know_ you," she retorted. "All the more reason, then." Mulder fell silent, searching for words. "Scully," he finally said, "I know you don't feel that way, and I'm pretty sure your mother doesn't. God knows why, but I actually think she likes me. But, in order to do what I do, as well as I do it, you have to develop a certain sense of...responsibility. The people that started profiling, the legends of the fall, so to speak, used to tell us that we had to remain professional, detached, isolated. That we had to think about the killer as an UNSUB, and the victims as just that: Victims, not people. "That was good, as far as it went. But just like the HIV virus seems to find a new way to mutate every time the doctors figure out a way to kill it, it seems like serial killers figure new ways to confound profilers as our own skills and techniques develop. It's almost like they're an extremely virulent disease, able to shift and mutate to escape detection and cure. "And the only way that I've found to counter that over the years is to get inside their heads. And to do that, I have to think like them. And that is not a good feeling, Scully. It's like nothing you'll ever know." "I'd like to know," Scully said stubbornly. "No," Mulder disagreed, shaking his head. "No, you wouldn't. Remember that mine shaft we went down after I got back from New Mexico?" "Files," Scully said, smiling. "Lots and lots of files." "Yeah, that place. Remember how dark it was, before we found the emergency lighting?" Scully nodded. "The place inside of me that I had to find in order to get inside Clay's head was darker than that place. Darker than any place I've ever been to in reality. When I'm in that place, I want to die," he said. Scully's head whirled around to find his again. "What?" "You heard me, die. I want to die. But, not to take my own life. It's...complicated." "Try me," Scully said. "I really do want to understand." He moved, standing, walking to the window, splitting the blinds with his fingers, peering out to the street. "Pizza's here," he said distractedly. Scully got up, and then realized Mulder was paying. "Thanks for telling me," she said, moving to stand behind him. On impulse, she slid her arms around his waist from behind. "Where's your wallet?" she asked softly. "In my bag," he said in a voice that told her he didn't really want her to move to get it. Reluctantly, Scully moved away, found Mulder's bag and quickly dug through it. She found his wallet and opened it, turning it sidways to the money compartment. She found about two hundred bucks in cash, all of it in twenties, and a dozen receipts. She took a twenty and was closing the wallet, intending to return it to his bag, when something about the pictures caught her eye. The first in the series was Samantha, of course. Glancing back up at Mulder, she saw his attention was still focused on the window. His pictures were kept in an accordian-style folding portfiolio. She let the picture of Samantha fall foward, revealing two more pictures. The first was predictable: His father, his mother, himself and Samantha, a family portrait taken during happier times. The other picture was unexpected. Completely, utterly, totally. It was her. Or, rather, it was them. She had no idea when it had been taken, or by who. They were seated on a bench in a park, and after a moment, Scully realized it was _their_ bench, down by the reflecting pool. She was looking at Mulder with an expression that could only be read as a mixture of disbelief and incrudelity. He was smiling back at her with his trademark lopsided grin. There were deli bags on the bench next to each of them, and she held a diet soda in one hand. Mulder held an iced tea in his. Glancing back up at her partner, Scully quickly slid the picture out of the envelope and turned it over. "A gift, Frohickie," was written across the back. She should have known. The little worm. Quickly re-arranging the wallet, Scully slid it back inside Mulder's bag and stood, pocketing the twenty. She was halfway to where he stood, ready to slide her arms around his waist again, when the knock came at the door. Dammit, she thought. Turning back to the door, she opened it. The pizza guy stood there, only this time it was a pizza gal. "Sixteen even," she said, holding out her hand. Scully handed the girl the bill and took the pizza in the same motion. "Keep it," she said, closing the door on the woman's face. Mulder turned at the smell of the pizza. He moved to take the box from her and she let him, her mind still on the wallet and the pictures it contained. Is that how he sees me? she thought. How he wants to remember me? Laughing at one of his theories? Or was it simpler than that, a picture of a simple moment between two friends? Scully had noticed that there were no pictures of girlfriends, ex-lovers...no Phoebe Green nude shots. Just Sam, his family...and them. Again answering a sudden impluse, Scully walked quickly into her bedroom and found her camera. It was what her brother referred to as a "PhD" camera. Auto-focus, auto-zoom, auto-exposure. All you did was push a single button: Push Here, Dummy. Returning to the kitchen, Scully turned the camera on and waited for the little light to tell her that the flash was ready. When it glowed a steady green, Scully lifted it to her face and pointed it in Mulder's direction. He had the pizza box open on the counter beside the sink, and was using two hands to lift a dripping, gooey slice of pizza to his mouth, having to use his free hand to support the weight of the extra toppings. "Mulder," she called. He turned to her and she pressed the button. The flash caught him by surprise. He blinked, almost dropping the pizza. "Scully?" he asked around a mouthful of cheese and dough. "Nothing," she said. "Just one more, ok? Of us?" Mulder quirked an eyebrow. "Someone's been going through someone else's wallet," he chided, wagging a finger in her direction. "Yeah, so? So what if I want a picture of us, too?" His smile was warm and genuine. "Here," he said, offering his hand. She gave him the camera. He moved to the microwave, and studied the camera for a second. He set it for self-portrait mode and set it off, pointing it where Scully stood. He moved to her side, and was surprised to feel her arm slip around his waist. He did the same to her. The camera's soft beeping quickened, and then stopped. A moment later the flash went off, blinding them both. They stood there for a long moment, neither one of them quite ready to move yet. Finally, Scully pulled away, walking over to get a piece of pizza for herself. "So," she said through a mouthful, "tell me about dying again? Wanting to kill yourself?" "It's not about killing myself," he said between bites. "It's about wanting to be dead. Big difference." "You mean you want to enter that etheral state of nothingness that we're told exists for those that have died?" He nodded, taking another bite. "Something like that," he agreed. "It's just...it has to do with a personal belief of mine, that's all. I believe that when people die, they attain Universal Knowledge. They know every single lie ever told to them, they know everything about anything they ever wondered about. The existence of God, how magic tricks work-" "Who took your sister," Scully pointed out. He nodded grimly. "Yes, that's one of the biggies." "I would think so. But you don't actively wish for your own death?" "Behavior to the contrary, no, I don't." For a lot of reasons that have to do with a short, opinionated redhead, he silently added. "You mad at me for watching?" he suddenely asked. "What? No...you mad at me for going through your wallet?" "No. You mad at me for having a picture of us I didn't tell you about?" She shook her head. "No, of course not. Like I said, it's kind of flattering." "You said me watching was kind of flattering. And the picture isn't of you, it's of us." She bit her lip, wondering if she'd assumed too much. "How many pictures of us does Frohickie have, anyway?" Mulder looked away, trying to hide a smile. "Of us, or of you?" "Both." "Of us...maybe ten. Of you? Are you familar with the phrase, "Order of Magnitude," Scully?" "Yes I am. That many? How is that possible?" Mulder saw the line and took it. "I think it's remotely possible that-" "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Scully said, waving him off. "I got it, Mulder." She pointed a finger at him. "And it's more than remotely possible." Oh yeah, he thought. It's a certainty. "So let me get this straight," Scully said, helping herself to another piece. "You wish you were dead, so you could have that... what did you call it? Universal knowledge. You want to be dead so that you can know all that is unknowable, see all that is unseen, and all that other jazz?" He nodded. "Sort of. It's also a wish to be in the place where I can't feel anything anymore. When I'm inside Clay's head, for example, I'm feeling every single thing that he's feeling. The rage, the anger, the pathos, the passion, the urgent, hungry desire to kill those young boys, to use pliers on their genitals, to shove that cement plug up their rectums." The casual, almost offhanded way he related his feelings as he nibbled on a piece of pizza was disconcerting to Scully to say the least. "Mulder, how can you _talk_ like that?" He shrugged again. "It's part of who I am, Scully. It's part of what makes me able to do that." "How do you cope?" Mulder reached over to the sink and yanked a paper towel off of a roll mounted at Scully-level. Spreading it on the counter, he dropped the slice of pizza he'd been eating neatly onto it and rubbed the outline of his lips with a thumb and forefinger. "Usually, I have a problem...coping. If I were a drinking man, like my father, I'm sure that I'd have no problems coping." "You'd also need a liver transplant," Scully observed, and was immediately ashamed. If Mulder took umbrage at her remark, he didn't show it. And then Scully realised that he wouldn't, that she had somehow earned the odd right to put his family down in front of him. "And," Mulder said, continuing, "since I don't do drugs, or meditate, or anything else like that, I've had to develop my own coping methods. Since I left ISU, I really haven't needed them, except for the odd case here and there." "Such as?" "Well, there was a case just before you were-" "No, such as what methods?" "Oh. Well, I tend to run a lot after a case like this. I tend to have nightmares for about a week or two. But, that's actually kind of normal these days. I'll cry a lot, when I'm alone." Scully tried to hide a soft smile. Only Mulder. Any other agent inside the super-macho FBI would never admit to anyone, let alone his longtime female partner, that he cried about anything. For Mulder, it was just another facet of his personality, like saying that he wore size eleven and a half shoes. "Do you ever wish you had someone to turn to?" she asked. "Like a therapist?" he asked. "Who would believe some of the things I'd be able to tell them?" "A therapist," she shrugged. "Or someone...else." "Like a girlfriend?" She nodded, her attention suddenely focused on his face. "Telling a woman about the things we see and do has a tendancy to make them run screaming into the night, sure that they've shacked up with a madman. No, girlfriends are out." "Generally as a concept, or just in turning to them for help after a Jacksonville or a Chicago?" Mulder had the distinct feeling that the answer to this question was extremely important. To the both of them. "Well," he said slowly, nodding as he spoke, trying out each word in his mind before actually saying it, "...generally, no. The idea is not distasteful, if that's what you are asking. It's just that..." How to explain? Be careful, Mulder. You're in very dangerous territory here. "Any woman that I get involved with is going to have a lot to put up with. First, my job schedule. We're out of town most of the time, and we leave in less than a moment's notice. Second, I can't tell her anything about my job, mostly because she wouldn't believe me, and secondly, it might put her life in danger. I mean...some of these people we deal with would jump at the chance to use someone close to me as a lever." Scully nodded, accepting what he said at face value. "And, not to put too fine a point on it, but my best friend and partner is the most important person in my life. And most women wouldn't accept that when my best friend and partner turn out to be a... woman." He'd almost said 'beautiful woman,' but had caught himself at the last moment. Scully heard the pause, and the word that he'd almost used. "You know, Mulder, that's almost the same exact reason I don't have a ..." "Boyfriend?" Mulder said. She wrinkled her nose. "I hate that term. Sounds like he's going to ask me to the prom." "Lover?" "Too 'Cosmo.'" Mulder grinned, "OK, what does _G-Woman Quarterly_ use as the current term of endearment?" "GQ?" Scully asked, laughing. "Whatever." "Signifigant other sounds too 60's, and partner is a word that we're already occupying quite nicely." "How about 'love toy'?" Mulder asked. "That has possibilities, Mulder." They ate in companionable silence. Scully finished her third slice. "Mulder, can I ask you a question?" "Sure, Scully." "How come you never made a pass at me?" Mulder froze. Every single alarm bell and danger signal in his head was ringing and flashing urgently. Minefield ahead, he thought. "Well...who says I haven't?" "I think I would have remembered a pass, Mulder." "Ok...remember when we were in Wisconsin? The Church of the Red Museum?" Scully nodded, and then remembered. "The barbeque sauce on my face, right?" "Right," he nodded. "That wasn't a pass, Mulder!" "Says who?" "Me!" "Well...maybe it was and maybe it wasn't." "Do you remember what I did?" Yes, Mulder thought. Oh, yes, I do. "You smiled at me in the strangest way, if I remember correctly." "Hmph," Scully said. "You, of the photographic memory, using that old dodge? Mulder, you remember exactly what I did." He nodded. "Yeah." "Ok, when else?" "On the bench, on the Peacock case. My comment about meeting someone with a spotless genetic makeup." "...and start pumping out UberScullies. What a great term, Mulder. So you admit you were talking about yourself." He shrugged. "Scully, it's not as easy as that. We both know that the Bureau frowns on partners getting involved. Even when I say it, it sounds like a cliche." "Yeah, but the Bureau frowns on most things we do. I think that Skinner must own stock in Tums, for all the stomach acid we both give him." "And the same goes for what I said about a girlfriend. If they found out you and I are...I mean, were...involved, they'd use it against us, one way or another." Scully nodded, chewing the inside of her lip. "Not to mention," Mulder continued, "the fact that I'm not the easiest person to get along with." "Mulder, we've been partners for five years!" "Ok, Scully...why haven't you made a pass at me?" Mulder demanded. Because I thought you'd say no for the exact reasons you're listing right now, Scully thought. "Listen," she said, "we've...grown closer in the last few days. I've seen a side of you that I've only suspected. I'm not sure that I want that to...go back to what it was." Mulder nodded, not saying anything. "...and you said in Chicago that we needed time. That says to me that you've been thinking about it." "I have," he agreed. "We obviously find each other attractive," Scully pointed out. "I do," he admitted. "And that was one hell of a kiss in Chicago." "Not to mention the bus," Scully said. "I haven't forgotten," Mulder informed her. "...and you've agreed to stop ditching me." "I have." "So...?" "So what, Scully?" "So...why don't we?" "What? Start going out? Become lovers? Move in together, get married, have babies, live happily ever after?" Scully nodded. "Well, the first one. Maybe the second." He laughed. "Ok...what about..." Mulder mentally flailed about, looking for a reason, an excuse. "Mulder, are you trying to talk me out of this?" "No...I just...it's not that easy, Scully. We've been partners and friends for so long. Don't you think it'd be just a little bit... weird to be lovers? Don't you think it'd effect the way we work on cases?" "Not if we don't let it." He nodded. "I know you could do it. I know you could go out of town with me, in two seperate motel rooms and not think twice about it. But I know myself. I'd want to knock on the connecting door and only use one bed. I know that I'd get even more protective." "That's _hardly_ possible, Mulder," Scully laughed. "And who says I wouldn't want you to knock on the door?" "Scul-eee," Mulder said, exesperated. "I know you'd want to with one part of you, but the professional G-woman inside you wouldn't let you do it. And knowing you were on the other side of that wall would drive me slowly insane." "More insane," Scully said. "Whatever. What I mean to say is that, yeah, in a normal world, I'd be dying to ... go out with you, date you, be your lover, whatever the politically correct term is these days. But we don't live in a normal world, Scully. We live in a world where monsters are real, and there's a conspiracy under every bed." "So are we supposed to put our lives, our wants, our needs on hold? I'm thirty-three years old, Mulder! I want a family, a husband, children." "I know," Mulder said, moving to where she sat. He took a chair from the table and lowered himself into it, moving close. "I know you want all that stuff, Scully, and that's one of the ways I'm killing you slowly. By working with me, being with me all these years, you've closed yourself off from the rest of the world. I did it by choice. You do it by necessity." "Do you want it?" she asked softly. "In a perfect-" "Yes or no, Mulder." "Yes. I would love to get married someday, to have a wife and some kids and a nice house and a normal career." "Let me ask you another question. If you find Samantha, find out what happened to her, and you expose this...consortium. If all your dreams come true...would you be ready then?" He shrugged. "I don't know. I think so." "Would you want it with me?" Mulder let out his breath. "Is that what this is about? Whether or not I want you?" Scully nodded, and then shook her head, and then shrugged. "Yes. No. I don't know. I'm just...this thing, this thing that happened in Jacksonville, and then on the plane. You screaming. It scared me, Mulder. Scared me a lot. I know you're not the most perfect person in the world, and probably not the most perfect man. But whenever I look at you, and I get in these strange moods, I can't see myself with anyone else. I don't think I'm in love with you, Mulder, but...I'm not sure anymore. Before, it was so easy to keep the two havles of my life seperate...my professional life, which was you, the Bureau, the X-Files...and my personal life, as stagnant as it was. But in the last few years, we've gotten so close. We've been through so much. No one knows me like you do, and I'm sure the same is true of you. Sometimes I think that if we didn't have this constant pressure of the X-Files, of finding the truth about Samantha and your father that we could just...be. Be there for each other, for ourselves, for...us." Mulder cracked a grin. "What would we do, Scully? With no monsters to chase, no mysteries to expose...what would we do with ourselves?" Scully grabbed his hands, rubbing them with her own. "I could become a coroner or a medical examiner somewhere. You could teach, or go into private practice. We..." She trailed off. "No matter what happens to our lives. Mulder, I know now that we're always going to be a huge part of each other's existence. There's just no way to turn...this..." Scully waved a hand between them. "...off. I've given too much of myself to you, and you to me, to ever have enough left over for anyone else. "I'm not asking you to make a committment to me, Mulder. Or to make any sort of promise, or to give up your search. That's not what this is about." "What is this about?" "Admitting it," she said slowly, softly. "Admitting that there is something between us, something that goes beyond partnership and friendship, into more personal, intimate areas. Admitting that it if weren't for these cases, for the choices we've both made in our careers-" "Scully, you were assigned," he gently reminded her. Anger flashed across her face. "No, Mulder. Up until I was taken, I was 'assigned,' as you put it. When they closed us down, I was reassigned to Quantico, and even then, I was still working your cases with you. After we re-opened the division, I _chose_ to come back. I made a _choice_, Mulder, a choice to be with you." "Scully, are you aware of what you're getting yourself in for? You know me! You know how I am. Are you ready to be in a comitted, romantic relationship with me? You know how I get." "I have some idea, yes," Scully said, smiling softly. "And you still want to?" "I don't know, Mulder. What I want to do is at least admit that there is something there, something worth exploring." "But what if it doesn't work out? Are you willing to risk our partnership, our friendship? Do you think we could still work together if...whatever this is...ends?" Scully dropped his hands and sat back. "Condeming us to failure before we even start, Mulder?" "No, no, no," he said quickly, reaching for her hands again. "Not at all. What I'm saying is...look, we're both adults. We're talking about this _like_ two adults. And, being adults, we have to admit that not every single relationship turns out the way we would like them to. And I would hate to lose your friendship, or ruin this partnership, because we had a romantic falling out. You're too important. To me, to our work." She was glad that he'd called it 'our' work. "Mulder...you're making this way too complicated. Simple questions, simple answers. Do you find me attractive in a girlfriend-lover sort of way?" "Yes," he answered. "I meant it when I said it wasn't _just_ a kiss, Scully." She smiled. "I'm glad. Now, second question. Do you trust me? Trust us?" "I don't trust anyone but you, Scully." "Ok...then trust me. Trust me to know when to take this to the next step, _if_ we take this to the next step. I'm not promising you anything either, Mulder. But sitting in that room in Jaccksonville, holding your hand as you went down that deep, dark well after Clay, I knew, Mulder...I knew...that there was no other place in the world that I wanted to be. That there was no other man that I wanted to be with. It's not sane, it's not logical. It's not me, Mulder. You know how practical and logical I always am, and this is anything _but_ practical and logical. And as I said, I'm not sure I'm even _in_ love with you. But I do know you're the single most important person in my life, and I'm at a point where that has to _mean_ something!" Mulder nodded. Everything Scully said was true. "So...what now?" She smiled softly. "Nothing special, Mulder. We go watch some TV, maybe cuddle a little. Nothing spectacular. Neither of us is really ready for anything...heavy." Neither one of them moved. They sat there, holding hands, looking at each other with embarassed expressions. "I feel different," Mulder said. "Me, too," Scully replied. "Different...but good, different." "Me, too." "So...uh, I repeat. What now?" "Let's clean this mess up, Mulder. That's a good start." Laughing, they broke apart, moving together to wrap the remaining pizza in aluminium foil. Mulder folded up the box into small squares and put it in the recycling pile. Scully was putting the glasses on the drying rack when she felt Mulder's arms sliding around her waist. "I suppose that this is ok now," he said in her ear. "Not only ok, but encouraged," Scully said, reaching a hand up to stroke his face. "You don't know how long I've wanted this to be ok," he admitted. "It was always ok, Mulder." "Yeah, but now it's really ok." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Dupree was back in his basement office. He was going over the files again, reading with half his concentration, the other half dedicated to the signature problem. He needed another target to appease his hunger. He knew that if he identified a Chosen he would be able to continue his other work. One name jumped out at him. Dupree studied the man's pedigree, glancing over the details quickly, memorzing them. Moving to the Sparc, Dupree entered the search parameters. He was so excited, he had to backup and re-enter them twice before he got it right. After hitting ENTER, he had only to wait seven seconds. 5410:401 appeared on the screen. Dupree nodded and looked at the display, tracing the patterns with his finger. His translation abilities were getting better. He didn't need the dictionary as much now. It was there. It was valid. It was written. Jack Nelson was Chosen. Chapter 5 =+=+=+=+===+=+= New York City Hungry. Not on the prowl tonight, in the basement, working the case, checking the angles, making sure it would all happen. But in his gut, a gnawing feeling, a constant rumble that was distracting and just a little bit scary. It wasn't a food thing; he'd eaten twice as much as he normally did today. It was as if his body was running twice as hot, twice as hard, a Formula One race engine stuck in a Ford Taurus. He wanted to open it up, jam down on the pedal, listen to the roar as the carbs poured gas in and the tires bit into the pavement, spinning until they heated up, got sticky, and gave him some goddamned traction. Blinking, not nervous, but feeling like a ferret in his den, Dupree stood and paced, dry washing his hands at chest level as he moved back and forth in front of his computers. He could tell he was losing it, that the need to do the Chosen was slowly overpowering him. And it was exhilarating. The raw energy that was crackling inside him was heady, intoxicating. Dupree had never done drugs and never would; the thought of sniffing, snorting, smoking or injecting anything was beyond laughable. His body was perfect in every way. He was average height, average face, average body. For his purposes, perfect. He could blend into any crowd, anywhere in the city at any time. It was also dangerous. Dupree could feel his control slipping. Control was everything. Without it, he would be caught in a matter of days. Every step of his plan had to be carefully thought out, examined, dissected and then reassembled. Nothing could be left to chance. Hunger. The word burned inside Dupree's mind, demanding attention, drawing focus away from the problem, the plan. He stopped, stock-still, his eyes flicking to the filing cabinets. He looked away, as if they could see him staring, and then back again. He licked his lips. Maybe just a little taste, he thought. A tease. He moved quickly to the cabinets, reaching for a drawer, and then froze, his fingers inches away from the handle. Idiot! he chastised himself. He straightened, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. You almost did it, you idiot. All that work, for naught. Walking slowly back to his desk, Dupree pulled open the bottom drawer and reached inside, returning with a cardboard box filled with surgeon's rubber gloves. He'd never touched the filing cabinet or any of its contents with his bare hands. There was not a single traceable fingerprint on anything in those filing cabinets. Not a single one. Donning a pair of gloves, Dupree walked back to his library and opened the top drawer. His hands flew through the files, looking for the special ones, the ones with the little red mark on the top right corner of the tab. They were his favorites. He found a good one and slid it out from between its brothers, holding it up to the light. He tilted it sideways, reading the tab. Akiro, it said. He closed his eyes, remembering. Kim Akiro, aged 27. Second-generation American, her parents had emigrated to the United States shortly after the Korean War. Dupree returned to his desk and sat down, opening the folder with shaking hands. The DD5's were on top, the most recent one entered two years ago. It was an old file, but a good one. He flipped past the reports, going deeper, looking for it, for them. He found the coroner's report and detached it from the rest of the file, moving it to the side to be savored later. And at the bottom, in a 5x7 brown manila envelope was what he was looking for. He unwound the red string holding it closed and then lifted the flap, extracting the half-inch thick pile of color crime scene photographs. Dupree felt himself harden. The first picture was what movie directors called an establishing shot. Taken wide-angle, from the door to Akiro's bedroom. The body, nude, face-up, was on the bed. What had once been pristine white sheets were dark red, almost brown, with dried blood. Dupree sighed, feeling some of the hunger abating. He could use this, could close his eyes and go back to the scene and remember. Homicide had a working theory on this case. Kim Akiro was known to frequent the popular, trendy dance clubs. She had met someone there, they had come back to her apartment for sex and drugs, and in a rage, her lover had killed her. It was the only theory that made any sense, and Dupree knew that it was bullshit. He hadn't killed her, but he had known that it wasn't a normal murder. The scene had spoken to him, the voices loud in his head. He could see the murder, even if he couldn't see the murderer. In his head, he saw them making love, saw Akiro making all those lovely little passionate noises as her lover moved above, his hands grasping her waist as he filled her again and again, making her scream and wiggle and cry and moan. Dupree felt his anger, too. Felt the killer's anger about the little naked slant-eyed slut beneath him, felt the anger and hunger growing inside the man until it snapped. Closing his eyes, Dupree went back to the scene, his hand flitting across the table to find the coroner's report. He slid it over, lifting it and opening his eyes and reading the report. @ Death, it said, had been caused by severe trauma to the chest and abdomen, most likely with a kitchen knife the killer had found at the scene. Kim Akiro had been slit open from throat to crotch, and then the stabs had started. Over seventy-six separate stab wounds, all deep, frenzied cuts. The killer was locked in a haze of angry violence, trying to kill Akiro a thousand times over as he stabbed, again and again and again. And then, the body bleeding, dying if not already dead, the killer had tossed the knife over his shoulder and mounted her body, his penis erect and throbbing again, and he had taken her as she died, burying himself inside her. Standing over the body, he had ejaculated into her wounds, performing one last act of violent desecration. # Dupree sighed, feeling the release inside him. He flipped through the stack of photos, peering at them under the bright work light. Close-up shots of the wounds, and then of her face, eyes open in surprise and shock, a blood trail across one perfect cheek, little droplets moving away from her, towards the head of the bed. One drop had landed directly on her left eyebrow. A close-up of the knife, sitting in a small pool of blood. A ruler next to the knife, giving it scale. Dupree returned to the coroner's report, reading about the autopsy. The organs, dissected and removed, were weighed and cataloged. Semen in her stomach. The coroner, judging by the digestion that had already taken place, estimated that she had ingested the semen up to four hours before her death. At the club, Dupree thought. In the bathroom, or a dark corner, she had done it, gone down on her knees and... And... With a shudder, Dupree spent. He felt the pooling wetness inside his shorts, spreading to his thighs, already sticky. She deserved it, he thought. She was not a Chosen, but she had deserved it. Getting down on your knees for a man you had just met was asking for trouble, all kinds of trouble. It gave a whole new meaning to the term "safe sex," he thought with a grin. Focused now, the hunger momentarily abated, Dupree quickly put everything back together and closed the file, returning it to the cabinet. Leaving his gloves on, he moved back to the desk and focused his considerable attention on the case of Nelson, John, AKA Jack Nelson, AKA Jack Mack. Jack Nelson had first come to the attention of federal authorities as a result of a sting operation run by the United States Postal Police. The Child Exploitation Unit of the Department of Justice had determined through unknown means that child molesters posed a grave and severe risk to the children of the United States, and had directed all subordinate federal law enforcement agencies to come up with programs designed to identify, arrest and convict child molesters and pedophiles. Special attention was to be given to the creation, distribution and possession of child pornography. The United States Postal Police hit upon a grand plan. They had seized a great deal of mob-produced child-porn in other operations, magazines and photographs that were growing dusty in evidence warehouses. They decided to place advertisements in the backs of men's magazines such as Penthouse and Hustler, promising "exotic, hard-to-get," erotica. Those two words were code phrases used by pedophiles for their sleazy wares. When some unsuspecting individual answered the advertisement and sent the twelve dollars off for a 'sample,' the Postal Police would return a few photographs featuring children in explicit sexual activities via registered mail. When the unsuspecting individual would then greet his postal carrier (an undercover Postal Police officer,) and sign for the envelope, he would promptly be arrested. The scam (some called it an 'entrapment exercise,') worked so well that the Postal Police quickly discovered they were running out of surplus child pornography. A senior supervisor realized that in addition to the actual magazines, the US Government had also seized the original negatives and printing plates from the magazines. Which is how the US Government found itself in the very odd position of becoming the ipso facto largest producer of explicit child pornography in the world. They needed the magazines to send to their "clients," and once arrested, the material was kept as evidence until trial, marked and stamped. It was unusable after that. John "Jack" Nelson was a pedophile, a pedophile being defined in this case as someone who looked to young children for sexual excitement. He answered one of those advertisements, and was promptly arrested. During the execution of a subsequent search warrant, a personal computer was discovered in his residence. A quick search of the hard drive of that computer revealed over six hundred separate digitized images of underage children involved in explicit sexual activity. What worried the Department of Justice, the FBI and the United States Postal Police was the fact that they had never seen any of these images before. Pedophiles tended to trade the same five or six thousand images over and over again, using computers to modem them from location to location. As long as the computer was never examined, it was an extremely safe way to move their illicit booty. And when one "collector," as they liked to call themselves, sent another a color print or magazine, they even went so far as to use Federal Express so that they could not be charged with using the US Mail for illegal purposes. These images were new. Judging by the backgrounds, the clothing that could be seen, even the covers of magazines glimpsed in the edges of the photographs, these were new pictures, taken within the last few months. Which meant that there was a ring, or rings, of pedophiles operating somewhere in the United States. Meetings were held, memos written, and an offer was made. In exchange for a lenient sentence, and the promise of a new life upon his release from federal prison, John "Jack" Nelson was encouraged to provide the FBI and US Government with as much testimony and evidence as he could regarding the identities and activities of other pedophiles known to him. It was made clear to him that this offer was only being made because the FBI, after extensive investigation, was unable to prove that he, Mr. Jack Nelson, had ever actually taken any of the photographs. Faced with the prospect of spending 25 to Life in a federal penitentiary, Jack Nelson forgot all about the honor code of criminals and sang like Pavarotti. Arrests were made, trials held, testimony given, convictions secured. The Department of Justice, arbiter of the purse strings for all federal law enforcement agencies, showed their pleasure by increasing the budget of the Postal Police. The FBI showed its pleasure by entering Mr. John "Jack" Nelson into the WITSEC program upon his release from the federal prison in Marion, Pennsylvania after serving eighteen months (with credit for time served.) Mr. John "Jack" Nelson was now Mr. John "Jack" Wagner, gainfully employed as a graphic artist at a Midtown advertising agency. No one there knew of his past as a convicted pedophile. None of them knew that in his off hours, Mr. Nelson fantasized about taking naked pictures of the children of his coworkers. Dupree closed the file and began planning. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland They returned to the couch and sat down, close, as if they'd been doing it all their lives. Scully tucked her legs up underneath and snuggled into Mulder's shoulder, glad that she could now do without guilt what she had wanted to for so long. For his part, Mulder threw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer, using his fingers to tease her hair. They fell asleep that way. In the morning, they woke, stretched, smiled at each other and shared a brief, almost shy good-morning kiss. "So, what's on the agenda for today?" Mulder asked. "You," Scully said, pointing a finger at his chest, "are going to go to your apartment and so some laundry. The idea of you spending the next four days in those clothes is repulsive. When your laundry is done, call me, and we'll...make plans." Mulder wondered what she meant by that, but decided to ignore it for the time being. His mind was working overtime, and he had no desire to make assumptions based on facts that were not in evidence. Mulder got up, donned shoes, grabbed his clothes and overnight bag, kissed Scully at the door and took the cab Scully had called back to his apartment and proceeded to throw himself into his work. Scully, suffering an attack of the guilts, showered, dressed in a business suit, and drove herself to the office. The Jacksonville case report had to be written and filed, and she wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. Estelle was in the office when Scully arrived, glancing up in surprise at the red-haired FBI Agent. "Agent Scully! Mr. Littleton said that you and Agent Mulder were going to be gone for the rest of the week." Scully smiled. "Agent Mulder is, Estelle. I wanted to get the case report done as quickly as-" Estelle held up a folder. "Just sign it, and it's done." Shocked, Scully walked over and took the folder, opening it and reading. "Estelle...where did-?" "The Jacksonville Police were nice enough to fax over their version of events. I transcribed it and added what details Mr. Littleton was gracious enough to provide." She paused. "I figured that you and Agent Mulder had been through enough without having to go over every...detail...again and again." Scully quickly reviewed it. Everything was in place, just where it should be. All that was needed was her and Mulder's signature. "Thank you, Estelle. This is a big help." Estelle beamed at the compliment. "Well, I'd better be going then," Scully said, turning to leave. "Have fun with your vacation." Scully froze, one hand on the doorknob. Something in Estelle's voice had seemed different...odd. Turning back, she glanced at the assistant. Did she know? Estelle smiled a beatific grin. She did. "Uh-" "It's written all over your face, Agent Scully." Oh, shit. "And by that you mean-" Estelle threw her head back and laughed, loud and long. "Oh, you are just so precious, the both of you!" She wiped her eyes and continued. "Agent Scully, I've been with the Bureau almost since Hoover opened the damn place. I've worked for...oh, Lord, I couldn't possibly begin to count all the hundreds, perhaps thousands of agents that I've worked for. Back when only men could be sworn as Special Agents, there were a few of them that were...bent, you get my meaning?" Scully nodded. She did. "And even then, I knew it. Hell, we've got some women-only partnerships like that these days, and you can always tell. I can, anyway. I can always tell when partners are...close." "When did you first...? I mean, about Agent Mulder and myself." "The first day I showed up here, of course." Scully breathed a sigh of relief. That was normal; most people thought she and Mulder were 'involved,' due to the overly-close nature of their working relationship. That was nothing new. Scully had been afraid that somehow, Estelle had determined what had transpired in her apartment last night. "Oh, that...Estelle, Mulder and I are-" As Scully was speaking, her eyes had risen to rest on Estelle's. Don't even try denying it, the woman's face said. "That is to say..." "Honey...I don't have a problem with it, and I'm not going to tell anyone. You two seem...well matched." "Estelle-" "Agent Scully...I am assuming from reading the case file that Agent Mulder was a bit...overwhelmed by the events in Jacksonville. I think that as his partner, you should go to wherever he is and offer as much...support as is possible. Agent Mulder is a valuable asset to the Bureau, and his skills and talents are urgently needed. I have it on good authority that you two are being moved from the Cold Case Squad upstairs, to the VICAP Response Team." Scully's mouth fell open. VICAP RT's were the...elite of the elite. Called on to fly to any part of the country on a moment's notice (well, what was different about that?) to provide instant support, feedback and profiling services for police departments in urgent, dire need of such services, VICAP RT was a feather in the cap of any profiler...hell, any agent for that matter. There were only four Response Teams, two agents per team, in all of ISU. "Which team?" Scully asked. Estelle beamed. "Team One." Scully felt her world spinning out of control. Shuffled here in disgrace, the black cloud of an OPR investigation hanging over their heads, they had taken less than week to go from bastard stepchildren to stars. Team One was...it. The highest plateau a field agent assigned to ISU could obtain. They were referred to inside the Bureau as the A-Team, or alternately, as the Jedi Knights. Oh, Mulder was going to love that, Scully thought, rolling her eyes. So much for Skinner's promise of 'no profiling.' "I see. Well, I wouldn't start celebrating yet, Estelle. I have the feeling that our real boss, Assistant Director Skinner-" "Who approved the transfer himself. I saw the paperwork, Agent Scully." Well, there went that theory. "Estelle," Scully asked, glancing pointedly at her watch, "isn't it time for...a coffee break?" Estelle nodded, getting it instantly. "I think I could use a soda or something. Ten minutes enough?" "More than enough," Scully said, already moving for the phone. "Here, let me," Estelle said. "It always works better this way." Estelle dialed Skinner's number (from memory, Scully noticed,) and waited for someone to answer. "Hi, Kimberly. Estelle over at ISU." Pause. "I'm fine, dear. How are you?" Another pause, longer this time. "I have Special Agent Scully for the Assistant Director." Estelle nodded and pointed at Scully, who picked up the line at her own desk. "Please hold for the Assistant Director," Kimberly said. There was the click-hiss of being put on hold, and then a moment later, Skinner's familiar growl. "Skinner." "Agent Scully, sir." "Good morning, Agent Scully. I'm surprised that you're at the office today. I was under the impression that Agent Littleton had given you and Agent Mulder some time off." "That's true, sir, but I wanted to get the paperwork on the Jacksonville case finished." "I see. What can I do for you this morning, Agent Scully?" "Sir, it has come to my attention that Agent Mulder and myself are being transferred to an active profiling status, as Team One on the VICAP RT Squad, and I...well, sir, you did promise Agent Mulder that he wouldn't have to perform active profiling." Estelle got up, excused herself quietly, and let herself out of the office, leaving Scully alone. "Well, after Chicago and Jacksonville, I figured that Agent Mulder had undergone a change of heart." "Sir, Chicago was a cold case. That was a special circumstance. It was, sir if I may, pure blind luck on Agent Mulder's part." "Scully, I think you underestimate your partner's abilities in this area. If I may suggest something to you..." "Of course, sir. Always." "I would swing by the National Law Academy and pick up a copy of Serial Murder Investigation, Volume 3." "Sir?" "Scully, do you trust me?" The big question, Scully thought. "Of course, sir. Implicitly." "Then trust me on this. This is the best thing for Agent Mulder's career right now. I am trying to make sure that he still does have a career after this OPR matter is resolved. The... political situation has not improved very much since your departure. It would be difficult for the OPR to press a full-scale investigation, complete with depositions, background research, interviews...all that sort of stuff that the OPR loves so much, against the star profiler of the ISU and his capable partner." Scully had to ask. "Sir, what about the X-Files?" There was a pause. "Scully, I know the need for that division's continued existence. Better than you might ever suspect. In order for Agent Mulder to ever return to the X-Files, or you for that matter, this OPR situation has to be resolved in a positive way. The best way for this to happen is for you to nod, say thank you, and continue on as you have been." He paused. "Is there a problem, Agent Scully?" Scully debated how much to tell him. "Sir, Agent Mulder, as good a profiler as he is, tends to get overly involved in these cases. Sometimes I...worry about him, sir." Skinner accepted this without comment, waiting for Scully to continue. "I'm not sure what continued exposure to these kinds of cases will do for his...state of mind, sir." "Scully," Skinner said, searching for the correct words. "I'm now going to speak off the record. Your partnership with Mulder is... unique. I'm sure you don't have to be told that, and I only say this to remind you that others are aware of it. It is the perception at the highest levels of the Bureau that you and Agent Mulder are, in fact, the single best field partnership that exists today. The reasons for this are many, some of them well known, others only...suspected." His meaning was clear. Scully felt the color draining from her face. Jack, all over again. "I hasten to point out, Agent Scully, that no one feels that there is anything...inappropriate going on, anything that would bring negative attention to the Bureau. But we do understand that Agent Mulder's unique talents and capabilities do carry with them a certain...price, if I may use that term." "That price being?" Scully asked. "Agent Scully, you are putting me in a very awkward position. Suffice it to say that you and Agent Mulder are considered...elite. Special. One-of-a-kind. And so, certain...irregularities in the regulations relating to...partners...is overlooked in your case." So we have de facto permission for a relationship, if not de jure, Scully thought. "Sir, we are off the record, is that correct?" "Of course, Agent Scully." "Please spell it out, Sir. Don't worry about being polite." Skinner snorted. "Very well, Agent Scully. I, and Tony Littleton, and most of the seventh floor realize that you and Agent Mulder are in fact closer than most partners. We suspect that there is something more than friendship going on. We have no desire to have this suspicion confirmed or denied. We realize that you two work best together, left alone, doing things the way you have always done. Simply put, Agent Scully, you and Mulder get results. And those results are positive results as of right now. Three cases closed in six days is an amazing accomplishment. The decision was made, Scully, to look the other way when certain issues come up." "Like what issues?" "A report was made by certain members of the Jacksonville Police Department that, while Agent Mulder was talking to the UNSUB, you held his hand." Scully said nothing. Skinner continued. "And later, after the suspect had been taken into custody, you and Agent Mulder were discovered...embracing in the conference room." Scully rolled her eyes, glad that Skinner couldn't see her. "Sir, we were not embracing. This is exactly what I was talking about. Agent Mulder was...overcome, sir, by the emotional price of his participation in the investigation. He was...sobbing, sir, and I was...holding him. It was not an embrace, sir." "Scully, I suggest you grab a dictionary and look up the word 'embrace.'" Annoyed now, Scully responded. "Sir, the situation may have fit the definition of the word, but the connotation is that there is some kind of...romance going on between Agent Mulder and myself. And I resent that." Skinner said nothing for a long moment. "Scully, are you denying that such a relationship exists?" Damn, he used the wrong tense. If he had said, 'existed,' she could have denied it. And, truth be told, the word 'romance' was not what came to mind when she considered her relationship with Mulder. "No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I am denying that Agent Mulder and I are...romantically involved." "Scully...I'm not going to go into that particular aspect of your relationship. Frankly, it's none of my business. And the Bureau has unofficially taken the same position. So, my advice to you is this: Stay out of trouble, let Mulder do his thing, and you do whatever is necessary to make sure that happens. That way, and only that way, can I assure you that there will be an X-Files division to return to when this all blows over. Do I make myself understood?" "Clearly, sir," Scully replied. Crystal clear. "Good day, Agent Scully." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alexandria, Virginia Mulder's phone rang just as he returned from the laundry room in the basement of his building. Juggling the basket and box of detergent with one hand, Mulder grabbed the phone. "Mulder." "It's me," Scully's voice answered. Mulder smiled, a wide, genuine smile that felt welcome and yet, somehow strange on his face. "Hi, Scully," he said warmly. "Listen...can I come over?" Something in her voice gave Mulder pause. "What's wrong, Scully?" "I'd rather talk to you about it there," she said softly. Second thoughts, Mulder thought immediately, but didn't know why. "Sure. I'm still fighting the laundry battle. C'mon over." "Ok, I'm on the way." "Bye." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= It took Scully a little over forty minutes to drive to her partner's apartment. He really needs to move closer, she thought, and then grinned. Or, we need to move in- No. Scully shook the thought from her head. For one thing, she thought, Mom would absolutely die. Living in sin, without benefit of marriage? It was enough to make an Irish Catholic mother spit fire and brimstone. And for another, Mulder wasn't exactly living-together material. I'm neat and fastidious; he's a slob. I like reading, listening to classical music, being quiet and introverted. Mulder is an extrovert who likes to play basketball in the apartment and watch a lot of bad television. We're just too different to live together. Still, she thought. The idea of waking up next to Mulder every morning wasn't exactly unattractive. It had been a long time since a man, any man, has shared my bed. He's my partner, the logical part of her mind argued as she drove. He's my...other half, the emotional side replied. It's against Bureau policy. Apparently, not as far as we're concerned. Mulder's...needy. He needs constant care, attention, feeding. Like an infant. He needs me. Like he's never needed anyone in his life. It could damage him. I love him. I love him. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mulder was folding underwear when the knock came at his door. "Open!" he called. Scully entered the apartment, shrugged her jacket off and walked inside, finding Mulder buried under mounds of laundry. "When was the last time you did laundry?" she asked. He shrugged. "I do it as I need it," he replied. "I never really just do it all like this." She nodded and took a seat. "Listen...I went to the office to file the paperwork from Jacksonville. Oddly enough, Estelle had already done it. I signed off on it and submitted it." He nodded, distracted by a pair of underwear he was folding. "And I got some news..." she said, trailing off. He glanced up, interested. "What?" "We're being reassigned." Mulder sat back. "Judging by the look on that beautiful face of yours, I'm not going to like this, am I?" She shook her head. Beautiful? "VICAP RT." Mulder's brows rose. "Which team?" "One." He nodded. "I see." He returned to folding the laundry. "Mulder...?" "Scully?" "Are you ok with this?" He shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?" "What do you mean?" He sat back. "In the last five, six days, you and I have solved three cases. That's got to look good to the seventh floor. If I had to guess, I'd say that Assistant Director Skinner was playing his little political games, only this time to our advantage. It would be very hard for the OPR to investigate the star profiling team from ISU, a team that has already solved two cold cases and one very live one, all with suspects in custody, and the third with a recovered although traumatized victim. Mr. Skinner, it is my assumption, is attempting to make us politically untouchable so that when this entire Tucson affair clears up, we can return to the X-Files with a skip in our step and a song in our heart." Scully sat back, amazed. "That's exactly what Skinner said when I called him." Mulder nodded. "I saw it coming, Scully." "When?" "As soon as I got off the phone in Chicago during the game. As soon as I realized we were off cold cases and being sent to work hot ones." Annoyed, Scully asked, "Why didn't you say anything?" He looked at her. "Because I was trying to mentally prepare myself for the Jacksonville case. I wasn't trying to hide anything, Scully. I was just...working, I guess." She nodded, accepting this. "OK..." "Did Skinner say anything else?" She debated telling him. In the end, her innate honesty won out. "Yes, yes, he did." "Such as?" "He...intimated that our...working relationship...that is, the.. er...closeness of our working relationship has not gone unnoticed at the highest levels of the Bureau, and that, unofficially, as long as we keep turning these kinds of results, nothing will be said of it." Mulder nodded, absorbing that piece of information. "Interesting. _That_, I didn't see coming." "What do you think it means? Your political instincts are a hell of a lot better than mine." He laughed. "Oh, that's not true at all, Scully!" "What do you mean?" He grinned. "When you need to, you can be quite the political animal. Remember your discussion with the OPR team the last time we ran into them? 'Am I being accused of lying'? That was perfect political maneuvering, Scully." She nodded. "So what do you think it means? Shrugging again, Mulder said, "I guess they know a good team when they see it, Scully." "I guess so." "You sound like you're having second thoughts," he said softly. After a moment she nodded slowly. "Sort of." He stopped folding laundry and sat back. "Do you want to cool it for a while?" "Cool what? We haven't done anything." "Sure we have. We've cuddled. We slept together...sort of." He paused. "We've admitted some feelings, Scully. I know that wasn't easy for you." He glanced at his laundry. "I know that...when you were a little girl, and you thought about the man you were going to be with when you were older, I was not the type of man you envisioned yourself with." She hunted his tone, looking for signs of self-pity, of manipulation. There were none. He was being honest, direct. It was unnerving. "Mulder...you know I care about you. And I know you care about me. And it's not that I don't want to...be involved with you. It's just that...our lives are so...complex. Being promoted to Team One on RT is a huge step up for me. It's a huge feather in my cap, and yours, too." "I was scheduled for that slot when I left ISU for the X-Files," he said softly. She accepted this with a curt nod. "I probably knew that, somewhere in the back of my head. But what I'm trying to say is that... I did this once before. I got involved with a fellow agent. And, it didn't do my career any lasting harm, but it sure as hell didn't do it any good, either." Mulder said nothing. He didn't have to, she thought. The look in his eyes said it all. "I'm not saying that...we're done, or anything Mulder. I'm not saying that. I'm not." "So what are you saying, Scully?" he asked reasonably. "I'm saying...I'm asking that you understand why there will be times when I'm not exactly in a receptive mood as far as our relationship deepening goes. There are going to be times when I want to be alone, when I'm not going to want to play those particular reindeer games." He smiled. "Scully, I expected that." Surprised, she asked, "You did?" "After a fashion." "Explain, Mulder." He shrugged. "What can I say, Scully? I know you. I know the way your mind works." You know the way all our minds work, Scully thought. "So you're not angry? Not upset?" "I didn't say that," Mulder pointed out. "I'm... disappointed. I know pretty much what's going to happen next, and I'm not looking forward to it very much." Scully sat back, crossing her arms. "What do you think is going to happen next, Mulder?" "With the number one slot on the RT Squad, we're going to be doing a lot of traveling, Scully. We're going to be going places and doing things much like Jacksonville. I'm going to operate the only way I know how...the only way I can do this job. And that's going to mean that...scenes like Jacksonville are going to be repeated. And I'm going to need you. And you're going to be there for me, as you always have in the past." He paused. "And it's going to tear you apart to have to go through what we just went through. You're going to be torn with wanting to help me, and wanting to remain...detached." Scully looked away. He'd pegged her. Again. "I'll always be here for you, Mulder," Scully said softly. "I know." "Just...not the way we planned right now." "But you're not ruling it out?" Mulder asked hopefully. Her eyes found his. "No." "That's all I can ask for," he said. "I'm confused," Scully said after a moment. "Did we just break up?" He laughed. "No." Then his voice turned wistful. "We were never really together, Scully. We had...one night." "We've had a lot more than that, Mulder." She was right, and he said so. "Yeah, I know. But you know what I mean, too." She nodded. She did. "You must hate me," she said, fishing. "Scully...I...I don't hate you." I love you, he thought. "Listen," she said, standing, "all I want to do is just cool the moving forward part. I don't think we need to take a step back." "So that means?" Mulder asked. "Specifically? Remember, I'm a man. I need explicit directions." She smiled again. "Kissing and cuddling are ok. Spending the night on the couch is OK. Those looks you give me that turn my bones to rubber are ok." He grinned. "Scully...I don't have a monopoly on bone-melting looks, you know. Late-night phone calls?" "Still ok." "Suggestive remarks? Leers? Dirty jokes?" "Yes, yes and no." "Ah, rats." Scully laughed, a genuine laugh that made Mulder feel warm. "I should get going," she said. "Call me, later. If I've stopped freaking out about this, maybe you can come over and we can do another movie pizza thing. Maybe, if you're good, I'll let you sleep the night on my couch." Mulder stood, walking Scully to the door, his hand at the small of her back. "I'll call you around six, OK?" She nodded, leaned up, kissed him softly, turned and let herself out. Mulder walked back to the couch, hesitated, and then walked to his window. Splitting the blinds with two fingers, he watched Scully cross the street to her car. Just as she was about to get in, she turned and looked up at him. Even from forty yards away, Mulder felt her look in the center of his chest. "That's the look I was talking about," he said softly. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 444 Madison Avenue New York City Out on the prowl, looking to get fed. Jungle-beast time, Dupree thought, glancing around. Everything was bright, vivid, hyper-realistic again. Sounds were extra loud, smells much more so. His eyesight was so vivid that he could see the vapor trails left by people as they walked by. He'd decided to do Nelson as quickly as possible. He would liked to have planned it more, but the need inside him was too strong. Dupree promised himself that if this one came off without a hitch he wouldn't wait so long to plan the next one. They needed to be clean, to be precise, to be exacting in every detail. He couldn't risk getting caught, couldn't risk ending his streak. He'd staked out Nelson's place of business, armed with a recent photograph courtesy of the WITSEC database. Dupree planned to follow him and strike at the first opportunity. He had everything he needed with him. Including the note. The note was key. He had to make sure the note was found. Nothing had been mentioned about the note last time, and Dupree was getting frustrated. He knew they were holding the note, trying to use it as a filter against the loonies and nutcases that would attempt to confess to the King murder. Only the police and the killer would know about the note. He had thought about mailing the note to the cops instead of leaving it on the body, but that was too direct. It had no.. pinache. He thought about leaving it in the victim's pocket, to make sure that the crime scene unit found it. No, on the body was the best place for it, for a lot of different reasons. Nelson was standing against a telephone booth, glancing across the street every few moments, trying to pick Nelson from the crowd. 444 was a skyscraper; almost thirty-five floors. Several hundred different companies rented space there. Nelson worked at only one of them, a place called Omega Productions. Dupree glanced at his watch. It was already ten minutes after five. He devoutly hoped that John Nelson wasn't one of those types that liked to work late. Dupree was hungry. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland 7:30pm Scully had indeed stopped 'freaking out,' as she put it, and Mulder had called, and she had invited him over for pizza and a movie and some couch-cuddling. Which is exactly what they were doing when Mulder's cell rang. "Gotta be Littleton," Mulder said, getting up to find his jacket. "Why?" Scully asked as the phone continued to ring. "Because you're the only one that ever calls me on it, and you're sitting here next to me." He found his phone and thumbed SND at the same time he extended the antenna. "Mulder," he said, lifting it to his ear. "Littleton, Mulder. Where are you?" Mulder glanced at Scully. "I'm over at Scully's. What's up?" "I was going to wait until Monday-" Littleton started. Winking at Scully, Mulder finished his thought. "But...you wanted to call to tell me that Scully and I are now Team One on the VICAP RT Squad, and you have a really hot one, and you hate to bother us, especially since you've given us the rest of the week off, but you're getting a lot of heat from upstairs, and this one really needs some attention now, and would I be a pal, a real team player, a real member of the ISU community and jump on a plane to somewhere and handle it?" There was a very, very long pause before Littleton responded. "Jesus, Mulder...that's almost..." "Spooky?" Mulder finished, really starting to enjoy himself. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. You're right. God knows how you knew that, but you're right. So...?" "What's the case, Tony?" "Serial murderer, like the others. It's in Portland." "Maine?" "Uh...yeah. Where else?" "Oregon, Tony. Portland, Oregon. If memory serves, it is the capitol of the state. No...wait, the capitol is Salem." "Whatever. Anyway, I'm messengering over the file to Scully's. Tickets for the both of you tomorrow morning. Open-ended return." Littleton paused. "Catch this fucker, Mulder. It's what you do best." And with that, Littleton hung up. "We're off to Maine, Scully. Another sick twisted monster threatening the populace. Villagers with pitchforks and torches at the castle gate and all that." "Awful chipper for someone about to go into the great abyss, Mulder." Mulder nodded. "Well...I guess I should have asked you if you were ready to take on another case. He did give both of us the week off, Scully." Scully shrugged. "They need us," she said simply. "The both of us." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City There. Dupree felt the rush hit his body as he spotted Nelson exiting 444 Madison Avenue. He glanced at the sky, smiling. The sun had vanished a long time ago, leaving the city blanketed in darkness. Darkness, the time to hunt, Dupree thought and smiled. Darkness, when I can feed. Darkness, when the evil that dwells within me comes out. Dupree crossed the street and quickly fell in behind Nelson, moving slowly, keeping him in sight. He walked with a purpose, not wanting to attract the attention of the predators that roamed beneath the surface of society; it wouldn't do to have to fend off a mugging while stalking his own prey. This one was going to be quick and dirty, Dupree knew. He had the outlines of a plan. Find a place, catch Nelson's attention, and do him. Nelson, totally unaware of what was about to happen, thought about calling a cab instead of taking the subway. The subway wasn't crowded at this time of night, but there were other, more personal considerations to take into account. Nelson spotted a bar up ahead and decided to stop in for a cold one. Dupree followed him, his pulse quickening. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland Mulder was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Scully got up from the couch with a sigh and walked to the door, peeking first before opening it. Estelle stood on her doorstop, two thick case folders in her hands. "Good evening, Agent Scully," Estelle said, a wry smile on her face. Scully, blushing furiously, invited the woman in. "Mulder," she called. "The file's here." Mulder walked out of the kitchen, holding a sandwich in one hand an a glass of milk in the other. With a mouthful of food, he raised the sandwich in her general direction as a "Hello." "Agent Mulder," Estelle said, keeping her face carefully neutral. Mulder swallowed. "So, Estelle...think we can catch this guy?" "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Agent Mulder." He grinned. "Estelle, you've been around the Bureau since Hoover was wearing pinafores! Don't tell me you didn't...glance... at the file on the way over!" She blushed. "Agent Mulder, I can assure you-" "Yeah, yeah," Mulder said, obviously teasing. "So, what's your take on the guy?" Estelle straightened her shoulders and looked towards Scully. Scully shrugged, her meaning obvious: You're on your own, kiddo. "Agent Mulder," she said again. "If you must know, I _did_ go over the file to make sure that everything was there. However, I am an administrative assistant, not a profiler. My opinion means-" "A great deal to me, or I wouldn't have asked," Mulder insisted. Estelle closed her mouth, visibly pleased by Mulder's words. "Very well. White male, 25 to 35, above average intelligence. Probably has a blue-collar or an entry-level service job. Listens to country music. Domineering mother, absent father. No siblings. Poor impulse control. Childhood issues will have shown the classical sociopathic triad. Hates women with a deep and abiding passion. Likes to humiliate them. Is impotent with women that aren't under his direct physical control. Is most likely a compulsive buyer of pornography. Likes to come off in public as being sensitive and understanding of women's issues, but it's only a smokescreen. That is all I have for you, Agent Mulder. Good night." Estelle turned on her heel and left in what appeared to be a huff. As Scully was closing the door behind her, Estelle glanced over her shoulder, and making sure that Mulder couldn't see, winked at Scully. Smiling, Scully locked the door, carrying the file over to the couch. She let it fall onto the coffee table and regarded it, hands on hips, wondering how close to the truth Estelle would turn out to be. "Probably pretty damn close," she mumbled. "Yeah," Mulder said agreeably, sitting down. "I'd bet serious money on it. But, to be sure...let's go over it." Sighing, Scully joined him on the couch and opened the file. Together, they began to read. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Dupree scouted the bathroom. If Nelson came in alone, it would be perfect. The bathroom locked from the inside, and contained a stall and a urinal. He would need only seconds. He calculated the odds of getting in and out unseen. The bar was for professional drinkers; this was not a yuppified establishment serving potato skins and steak tips. This place was for working men and women that wanted to get blasted. Which meant that most of them would be focused on their own drinks, their own problems. Dupree studied Nelson, trying to decide if he was a regular. The bartender didn't seem to recognize him. That was good. Dupree ordered a beer and watched as Nelson started on his own drink, a Jack Daniel's and Coke. Ok, Dupree thought. Think. Think it through. It all hinged on whether or not the cops dug up Nelson's background. If they realized that he was a WITSEC client, they would know that I'm into the database and that I have access, that I can find these people and track them. That's not good, but the chances of them figuring it out are slim to none, mostly because the feds don't like cooperating with the locals. Makes 'em look bad. Especially when it's a protected witness. So...doing it here wasn't a good idea. Dupree felt the pull in his gut, knew that he wanted to do it, that he had to do it soon. But this was not the place, nor the time. The chances of someone walking in the middle, while slim, were still too high to chance. He had to get Nelson in his house. Make it look like a push in robbery. That would be best. Make it look random at first, up until the moment they found the note. The note was key. They had to decode the note for it to make sense. And they would never decode the note. Dupree finished his beer and waited to see what Nelson was going to do. Nelson finished his, paid, and left. Nelson waited ten minutes before following. He knew where Nelson was going. He'd already scouted the man's house. Easy, Dupree thought. Take it easy. Ten minutes and you can leave. Twenty to his house. Half an hour from now, you'll be in the middle of it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland "So?" Mulder asked. "What do you think?" Scully shrugged. "I think Estelle was right on the ball. I'm not sure why we need to go to Maine. We can phone this profile in." "Because," Mulder pointed out, "The senior Senator from the great state of Maine sits on the House Judiciary Committee, which controls funding of the FBI, which controls the funding of the ISU. It's all political, Scully." "What makes you say that?" "Hunch." "Can you think of any changes to Estelle's profile?" Scully asked, grinning. "Yeah. But I'll sleep on it and let you know in the morning." Mulder yawned and stretched. "Speaking of sleeping on it, I should be going. Gotta pack a bag and all that." Scully nodded, not sure if she wanted him to stay or not. He made the decision for her, leaning over and planting another soft, almost but not quite chaste kiss on her lips. "See ya, Scully," he said softly, getting up to leave. Scully said nothing. She watched him leave, wondering why it ached so much when he did. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Dupree exited the subway stop and looked around, orienting himself. Two blocks south, turn west, third house on the left. He whistled as he walked, enjoying the brisk night air. Within five minutes he was at Nelson's house. He walked up, ascended the short brick and stone staircase leading to the front door and knocked. "Who is it?" a voice called. "Police," Dupree responded. Nelson peered out from inside. "Can I see some identification?" he asked. Sighing, Dupree reached into his pocket. He held the small black folder up so Nelson could see it. A gleaming gold NYPD Detective's shield and matching ID card were displayed. "What is this about?" "Can we talk inside, Mr. Nelson? I don't think we want your neighbors to hear this." Using Nelson's real name had it's intended effect. The man paled, stepped back and opened the door. "How did you-?" Those were the last words he ever spoke. Chapter 6 =+=+=+=+===+=+= Annapolis, Maryland The Next Day 0730am Mulder parked his car in the visitor's spot next to Scully's building and climbed out, yawning and stretching at the same time. By mutual agreement, they'd long ago decided that they would alternate driving to the airport. With the amount of traveling they did, it seemed the only fair division of labor. It was his turn, and he was a little early, but Mulder wanted to spend a little time with Scully before they left for the airport. As he strode through the lot towards the front door to Scully's building, Mulder wondered what it would be like if the day ever came when they didn't have to switch off driving to the airport. If all they had to was to quickly make breakfast after waking up in each other's arms, and then decide who was going to drive their car to the airport. In the elevator, Mulder closed his eyes, enjoying the mental images his fantasies created. He could see Scully moving around her apartment in that light blue bathrobe with the moon and stars design, gently nursing her first cup of coffee for the day, her hair disheveled from sleeping, her slight form all but lost in the huge robe. The doors opened with a soft ding and Mulder exited the elevator, striding down the hall towards Scully's door. He knew that there was a long road ahead before anything as wonderful as that happened. A road that was fraught with danger, the potentials for breakdowns, and stretching a really bad metaphor to it's absurd conclusion, the very real chance that one of them would want to take an offramp before they reached that final, wonderful destination. Shaking his head in self-mocking exasperation, Mulder raised his hand and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by a fully dressed Dana Scully, who held a cup of coffee in one hand, and because she'd had to open the door with the other, had jammed what appeared to be a half-eaten blueberry Pop Tart into her mouth. "Ge marnigh!" Scully said around the Pop Tart. "Good morning," Mulder answered, amazed that he'd understood her. "Po Tar?" she asked. "Sure," Mulder said, strolling into the kitchen. He found the open box on the counter and helped himself. Scully, from the archway, said, "Ur Ely!" Mulder, glancing over his shoulder, grinned. "Yes, but I figured we could have breakfast together." She nodded, holding up her coffee mug in salute. They sat at the table and ate silently. Mulder was moving to get up and fetch himself some coffee when Scully slid her mug towards him. "Finish it," she said. "I'm done." He looked at the half-full mug for a moment, a strange expression on his face, and then lifted it to his mouth, draining it in a single pull. Lowering the mug back to the table, Mulder was at once fascinated at the incredibly intimate feeling such a simple action had given him, and touched that she had made such a gesture without thinking. Staring at the cup, he noticed the light lipstick marks on the other side of the rim. His mind announced with a certain wondering clarity that Scully's lips had been pressed against this very mug only moments ago. The power of his reaction amazed him. "I'm almost ready," Scully said. "Just have to finish packing." "Take your time," he said, reaching for the newspaper. "Gotta find out how my Knicks did last night." "You didn't watch the highlights?" "Working," he shrugged. Scully nodded, stood and vanished into her bedroom. Mulder peeled the paper apart, looking for the sports section. Just another day at the office. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Citywide Major Cases Squad New York Police Department One Police Plaza New York City Captain Alex Cahill, Commanding Officer, Citywide Major Cases Squad, stood in the doorway of the CO's office and regarded the desk. There were case files piled high, wide and deep, covering most of the visible surface of the desk. A small brass nameplate mounted on a prism-shaped chunk of wood declared that "Capt. A. Cahill, CO," resided in this office, but it looked more like some kind of demented police pat rack lived here. Alex Cahill was thirty-four years old, stood five feet nine inches tall, and had spent just over nine years on the job. Having joined the FBI after law school, Cahill had successfully completed Special Agent Training, and had promptly been assigned to the Miami Field Office. Two years of chasing bank robbers, drug dealers and the more-than-occasional Dade or Broward county corrupt public official had made it more than clear to Alex Cahill that the FBI was not the correct career choice. After resigning, Cahill returned to New York and joined the NYPD. Cahill discovered a natural affinity for police work, and rose quickly through the ranks, making Detective at 27, Sergeant at 29, Lieutenant at 31, and now, most recently, Captain at the tender age of 33. Not the youngest captain the NYPD had ever seen, but certainly the youngest female captain. Alex (born Alexandria,) Cahill, had never expected to be given command of one of the single most elite units within the entire NYPD. As a brand-new captain, she'd expected command of a precinct, or perhaps one of the larger detective bureaus, such as Bronx Narcotics or Manhattan Auto Theft. The Table of Organization and Equipment (TOE) for the NYPD stated that the Commanding Officer of the CMCS should be a Deputy Inspector, not a Captain. Which, to Alex, meant one of two things. The NYPD held examinations for promotions every few years. Promotions to the ranks of Sergeant, Lieutenant and Captain were based on the results of those tests, and the department's needs. Promotions above Captain (to Deputy Inspector, Inspector, and then into the various one, two, three and four-star ranks of Chiefs,) were given (and in some cases taken away,) at the behest and desire of the police commissioner. So, Alex knew that one of three possibilities existed for her being given command of CMCS. First, that she was scheduled for a promotion sometime in the near future. Second, that a departmental reorganization had occurred, and it had been decided that giving a captain command of such a major unit instead of a Deputy Inspector was a cost-cutting move, or thirdly, that for some reason the political wind had shifted again, and Major Cases was not being held in the same regard as it once had been. Which was hard to believe, considering the manpower and resources assigned to the CMCS. In addition to the sixteen Detective First Grades she had assigned to this office alone, the five borough Major Case Squads reported to her, as did the Citywide Stakeout Squad, the Technical Assistant Response Unit (The NYPD's version of a black-bag unit,) four anticrime teams made up of ten plainclothes officers assigned to street-level enforcement, her own personal Crime Scene Unit, as well as two Emergency Service Unit RMP's and three Assistant District Attorneys assigned to push her cases through the justice system of the City of New York. So, that left cost-cutting and promotion. Alex devoutly hoped it was a promotion. That would make her, without a doubt, the youngest Deputy Inspector in the department's history. The phone, buried under another teetering pile of paperwork, rang. Glancing through the doorway to the bullpen, Cahill saw that she was the only person present. "Major Cases, Cahill," she answered. "Central radio, Captain. Midtown North Detectives are requesting a response to a DOA call." Alex sighed. She glanced at her watch. The 8-to-4 shift didn't start for another fifteen minutes. "Gimmie the address," she said, grabbing for a pen to write with. The dispatcher read off the address and then said, "Captain, I'm going to log notification at eight-oh-one." "Thanks," Alex said, smiling. "I appreciate it. Any details?" "We have two RMPs, a CSU unit, ME, and Midtown North detectives on the scene. They're all waiting for you." Alex closed her eyes, calculating. At this time of the morning, it would take her about twenty minutes to make her way to the address. "Any ID on the victim?" "Uh...one John Wagner. That's all I have." "Thanks," Alex said, hanging up. She held the switchook down for a count of three, lifted it and dialed the number for BCI from memory. She ordered a run on any and all John Wagners that might be known to the Bureau of Criminal Information and asked that the printouts, if any, be forwarded to CMCS as soon as possible. When she looked up, Detective First Grade Samuel Cross was standing in her doorway, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Job?" he asked. "Midtown North would like the assistance of two of my very best detectives," Alex started. "But...since you're here..." "Ooh, Captain, you wound me," Sam teased. "Whatdaya got?" "DOA, one Jack Wagner. No details yet. Full crew on the scene. Take...oh, take Hicks with you." "Daryl's not in yet." "Says who?" a voice behind Cross shouted. Sam turned and Alex saw Detective First Grade Daryl Hicks standing slightly behind and to the right of Cross. "Sorry, didn't see you." "Whatdaya got, Cross?" "DOA. Midtown North." "Good. Didn't feel like going out to the boonies today. Let's go." Sam turned back to face Alex and arched an eyebrow. "Boonies?" he mouthed, and Alex smiled. Detective Daryl Hicks had never managed to lose the Georgia accent he'd been born and raised with. Like most New Yorkers, Alex had immediately subtracted forty mental IQ points from Daryl's score the moment she'd heard him speak. She only came to learn as time went by that he used that inborn prejudice to his advantage. He might have sounded like his namesake, a hick, but Daryl was an incredibly intelligent person, a natural interrogator, and one hell of a good cop. The case assigned, Alex turned her attention to the paperwork on her desk. DD5s, and lots of them. Every single open case inside the NYPD Detective Bureau required a follow up report (Report of Continuing Investigation, Form DD-5,) filed at least once every six months. Cases dating back to the 1920's were still updated faithfully every half-year. One of Alex's first command decisions had been to remove the burden of paperwork from her detectives as much as possible. Since it was her job to sit in the office and make decisions, and not to be out on the street handling cases, Alex had decided that it was easier for her to open each DD5, write "No further information at this time," sign her name and move onto the next than for her detectives to be hamstrung. Outside, in the bullpen, Detectives Daryl Hicks and Sam Cross opened their desk drawers, found new, blank notebooks, and opened them. They each entered the date, the time, and what information they knew about the case. "Victim's name is John Wagner," Cross said. Hicks nodded and wrote it down. "Ready to go forth and fight the forces of evil?" Cross asked. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Aboard Flight 981 En Route to Portland, Maine Scully was reading a forensic journal when Mulder stood, opened the overhead compartment and rummaged around inside his carryon. A moment later he sat down, holding one of the thick case folders. Scully frowned. Opening a case folder on a crowded plane was not a good idea. "What's up?" she asked softly. "Hunch," Mulder said. He went through the file slowly, reading everything again as if for the first time. Scully was again amazed that he never took notes. If he remembered everything he read, she wondered, why does he need to read it again? The case was confusing. The Portland Police weren't even sure that they had a serial killer on their hands. All they knew was that eleven young women, between the ages of 19 and 25 had vanished in the last six months. In each case, the woman had been spotted in the company of a well-dressed, handsome man. The confounding part was that the descriptions of the man varied in each case. He'd been variously described as tall, short, thin, fat, with six different hair colors, and as many styles. He'd driven several different kinds of cars, and no one could remember seeing the "victims" in the company of "the well-dressed man" on the day of their disappearances. No bodies had been found. No ransom demands had been made. Eleven women had just vanished off the face of the earth. The women were different, too. No physical similarity could be found. They matched different physical descriptions. Some were tall, some short, some heavy, some not. One was a waitress, another had been an attorney. Two homemakers, single mothers with young children. All they had to go on was a hunch. A hunch, and powerful political connections. The brother-in-law of the senior senator from Maine just happened to be the Chief of the Portland Police. God, Mulder thought. I hate political cases. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Detectives Hicks and Cross parked their unmarked Caprice Classic at the crime scene, noting that a small crowd made up of neighborhood residents were milling around, talking to themselves, gesticulating wildly at the victim's house. Cross reached for his portable. "One-Mike-Seven to Central, K," he called. "One-Mike-Seven." "Uh...I'm gonna need an anticrime unit to respond to this job, K." "Stand by..." Before the dispatcher had a chance to find a free anticrime unit, another voice hit the air. "Six-Adam-Six, we're in on that job." "Ten-four, Adam-Six." Exiting the car, both Detectives checked to make sure that their gold shields were visible. They walked slowly towards the crime scene, both of them glancing around to see if anything seemed obviously amiss. A uniformed officer was standing on the sidewalk, guarding the yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the walkway. Cross and Hicks ducked under it, nodded to the uniform, and slowly walked up the steps leading to John Wagner's house. Another uniform was guarding the front door, his face grim and slightly green. Hicks glanced at the man's uniform. "Officer...Johnson. Want to tell me what's going on here?" "We got a report by phone of a body at this address. My partner and I responded, knocked, didn't get a response. I glanced in the window over there," he said, tilting his chin, "and saw the DOA through the glass. We kicked the door, secured the scene and called the squad." Hicks nodded as he wrote. "Gimme your notebook," he said, holding out his hand. Officer Johnson handed over his notebook, and Hicks quickly made a notation that he'd taken the officer's statement, added the date and after checking his watch the time, and then handed it back. "Thanks," he said, smiling. "It's pretty gruesome in there," Johnson offered. "Oh, I think we can handle it," Hicks said, grinning. Johnson shrugged. Whatever. Entering the house, Hicks and Cross were immediately struck by the smell. Copper, warm, hot copper, fresh. Blood. Both reached into suit-jacket pockets and returned with rubber surgeon's gloves. Snapping them on, they moved deeper into the house and discovered what all the fuss was about. Four Crime Scene Unit detectives were working the scene, plus a Deputy Medical Examiner. The DME was slowly inserting what appeared to be a meat thermometer into the abdomen of the deceased. One of the CSU detectives was carefully walking around the living room of John Wagner's house, pointing a video camera at everything and anything. He was followed by the still photographer, who was pointing an expensive and complicated-looking Nikon at the same things, clicking off a shot every few seconds. The other two CSU detectives were on forensic collection duty; one of them was using a portable, battery-operated vacuum cleaner on the rug. The other was carefully holding a bloody knife with two fingers, turning it this way and that. Over in the corner, two Midtown North detectives stood, talking quietly to each other. Hicks walked over and held out his hand. "Hicks, Citywide. What's up?" The first detective glanced up and smirked. "Well, since we got us a fucking mystery, our CO thought we'd better call the real Sherlocks in on this one." Hicks lowered his hand, all business now. "So...we were called for...?" "This," the second one said, holding up a clear glassine envelope. Hicks twisted his head, trying to make it out. "What is it?" "We found it on the body. Take a look." He handed Hicks the envelope. Hicks turned it over in his hand so he could read it. 5410:401. "That's it? That's all it says?" The second detective nodded. "Yup. Seeing as how that's too cryptic for a stupid Midtown North detective to figure out, you major case guys got the job." "Here," the first one said, holding out another bag. "Wallet, keys, the usual." Hicks nodded, by now used to the snide comments and sideways glances that the PDU detectives loved to give. "Gimme your notebooks, and I'll sign you two off this job." Grumbling, they did as Hicks asked. He quickly signed and dated their notebooks, watching as they picked their way out of the house. He turned to find Cross squatting next to the body. Joining him, Hicks glanced down and felt his stomach flop. The victim had been...Hicks didn't know the exact word, but filleted came to mind. His throat had been slashed from ear to ear. There was a long, deep wound channel leading from the notch below the Adam's apple all the way to Wagner's crotch. The skin had been peeled back to reveal the organs, muscles and bones. Squinting, Hicks could see the results of what appeared to be a series of frenzied stabbing motions. "Someone was quite angry with our Mr. Wagner," Cross observed dryly. "I don't think this was a revenge job," Hicks said. "Take a look at this." He handed Cross the note. Taking it, Cross turned it in his hands and read it. "What the hell does that mean?" "If it means what I think it does, this is not the first time this particular critter has killed. Nor will it be the last." Cross looked up, frowning. "Serial?" he asked. Hicks nodded. "You sure?" Shaking his head, Hicks said, "No. Gut feeling. I'm gonna reach out to all the PDUs and see if anyone caught a homicide with similar...whatdaya call 'em? Signature?" Cross nodded. "Yeah. Signature. You do that. I'm gonna call the boss." He stood and stepped into the hallway, digging in his pocket for a cellphone. Speed Dial 02 was set to the number that matched the phone on Alex's desk. "Major Cases, Cahill." "Hey, boss, it's Cross." "Must be big if you're calling it in." "Midtown North found a note at the scene. The only thing on the note are two numbers, one four digit, then a colon, then three digits. Body's cut to shit. It looks like-" "A serial job," Alex finished, sighing. "Great. Just what we need. Ok, what does Forensics say?" "They're still washing and waxing the floors. I'm sure that if a mere detective were to call the CO for Midtown North CSU and ask for this to be expedited, he'd be politely told to go jump in the lake. However, being a Captain, I'm sure you could prevail on Lieutenant Thornton to give this case the proper attention." Alex laughed in his ear. "Understood, DETECTIVE Cross. The ME have anything interesting to say?" Cross cupped his hand over the phone. "Cause of death being the throat slash?" he asked loudly. "That'd be my bet. But that's not official yet. Time of death... say...somewhere between eight and midnight." "ME says the throat slash killed him, puts the time of death between eight last night and midnight." "Well, at least he's fresh," Cahill observed. "What do you need from me?" "Bodies. Two, preferably four detectives for a neighborhood canvas. We have a lot of doorbells to ring. Also, call BCI-" "Already did. Have you got a birthdate on the vic?" Cross opened the other bag and pulled Wagner's wallet out. "June 19, sixty-seven." "Okaaay...hold one..." Cross heard the sound of shuffling paper. "Ok, Wagner, John. White male, thirty, no arrests, no convictions, no moving violations. Got his driver's license...two years ago? That's weird. BCI has nothing on him. I'll run him through NYSPIN and NCIC and see if anything else comes back." "Ok...Daryl and I will do the house, see if we can find out where this guy worked, who his friends, family..." "Ok. Talk to you." Cross hung up and nodded to Hicks, who was standing in the entranceway of the living room. "We got ourselves a mystery," Hicks said. He didn't look like he was happy. "Maybe we'll luck out and discover that our friend Mr. Wagner was a homosexual killed in a frenzy by a jilted lover, and the note has nothing to do with any of this." Hicks grunted. "Like we could be that lucky." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Flight 981 "What's your hunch, Mulder?" "Well, Estelle was right, to a point. I think this guy, if it is one guy, is pretending to be Mr. Sensitive. Very non-threatening. I think he's got better than average looks, and that he comes across as Mr. Nice." "So what did she get wrong?" "I don't think he had a domineering mother. I think he had a sexual relationship with his mother." "Incest?" Mulder nodded. "Yeah. I think the rage he's exercising through these...murders, kidnappings, whatever they are...I think they're a result of that sexual relationship. Judging by the age of the women, and taking into account a statistical mean of mother's ages at birth, I think we have the son of a girl who got pregnant very young, maybe fifteen, sixteen. When he was seven, eight or so, they started a sexual relationship. It probably went on for a long time. Then, something happened. She left him, she died, maybe she got caught and did some time. Whatever, that influence left his life." "What makes you think that, Mulder?" "Hunch, Scully. I don't have anything concrete to go on. But all the women have a very wholesome, girl-next-door look about them. Two of them were actually mothers. I think that when we investigate, we're going to find that all these women spent time around children. And that's how he's finding them." Scully nodded, wondering how the hell he did this. "So how do we find him?" she wondered. Mulder shrugged. "I don't know." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Omega Productions 444 Madison Avenue New York, NY Cross and Hicks exited the elevator on the twelfth floor. A small reception area was set back from the hall, with a pretty young receptionist seated behind the desk. Cross approached, his shield in his hand. "Detective Cross, NYPD," he said, a smile on his face. "I was wondering if we could speak to John Wagner." The receptionist blinked. "He hasn't come in today." "Oh," Cross nodded, as if he wasn't expecting that answer. "Perhaps we could speak to his superior?" "Has he done something wrong?" "We just need to talk to him," Cross said gently. The receptionist nodded and reached for the phone. Dialing four numbers, she waited, tapping pencil against the desk. "Mr. Sanders, there are some police officers here to see you." Cross grinned wider. A moment later, a middle-aged executive type came striding out from somewhere inside the office, his face red. Approaching Cross and Hicks, he smiled nervously. "I'm Mr. Sanders. What can I do for you?" "Detective Cross. This is Detective Hicks. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?" "What's this about?" Sanders asked. Cross glanced pointedly at receptionist. Sanders flushed. "Please follow me," he said, turning and walking back into the office. He took them to a conference room down a short hallway and led them inside. Hicks closed the door. "Sir," Cross started, "do you have a John Wagner working for your firm?" Sanders grunted. "Yes, we do, but he hasn't shown up for work today." Cross and Hicks exchanged another glance. "Sir, we're going to need to see all the personnel records relating to Mr. Wagner." Sanders crossed his arms. "I'm going to have to ask what this is about. I mean, don't you people need a warrant or something?" "No, sir, not in this case. Mr. Wagner was found murdered this morning in his home." Sanders paled and reached for a chair, lowering himself gently into it. "Oh my god," he whispered. "Dead?" he asked again. "Yes, sir. Murdered. So you can understand why we need to learn as much as we can about Mr. Wagner. I'd also appreciate a list of his friends and co-workers here. We'll need to talk to them as well." Sanders nodded. "Of course." He paused. "Dead?" "Yes, sir." Sanders nodded again and reached for a telephone on the conference table. He dialed four numbers. "Diane, this is Barry. Do me a favor and pull Jack Wagner's personnel file and meet me in Conference Room A, ok?" There was a pause. "Just do it, Diane. I'll explain later." He hung up the phone. "This should only take a moment." "Sir, how close were you to Mr. Wagner?" Hicks asked. "Uh...he worked for this company. I own it. He was a graphic artist in our production department. That's about as much as I know." "You called him 'Jack,' sir. Our records indicate his name was John. Did you know him well enough to call him Jack?" "No...that's what everyone called him." "I see. Was he a good employee?" "In what way?" "Was he punctual? Did he have any personal problems that came to the attention of the company? Creditors calling, that sort of thing?" "Not to my knowledge. Our payroll staff would be better suited to answer that question, Detective." "Did he have any problems with anyone here at work? Conflicts?" "No, he was quiet, kept to himself mostly." Sanders laughed. "That's usually what they say about the guy who snaps, not the victim." The door opened to reveal a short, plump woman with frizzy blonde hair. She carried a thin file folder in one hand. "Barry?" she asked, obviously annoyed. "I'd appreciate it in the future if you didn't hang-" "Diane, these men are the police. Jack's been murdered." Diane's mouth formed into a silent, surprised little "O". "Ma'am?" Hicks asked, reaching for the folder she carried. "If I may?" "Of course," she said, handing it over. "My God...Jack... dead?" "Yes, Ma'am." Daryl sat down at the conference table and opened the file. It didn't contain much. A job application, containing the basic name, address and educational information. Hicks noticed that Wagner had listed a job-training course as his education, and had also not listed any previous employers. That was odd, he thought. "I see here that Mr. Wagner didn't list any previous employers. How did you check his references?" Diane shot a glance across the table at Sanders, who coughed. "Uh, we participate in a job-placement program with the school Jack ... Mr. Wagner attended." Hicks nodded, making a note of the school's name and address. "Ma'am, did Mr. Wagner pose any personnel management issues? Was he tardy? Hard to work with, anything like that?" "No," Diane said. "He was quiet. He-" "Kept to himself," Cross finished with a smile. "We've heard that. Diane, do you know if Jack was having problems with anyone outside of work? An ex-wife, girlfriend, jealous boyfriend, anything like that?" Diane thought a moment and shook her head. "He really didn't talk much to anyone here. He just came in, did his work, went home." "Is there anything you can think of that might be important to us?" Diane shrugged. "He liked to work a lot of overtime." Cross frowned. "Was he an hourly or salary employee?" "Salary. But we give comp time. Two hours off for every hour worked as overtime." Cross nodded. "Did he use that time? Or was he wracking it up?" Diane thought about it. "He hasn't taken a vacation in about a year, I think." Cross nodded. "Ok." He reached into his jacket and came back with a slim leather folder. "Here's my card. Please call me if you think of anything else, or anyone calls asking after Mr. Wagner." Hicks was studying the personnel file. Tapping one page, he looked up. "No one to call in case of emergency." To Diane, Cross said, "Do you know of any family we might notify?" Diane shook her head again. "I can't think of anyone." "Thank you for your time," Cross said, offering his hand. They both shook it, and he and Hicks left Omega Productions. On the ride down in the elevator, they compared notes and impressions. "Quiet, never bothered anyone, no problem. No next of kin. A big blank zero," Hicks complained. "Yeah," Cross agreed. "So what now?" Hicks asked. "I got someone in front of me I can ask questions, we get somewhere. I'm no good at this 'detecting' shit." Cross smiled. Hicks liked to put himself down. With only a cursory examination of his past arrest record it would become obvious to even the most dense of readers that Hicks was full of shit. In those rare cases when he had to wear his uniform, Hicks' was decorated with more baubles and awards than Cross had ever seen. He'd gotten his gold shield ten years before by running a cop-killer down on a rooftop, a situation that had almost ended up with Hicks plummeting seven stories to his own death. "Well, Sherlock, I guess it's time to go visit Mr. Wagner's school and see if that turns up anything." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine A somber-faced man wearing a suit and a very nice Burberry trench coat was waiting for Scully and Mulder as they trudged off the plane. "Mulder?" the man asked. When Mulder turned towards the voice, the man thrust out a hand. "Detective Chavez, Portland PD. Thanks for coming." "This is my partner, Special Agent Scully," Mulder said, tipping his head towards her. Scully shook his hand and he smiled warmly at her. "Agent Scully. Thank you both so much for coming. We're in a bit of a bind here." "Well, without a victim," Scully started apologetically. "That won't be a problem any longer, I'm afraid," Chavez said. "Oh?" Mulder asked. "We found a body. Two, actually." "The missing women?" Chavez nodded. "One of them. The other is so badly decomposed that we have no idea who she is. We're waiting for word from the ME." Scully glanced at Mulder who quickly nodded. "Have they started the autopsy?" she asked. Chavez shook his head. "I don't think so." "Could you call and ask them to wait? I'd like to...participate." Chavez pulled a cellphone from inside his jacket and dialed. "Hey, doc, Bill Chavez. Do me a favor; if you haven't started cutting on that unknown, hold off. One of the FBI agents wants to observe." Scully bit her lip. Mulder touched the man's arm. Chavez covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Scully is a forensic pathologist. I think she'd like to...assist." Chavez's eyes widened, but he nodded. "Uh, change of plans, doc. The Agent in question is a pathologist. She wants to...yes, she...she wants to participate." Pause. "Thanks, Doc." He hung up. "Dr. Keystone would very much appreciate any help the FBI can offer," he said to Scully. So what was that 'yes, she' thing? Scully wondered. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= ITT Technical College New York City Cross and Hicks found the registrar's office with little trouble. They flashed their ID and asked for any information about a student named John or Jack Wagner that had attended their graphic artist's course two years ago. After a fifteen minute wait, an administrative assistant appeared looking flustered. "Do you have his social security number?" she asked. Flipping open his notebook, Hicks located the number and read it off to her. "Come with me," she said, waving them behind the counter. They followed her down the hall and into her office. The desk was piled high with paper. A PC sat on a credenza. Flopping into the chair, she typed the number Hicks had given her. A moment later the computer beeped. Squinting, Cross could make out the dialog box. "No matching records found." "He's not showing as ever having been a student here," the assistant said. The detectives glanced at each other. The answer was obvious. "We're going to need a list of all students that took the graphic artist's course in that time period. Just last name, first name, middle initial if you've got it, and social security number." The assistant looked as if she was considering refusing the request, but in the end she leaned over the keyboard and typed. A moment later Cross could hear a laser printer spooling up somewhere down the hall. "It'll just be a minute," she said softly. They waited for the printout. When she brought it to them, it was over thirty pages, sixty names to a page. "It's a very popular course," she explained. Hicks spoke. "I just had an idea. You offer job placement service, right?" She nodded. "Do you keep track of what companies you place your students with?" Again, she nodded. "Ok, give me a list of all of your students that were placed with Omega Productions on Madison Avenue in that same time period." She sighed. "We'll get out of your hair after that, I promise," Hicks said. A few keystrokes later, the computer beeped again. "No records found." "Now we've got a real mystery," Hicks mumbled. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine The ME's office was located in the Government Administration Building on North Chester Avenue. A good fifteen-minute ride from the airport found Scully and Mulder in the autopsy bays. There were two tables, both occupied. The first table contained the third woman to have vanished. According to the case file her name was Jessica Reed, aged 24. In life, she'd had long, straight blonde hair and blue eyes. Wholesome, girl-next-door image. In death, her hair was muddy and dirty, streaked with leaves and twigs. Her eyes were lifeless, pale blue. She'd been strangled with bare hands, judging by the marks on her neck. Scully took one look at the body and turned to her partner, lowering her voice. "My God, Mulder, she's only been dead a few days, if even that!" Mulder got it instantly. He was keeping them somewhere. Keeping them alive for unknown reasons. Which meant that there were nine, possibly ten women being kept somewhere. Mulder consulted the case file. Jessica Reed had been taken seven weeks ago. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of what she must have been going through for those lost weeks. He glanced at Scully, wondering if what she had gone through was worse. Probably, he thought, and felt a wave of guilt wash over him. The pathologist entered from another door, wearing scrubs and a rubber apron. "Hello," he said smiling. "I'm Dr. Keystone." Scully stepped forward, offering her hand. "I'm Dr. Scully, with the FBI. I was wondering if you'd mind if I assist you with this autopsy." "Of course not, Dr. Scully. There are scrubs through that door. I'll wait while you change." Scully nodded and marched off. Mulder hid a smile behind his hand. She was always more at home in the autopsy bay than anywhere else. "So, anything new?" Detective Chavez asked. Keystone shook his head. "Sorry, nothing to report at this time. Perhaps later, after we've had a chance to examine both bodies." Mulder knew that the autopsy on the unknown victim was going to be gruesome. "Detective Chavez, perhaps we'd better leave these two to their work," he said. "We can go to headquarters and go over the case in more detail." Chavez looked happy for the opening. "Of course, Agent Mulder. An excellent idea." They waited for Scully to return. When she re-entered the room, Mulder moved to her and bent his head. "Chavez and I are going to headquarters. Give me a buzz when you're done, and I'll come get you." She smiled, and nodded. "Sure, Mulder." He stepped back, looking at her dressed in the plain green scrubs. Something was wrong. Narrowing his eyes, he realized that she wasn't wearing her cross. Well, he supposed...she probably wouldn't want to when she was... Gulping, he shook his head to clear it. "I'll talk to you later," he said, turned and left, Chavez trailing behind. "Well," Scully said brightly. "Should we get started?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza New York City Captain Alex Cahill glanced up at Detective Cross as he entered her office, trailed closely by Detective Hicks. "Talk to me," she said, leaning back and crossing her legs. "Mr. Wagner is posing something of a problem," Cross started. "First off, he had the audacity to become a murder victim in _my_ city." "How thoughtless of him," Hicks interjected. "Yeah, yeah," Alex said, waving her hand in a come-on gesture. "What have you got?" "Not much. As far as BCI and DMV are concerned, the DOA is John Wagner, AKA Jack Wagner, 30 years old, white male. He had a job as a graphic artist at a place called Omega Productions in midtown. No one there knew him very well, no friends that we can find. His work says that he was a good employee, always punctual, quiet, kept to himself." "But," Hicks said, interrupting his partner, "he's got no job history. Omega told us he came in with a placement firm, from the school that he got his graphic arts degree from. Only problem is, they don't have a record of him attending classes there, or of them having placed him in that job." Alex titled her head, absorbing this. "So...and DMV says his driver's license is two years old. It's almost as if this guy just appeared out of nowhere two years ago. Anything on the house?" Cross shook his head. "Rented from an agency. Two years worth of payments, always on time. Sometimes early." "But that's not the best part," Hicks said. "She knows," Cross replied. "The note?" Alex asked. Both detectives nodded. "What do you think it means?" They shrugged. "Hey...you guys are the best and the brightest! You're supposed to figure this shit out!" They shrugged again. "Any response to the reach out?" Alex asked. Cross shook his head. "Nothing so far. Only Bronx North hasn't called back." "Call them again," Alex ordered, and then thought better of it. "No, let me. Callahan is a prick." Captain William Callahan, commander of Bronx North Detectives, had dearly wanted the slot that Alex had gotten after her promotion, and Alex was sure that he was holding a grudge. Flipping through a departmental directory, she found the number and dialed. "Bronx North Squad," a voice answered. "Hey, it's Alex in Major Cases." Pause. "Good morning, Captain." "Who's this?" "Lieutenant Ziski." "Lieutenant, I was wondering if you guys, or the Bronx Homicide Task Force, caught any strange ones lately." "Strange how?" "Note, found at the scene, nothing but numbers." There was a very long pause. "Captain, may I ask why you're inquiring?" "Answer the question, Lieutenant," she said sharply. "Yes, we did. But Captain Callahan wanted that information kept close-hold. He's got Bronx Major Cases working on it." "Not anymore," Alex informed him. "Do me a favor. Warm up the Xerox and get me everything you have on your victim. We're going to be coming over for it. As of right now, Citywide is taking this one over." "Captain, with respect, ma'am, but...can you do that?" "I just did," Alex said, slamming the phone down. Slapping her hands together, she continued. "Hot shit. Bronx north caught one just like ours. Get over there, Cross, and get everything they've got." Cross nodded and moved towards the door. "Hold it," Alex called. "Let me reach out to Bronx Major Cases and see if they'll play nice. I have a feeling that Callahan is going to go screaming to the CofD, and I want to be prepared." She dialed another number, this one from memory. "Bronx Major Cases, Lieutenant Lee." "Harry, Alex." "Hiya, Alex. What's shaking?" "You guys caught a strange one a few days ago? A DOA with a note, nothing but numbers?" "Sure. How'd you hear about that?" "I'm supposed to hear about them _all_," Alex pointed out. "Uh...right, Ma'am. What about it?" "Citywide is taking it over. We just got another body in Midtown North. Detective Cross will be over there in a bit to grab your files. Do me a favor, and help him out?" "Sure, Captain. But you should know that Captain Callahan," "Whom you don't report to," Alex reminded him. "Cap, his brother-in-law is the Bronx Borough Commander." "Well, tough noogies. It's our case now. Cross will be there forthwith." "Nah, forget it. I have a man going down to one PP with some house mail. I'll just hold him until the file's ready. I take it you will be calling the illustrious CofD to inform him that you are stepping on powerful toes...again?" "Yeah, yeah," Alex said, hanging up. To Cross, she said, "Forget the errand. Someone from Bronx Major Cases is hand-delivering the file later today." Cross grinned. "Ok, I'm going back to Omega. I'd like to find out how he was hired with no job history and no record of placement." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine Scully sighed as the water beat down on her scalp. Dr. Keystone had offered her use of the staff shower after the autopsy. Getting the smells and tastes out of her system after an autopsy was always hard, but this was helping. The body had a tentative identification. It wasn't much to go on, but the case file had included partial dental records. The only problem was that the results didn't make sense. Well, she thought...Mulder will make sense of it. +=+=+= He picked her up in an unmarked car Chavez had loaned them for the duration of their stay. She got into the car and slammed the door. "Back to police headquarters?" she asked. "Nah," Mulder said, turning and pulling into traffic. "This is Maine, Scully. They knock off early here. We're going to the hotel, check in, relax, and you can tell me all about your day." His light, teasing tone did little to hide the distaste in his voice. Mulder held little love for the details of an autopsy, something Scully had learned early on. She tried as hard as she could to keep the more grotesque details to a minimum. "Anything new?" "Not a thing." "Well, I have news," she said smugly. "We got an ID. Tentative, but I think it'll stick. We're waiting for complete medical records. Failing that, DNA test. But that'll take at least a week." "So...?" "June Sinclair," Scully said proudly. Mulder's eyes lost focus as his whip-crack memory kicked into gear. "Wait a minute..." he said. "She's the most recent abductee!" He glanced over at Scully's pained expression. "Kidnapee just sounds weird." She granted the point with a nod. "He's killing them out of order," he said. "Or we're finding them out of order," she pointed out. "No, Scully, you saw the body. She'd been out and about for weeks before she was found. Jessica Reed is only days old." Scully granted that point with another nod. "And something else..." Mulder said. "Something I can't put my finger on..." "Well, give it some thought, I'm sure it will come to you," Scully said, leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes. "God, I'm beat." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 444 Madison Avenue New York City Omega Productions was closed. Detective Sam Cross stood in front of the closed and locked glass doors on the twelfth floor, wondering what the hell was going on. It wasn't three yet, and the place was deserted. Pulling out his cellphone, Cross dialed the number on the door. Three beeps and a voice. "The number you have dialed...five five five six seven eight nine, has been disconnected. No further information is available." Cross checked the number he'd dialed against the door, just to make sure. Weird, he thought. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Val-U-Rite Motor Lodge Portland, Maine Scully knocked on the adjoining door and found Mulder laying on the bed, the case folders spread around him. "Hey," Scully said softly. He didn't move. She walked to the bed and sat down with her back towards him. Looking over her shoulder, she tried again. "Hey, Mulder." Nothing. Waving a hand in front of his eyes, concerned, she tried a third time. "Mulder?" "Scully..." he said softly, his arms reaching for her. She resisted. Snapping out of it, he turned to her. "What? Against the rules? I thought cuddling was allowed." "It's not that," she said, a little sadly. "It's just..." "What?" "Well...after I finish one, I still...smell like one of them." "You showered, right?" "Yeah." His arms found her shoulders and pulled her down against him. "Scully...if you think a little formaldehyde is going to turn me off..." She smiled into his chest. "Thinking?" she asked. "Yeah. I know there's something connecting the victims, and I just can't put my finger on it. Something dumb, I know. I know it's going to be something so obvious that...it's going to make me nuts when I figure it out." "Just relax, Mulder. It'll come to you." "I know I can be a jerk..." He trailed off, then whispered. "Jerk. Just." "What?" "Shhh...jerk. Just. Jessica. June. Holy shit!" He sat upright, dislodging Scully from his side. He tore into the case files, reading the names. He got halfway through when he stopped. "Shit. I thought I had it." "What?" "June. Jessica. Janet. Jennifer. Geraldine. Julie. Jackie." Excited, Scully asked, "And?" "Laura. Karen. Katherine. Anne." Scully bit her lip. "What about middle names?" she asked. Mulder looked at her and then dove back into the files. "Hit," he said. "Laura Jane. Karen Janet. Anne Jewel." He stopped on the last. "Katherine Lloyd. Must be a family name." "Still, Mulder, ten out of eleven is a match as far as I'm concerned." Mulder nodded. "But it doesn't fit. Katherine Lloyd was right in the middle, number six. Why deviate?" Scully rubbed her forehead, thinking. And then it hit her. "Do we have a family contact for Katherine Lloyd..." she glanced over Mulder's shoulder before finishing. "...Bennett?" Mulder read the number off. "Mother." Scully dialed the phone. "Hello?" "Mrs. Bennett?" "Yes?" "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm calling in regards to the investigation into your daughter's...absence." "Have you found her?" Mrs. Bennett asked. The fear in her voice was coming through loud and clear. "No, ma'am. Not to my knowledge. I just wanted to ask you a fast question. It may not make any sense to you, Ma'am, but it would help the investigation if you could answer." "I've told the police every single thing I can think of about my daughter," Mrs. Bennett said. "We weren't very close." "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bennett." "What do you want to know?" "Did your daughter have a nickname?" "Why, yes!" Mrs. Bennett said, brightening. "Junebug." Scully glanced at Mulder and gave him a thumbs-up. "Did she use that name in public? Is that what her friends called her?" "Oh, no...just her father called her that. No one else ever did." "Thank you, Mrs. Bennett. You've been a big help." "Are you going to find my daughter?" "We're trying as hard as we can, Mrs. Bennett." "God bless you, dear. Please let me know if you find anything out." "I will. Have a good evening, Ma'am." Scully hung up and turned to face her partner. "Junebug," she said simply. "Her nickname was Junebug." "Scully...Starbuck...you're a genius!" Scully winced at Mulder's use of her father's nickname. "God, I'm sorry, Scully," he said, noticing her expression. "No," she said, waving it away. "It's ok...for a long time, my father was the most important man in my life. I guess that it's only appropriate that..." she trailed off, considered her next words and the effect they would have, and then plunged ahead anyway. "... that the most important man in my life right now uses it, too." Touched, Mulder moved to her side, swinging his legs over to dangle off the bed. "Thank you, Scully," he said. She turned to face him. "Mulder...I have a really bad feeling about this," she said. "About us?" "No, about the case. June Sinclair was strangled, but we found evidence of other...abuse. Torture." "Such as?" "Some of the underlying muscle tissue in the chest, abdomen, thighs, and buttocks showed evidence that a low-voltage electrical charge had been applied to the body." "He's electrocuting them?" "Not to the point of death. I think he's...torturing them, Mulder. "I think he's torturing them until they beg him to kill them." Chapter 7 =+=+=+=+===+=+= One Police Plaza New York City Captain Alex Cahill leaned back, closed her eyes, and rubbed the lids with the heels of both hands. The pile of DD5s had slowly, steadily grown smaller as the day had worn on, but she knew that in a few short minutes another officer from the Administration Division was going to show up, collect today's pile and replace them with a fresh stack. She heard movement outside in the bullpen and craned her neck to see who it was. Most of the day tour had long since gone; it was close to seven-thirty. Detective Sam Cross was sitting at his desk, rubbing the point of his chin with a thumb and finger. "Sam!" she called. He glanced over his shoulder, smiling when he saw her. "Burning the midnight oil, Boss?" "Not hardly. I'm just about to get out of here. Did you take a look at that file from Bronx Major Crimes?" Sam held it up. "Just starting now." "Anything interesting?" "Several things," he said, getting up and slowly walking into her office. "Mind if I bounce an idea or two off of you." "Sure, what the hell. Been so long since I did actual detective work, might be a refreshing change from fighting the battle of the memo." "Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that something is wrong about Omega Productions." "What makes you say that?" "That when I got back there early this afternoon to talk about the discrepancy regarding the job placement issue, they were closed. And when I called them on the cell, it was disconnected. No further information." "Call the phone company," Alex said. "Get their records. Let me know if Nynex security starts making warrant noises, and I'll call the ADA for you. With two murders..." She trailed off. "Any connection that you can find between Omega and Leon King?" "None. But I haven't really started looking there. And the more I think about it, the worse the feeling gets. I want to send someone over to sit on the building. I have a feeling that if I let them have tonight, I'll go back tomorrow to find that all the furniture, and more importantly, the files have been moved." Alex grabbed the phone and dialed. "Anti-Crime," a voice answered. "Hey, it's Alex. You got anyone looking to make some overtime?" "How much?" Alex glanced at her watch, calculating. "About nine hours worth." "Doing...?" "Sitting on a building in Midtown, making sure no one tries to unload an office." "Sure, I can find someone." "Fine. 444 Madison Avenue..." she glanced at Cross. He mouthed 'Twelve.' "...Twelfth floor. Name of the place is Omega Productions. Please ask them to have Central notify me when they're there." "You got it, Captain." She hung up. Cross took a seat in front of her desk and began flipping through the Leon King file. "The thing that stands out is that Mr. King, just like Mr. Wagner, by all appearances, didn't exist until three years ago. No driver's license records, no job history, nothing. At the tender age of twenty-seven, Mr. Leon King just...appeared." "Did you call Albany?" Recent legislation in New York State allowed police officers to access the state tax records for any murder victim. "Yes, and they promptly faxed down five returns. Two for Mr. Wagner and three for Mr. King." "And BCI has nothing on either of them," Alex reminded herself aloud. "So where were they before they showed up here?" Cross asked. "Or," Alex said after a pause, "...who were they?" Cross frowned. "Excuse me?" "What are the chances..." she trailed off. "I just got a very bad feeling all of a sudden." "Why?" "See if this makes any sense," Alex asked. "Two men, both of them murdered brutally. Leon King was shot...what, seven times? Wagner had his throat slit, and then he was opened from top to bottom like a fish on market day. Both of them had these cryptic notes dropped at the scene, notes that we can't make heads or tails out of-" "By the way," Cross said. "I called an old professor of mine, and he agreed to take a look at the notes." "What?" "Well, not the notes themselves. I sent him the numbers, and explained that we didn't know what they were. He said he'd get back to me." "Remind me," Alex said, rubbing her eyes. "Where did you go to college again?" Cross glanced down at his shoes. "I never told you," he said softly. "It's really not important." "Detective," Alex said, an edge to her voice. "I asked you a question." "MIT," Cross answered. "Class of 80." Alex's eyes popped open. "Really? MIT?" Cross nodded. "So-" "What the hell am I doing being a police Detective when I could be curing cancer or inventing the next Internet or whatever, right?" "Something like that," Alex admitted. "I like police work. I always did. My going to MIT was my father's idea. When he passed away, about six months after graduation, I realized that I was free to do with my life what I wanted. So I joined the NYPD. Seventeen years later, here I am, a Detective First Grade with the Citywide Major Cases Squad. The pinnacle for any NYPD cop." "No," Alex said with a smile, "the pinnacle is being the commanding officer of the Major Cases Squad. Or, failing that-" "Chief of Detectives," Cross grinned. "Nah. CofD is way too political. Maybe Chief of Investigations." "Whatever. Anyway, Professor Schneider agreed to look at it for us and consult on the case for as long as we needed him, gratis." Alex nodded. "Excellent. Anyway, as I was saying, cryptic notes left at the scene. Both victims have no history prior to a few years ago." "So...?" "So...you were never in the military, right?" "No. Daryl was. Army, I think. CID." "Yeah, he was. You might want to confirm this with him, but my understanding from my father was that if you were court-martialed, and found not guilty, they gave you a clean service record. They wiped all mention of the court-martial from it, and you got a clean slate." Cross shook his head, not getting it. "And your point is...?" "Protected Witnesses," Alex explained. "How much do you want to bet that our two victims are protected witnesses? That would explain the lack of history." Cross nibbled the end of a pen, mulling it over. "When they go into the WITSEC program, they do remove their prints from the online NCIC, right?" Alex nodded. "That would explain why we didn't get a hit on the prints. But does the FBI keep a set offline?" "I don't know," Alex thought aloud. "But I do know someone I can ask." Cross looked a question at her. "Someone I went to the academy with," she said. "The FBI Academy," she corrected. "We're kind of friends. A card at Christmas, on birthdays, that sort of thing. We call each other about four times a year just to catch up. She got me through evidentiary proceedings, and I taught her some tricks in White Collar Crime." "Where is she now?" "Assigned to headquarters, actually. Assigned to something called the X-Files. I'm not quite sure what that is, but I'm sure if I give Dana a call, she can help us out." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine Scully was dreaming. All her life, she'd had vivid, Technicolor dreams. Once, when she was sixteen, she'd twisted her knee playing soccer and the doctor had prescribed Codeine 3 and Tylenol. The mild analgesic had given her even wilder dreams, complete with a soundtrack and rolling end credits. But Dana Scully had never had a dream like this one. She was in a room. The room was completely white. Every single surface, all four walls, the floor, the ceiling...all white. There was a table in the room. If it had been stainless steel, Scully would have said that it was an autopsy table. But it was white. The only thing in the room that was not white was Scully herself. Glancing down at her body, Scully saw that she was dressed for a typical day at the office: Dark business suit, wine-colored blouse, flats. Scully walked around the room. At first, she thought she was looking for a way out. After a few moments, she realized that she had no burning desire to leave this place. It was quiet, clean. Sterile. After a few moments of exploration, Scully found something else in the room. She glanced back, wondering why she hadn't seen it sooner. It was a filing cabinet. Steel, two drawers, also painted stark white. She glanced at the drawers; they were unlabeled. Scully shrugged and pulled it open. There were files inside. X-files. The distinctive red and white stripes made it clear that the drawer was fairly packed to the gills with X-files. Scully pulled the first one out. The case in Oregon. The first case. Scully pulled the second one. Idaho. A missing pilot named Budahas. She smiled, realizing that it was her entire career, in order, from first to last. Scully heard a noise behind her and turned. And gaped. There was a body on the table. It hadn't been there before. Scully was certain of it. Turning from the filing cabinet, Scully walked quickly to the table. The body was covered from head to toe with a white sheet. And for some strange reason, she didn't want to pull the sheet back. Her gaze traveled the length of the sheet-covered body. She noticed, with a start, that now the feet were visible. And there was a tag tied to the left big toe. Scully pursed her lips and moved slowly towards the foot of the table. She tilted her head, trying to read the name on the tag. She could only make out the last three letters: d-e-r. Scully felt a cold chill run down her spine. Scully glanced at the file in her hand. The folder Scully had been holding when she heard the noise had been the Pfaster file. This was not that file. This file said... FOX MULDER. Scully's eyes flicked from the cover of the folder to the sheet and back. No. Taking a deep breath, Scully opened the file. The top form was one Scully was familiar with. An FBI LLE-12, autopsy request form. The memo paperclipped to the corner said that the cause of death for one Special Agent Fox William Mulder had not been determined, and an autopsy was required. Scully dropped the file, taking two shaking steps back from the table, her hands rising to her mouth. No. It couldn't be. A part of Scully's dream mind knew that it was a dream. But the internal logic of that dream demanded that she walk to the table and peel the sheet back. Powerless to resist, Scully took those two steps, one trembling hand reaching for the sheet. She lifted it. +=+=+=+= Scully bolted upright, her eyes wide, a scream trapped in her throat. She swallowed, surprised to find that it hurt: Her mouth was painfully dry. Exhaling slowly, she turned her head to the side and saw the sleeping form of her partner, the man she had just dreamed about. They had discussed the case for an hour or so after their discovery, planning tactics and options. The day had gotten to the both of them, and they had fallen asleep watching television. At some point during the evening, Mulder had turned it off. The room was dark, the only light coming from the moon through the window. Mulder's form was bathed in the silvery caress. She saw that he had also changed; he was wearing sweat shorts and nothing else. She squinted in the dim light, watching as his chest rose and fell. He was sleeping. She reached out a hand and touched his chest, wanting to feel his warmth, wanting to know that he was alive. It was ludicrous, but Scully had never been able to explain to herself the powerful, mystical control dreams had over the dreamer for those first few terror-stricken moments after awakening. In his sleep, Mulder detected Scully's touch. He turned towards her, his arms reaching out and finding her. She slid into his embrace, turning her back towards him, fitting herself against his body carefully. His arms wrapped around her, his right arm crossing her stomach. She felt the dry press of his lips against the crown of her head and smiled in the darkness. Even in his dreams, she thought. Even in his dreams. Content to just have him hold her, Scully drifted back to sleep, hoping that her dreams would be different. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Control, Dupree thought. Gotta keep control. He had them spread out in front of him: All four papers. The _Daily News_, the _Post_, _Newsday_, and _The New York Times_. One more time, he thought. He'd bought the papers at four different bodegas, not wanting to attract attention by purchasing them all at once. He'd gone over them quickly, hoping for something. Three of the four had stories about Jack Wagner's murder. None of them mentioned the note. None of them had mentioned him. In the Leon King case, it had been strongly hinted at in the press that police suspected either a push-in robbery or a drug deal gone bad. The Wagner case was listed as a simple homicide. Police were "pursuing leads." There were no crime scene details in either story. No photographs, either. Not even of the ME loading the body into the meat wagon. Nothing. Holding his head in his hands, Dupree wondered what he was going to do next. Didn't they understand? Didn't they _get_ it yet? +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine The Next Morning Mulder woke first. He ran a hand through his hair and let it drop back against his body, where he encountered something that he wasn't expecting: A slim, obviously female, lightly freckled forearm and matching hand (with fingers,) draped across his stomach. Turning slightly, he followed the arm back to the body and discovered Scully asleep behind him. Moving slowly, he turned in her embrace, propping his head up with one hand, taking quiet pleasure in just watching her. Scully's eyes popped open a moment later. She frowned, pulling away. "Don't do that," she complained. "Do what?" "Don't watch me sleep. I hate that." She pulled away, swinging her legs over the side and sitting up. That means, Mulder thought, that someone in her past, who had shared her bed, had on more than one occasion watched her as she slept, and that it was not a fond memory for Special Agent Dana Scully. And that was too bad. "Sorry," he said. She waved a hand over her shoulder. "No, don't be. You didn't..." She stopped, running both hands through her hair. "I just didn't sleep very well, that's all." "And," Mulder pointed out, "you haven't had your first cup of coffee yet." Annoyed, she turned to face him. "You know, Mulder, sometimes it's OK just to not say anything, OK?" Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed, he thought. "Sorry," he said again, his tone making it obvious that he was anything but. "And stop saying you're sorry, Mulder! I'll let you know when you have something to be sorry about!" "Did we teleport to Tucson overnight?" he asked. Venom dripping from every word, Scully replied, "Exactly what do you mean by that?" Danger, Mulder thought. Extreme danger. "I guess I'm just surprised at how grumpy you are this morning." She smirked. "Get used to it, Mulder." He bit off his reply. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Detective Sam Cross flashed his ID at the uniformed officer guarding the metal detectors and was waved around. Sam remembered with a smile when the department had first gone to the Glock nine millimeter pistols a few years ago. The metal detectors, according to the rumors that were running rampant around One Police Plaza, couldn't detect the damn things, and there had been brief moments of panic until cooler heads prevailed and pointed out that since the officers themselves had just been issued Glocks, they were no worse off than they had been before. Still, the rumor persisted, even today. Stepping off the elevator and into the headquarters of the Citywide Major Cases Squad, Sam glanced at the tote board to see who was an who wasn't. Daryl Hicks was not in yet, according to the board, although Captain Alex Cahill was. Neither fact surprised Detective Cross. Alex Cahill was a known workaholic, and it was not a rare occurrence for her to put in weeks of twelve and sixteen-hour days. Especially when a hot case was running. As was the case this morning. Making his way through the bullpen, Cross stopped on the threshold to Alex's office, waiting to be noticed. Upon assuming command of the unit, Alex had informed all of the sixteen First Grade Detectives reporting to her that she had an 'open door' policy. Anyone, she said, was free to stop by at any time, for any reason. The only request that she made was to respect her privacy if the door was closed. That not being the case, Sam was still uneasy about just marching into her office and announcing himself. He'd been a cop for close to twenty years, a member of the Old School, where the brass earned and demanded respect. He knocked on the window. Alex glanced up. "Hey, Sam." "Hear from your friend at the FBI yet?" he asked. "No. I left voice mail last night. I don't think she's in the office yet." "Did the anticrime guys sitting on Omega report anything?" "No," Alex said, shaking her head. "They're still sitting on the place, as far as I know." "Think we could get a warrant?" "To what?" "Search. Have the super open the place up. Take a look around, go sneaking and peeking, that sort of thing." Alex shook her head again. "I doubt it, even with a friendly DA. As far as we can tell right now, it's just a clerical error somewhere." Cross shook his head. "Sorry, boss...I think you were right. I think that we're going to find that these guys are witnesses. Or spies. Or something like that." "Spies?" Alex asked skeptically. "Yeah, well...think about it. They all have multiple identities, ready to go at a moment's notice if they need to hide. I mean-" "Sam, one of the vics was killed in the North Bronx. Not exactly a haven for retired spies, if you ask me." He smiled. "Perfect cover, boss. Who'd think that Leon King was a spy?" "Not me, for one," she said with a smile. "Ok, let's head shed for a minute. C'mon in and take a load off." Sam took a chair in front of her desk and plopped down. "Who needs a new face, a new name, a new life." "Protected witnesses," Sam said. Alex ticked "one" off on her fingers. "Spies." Rolling her eyes, Alex ticked another option off. "Anyone with half a mind that wanted to make themselves disappear...errant husbands or fathers ducking alimony or child support." Alex nodded and ticked another option. "Criminals on the run." Alex nodded. "But that makes no sense, on both of those. Most of the husbands or fathers would have been arrested at some point, probably for domestic abuse or something, so their prints would be on file. Ditto criminals, unless they'd never been arrested. So we're back to witnesses..." "...or spies," Alex finished, nodding. "Somehow, I just can't see Leon King or John Wagner as a spy." She hesitated. "Besides, if they were one of ours, we'd have heard from the CIA or DIA or FBI or one of the other alphabet-soup intelligence agencies. They watch our computers, so they would have seen it." Sam nodded. "So we're back to protected witnesses. It's the only thing that fits." "Yeah, but whose?" Alex asked. "There must be thirty different agencies, the NYPD included, that have protected witness programs." Sam shrugged. "I guess we could start asking." Alex considered this. "Probably not a bad idea. I'd start with the FBI, and then go to the Marshal's service. Try DEA, too. Those are the ones that will probably give you an answer. When you start talking about CIA and DIA and all the other weird ones, you'll hit a brick wall with all that 'I can neither confirm nor deny' bullshit." "Actually, I'm going to try us first, then the State Police." Alex grinned. "You're right. First rule of homicide investigation. KISS." "Keep It Simple, Stupid," Cross parroted. "Let me know what you turn up," Alex said. Realizing he'd been dismissed, Sam Cross stood and returned to the bullpen, sitting at his desk and grabbing his personal phone book. It was filled with...interesting numbers. He ran his finger down a page, selected a number, and slowly dialed it. "Six three zero four," a voice answered. Cross smiled. The headquarters of the New York State Police Intelligence Division was located in an extremely nondescript building on the outskirts of Albany, New York. Most of the state police officers, detectives and inspectors assigned to Intelligence took their jobs very seriously. In the dozen or so instances that Cross had been required to contact them, not once had they answered the phone, "Intelligence." They always just answered with the last four digits of the phone number. "Detective Cross, NYPD, shield 1041," Cross said. "Hold one." Cross heard the unmistakable sound of fingers on a computer keyboard. "Date of Rank?" "June 1, 1993." "Social Security Number?" "102-67-3215," Cross replied. "Current Assignment?" "Citywide Major Case Squad." "What can I do for you, Detective?" "I didn't catch your name...?" Cross asked. "I didn't tell you my name," the voice answered. Oh, Cross thought, so that's how it is. "Fine. Whatever. Listen, we caught two strange homicides down here, and I wanted to ask a question." Cross went on to explain the basic nature of the two victims, ending up with his belief that they were protected witnesses, and did the New York State Police have any record of witnesses they were charged with protecting under the names of King, Leon and Wagner, Jack? "Detective," the voice sighed, "even if we did, I wouldn't be able to tell you. You know that stuff is all highly classified." Classified? Cross thought. That's a military term. "What is this? The CIA? I'm a cop, for Christ's sake! I'm investigating two murders! What does it matter if they were protected witnesses now? They're dead!" "Cross, I hear ya, man. I know where you're coming from. But the facts are the facts; I can't release that sort of information to any NYPD Detective that calls up, even a First Grade from Citywide Major Cases. Have your Captain call her Inspector, who will call his or her Chief, who will call the Commandant, who will call my Major's Colonel, who will call my major who-" "Yeah, I get it," Cross said archly. "Thanks for nothing." He hung up on the man, annoyed beyond belief. He dialed a second number from memory. "Intelligence, Griffin." "Cross, Citywide Major Cases. Can you give me information about protected witnesses?" "Depends. What do you want to know?" Briefly, Sam brought him up to date. "Sure, I can tell you if we had two witnesses by that name in the system. Anything more than that, you'll have your Lieutenant-" "Captain," Cross interrupted. "Excuse me?" "The squad is commanded by a Captain, who will have to call her Inspector, who will call his Chief, who will call the Chief of Intelligence, who will call your Lieutenant's Captain's Inspector, who will-" "You've done this before," Griffin laughed. "What were the two names?" Cross read them off. "Hold...big negatory on the Wagner guy. Leon King...hmm... that's interesting." "What?" "What was the address of the DOA?" Cross flipped pages in his notebook, looking for the information. "Gun Hill Road, Bronx." "Black male, thirtyish, six one, about one sixty?" "That's my guy." "Never heard of him," Griffin said. Sam could hear the smile on his face. "Ok...," he said, paused, and then added, "Bullshit. Talk to me, Griffin." "Ok, we know about him, but he's not one of ours, and I can't tell you whose he is. But he...hmm..can I tell you that? Lemme think a minute. You said you were with Major Cases, right?" "Yeah." "Citywide unit? You're a First Grade?" "Yeah." "Ever take the Intelligence course?" The NYPD Police Academy offered different courses in various professional disciplines that could be transferred for credit to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, where most cops earned their degrees, both bachelors and post-graduate. Intelligence Operations was one of the courses, and it happened to be one of the courses that Detective Sam Cross had, in fact, taken. "Yes. I was certified about six years ago." "Ok, this is classified by the department as Internal Use Only. Can't tell the press-" "Or anyone not associated with the job or the investigation. I know. Now give." "Leon King was a customer of the US Attorney's Office, Illinois District. Chicago would be my bet. I don't have any information on him as for crimes committed, or what his deal was with the US Attorney's office." "If he's a federal customer, why is he in your database?" "Uh...I don't think I can...well, what the hell. That's just close-hold info, not classified. Basically, because the Marshal's asked us to. The basic problem is that they have more customers than manpower. In exchange for using NYPD resources to keep an eye on their customers from time to time, they let us use their mainframe when we need it. We also get some federal anti-crime matching funds that we wouldn't otherwise be able to. So, it's a handshake deal between the Chief of Intelligence and the Marshal's senior Deputy here in the city. So, he's in our database as a PKAEO." Griffin pronounced it Pee-Kayo. "What's a 'pee-kayo?'" Cross asked. "Please Keep An Eye On," Griffin explained. "So how did he turn up dead?" "Same reason," Griffin continued. "We don't have enough men to keep an eye on these guys 24/7. After a short break-in period, they get checked up on...oh, once or twice a month, maybe a little more. Depends on what the original crime was." "You just told me you can't tell me what the original crime was!" "Well, no, but we have categories. Like felony classes. An A-class crime, we check up once every week or so. B, C classes, twice a month. Right on down the line to E and F crimes." "What's an F crime?" "Uh...lemme think. Check kiting, income tax, white collar stuff." "What's an A-Crime?" "Murder, rape, arson, RICO." "Ok, what was King?" "B-crime." "And those are?" "Narcotics trafficking, attempted murder, molesters, like that." "Is King his real name or was he given an alias?" "Sorry, bub. That's classified. Some we do, some we don't. Can't tell you which, even if I wanted to." "Does it bother you that one of your witnesses turned up dead?" "Again, not really. I'm not even sure if this office was properly notified." "How would you be notified?" "When you did a print search on NCIC, it should have flagged us on the RTA." RTA stood for Return-To Agency. Any duly authorized law enforcement agency could mark a record in the NCIC database as RTA, which meant that any access of that record would send a message to the RTA agency informing them that a request had been made. "No hit on his prints," Cross said. "There wouldn't have been...for you. We would still have gotten the notice that you were running his prints to make a DOA." "Wonderful. I'm in the dark, and you guys-" "Would have called you to tell you not to worry too deeply about it." Griffin paused. "Wait a minute...two bodies? Both of them witnesses?" "You said you had no hit on Wagner!" "I don't. But...you said they both matched the same profile, right?" "Yeah." "Well?" "Yes, I think so. Listen, Griffin, you've been a big help. I gotta go. I got a...thing." "Sure. Take it easy, Cross. Talk to you later." They hung up, and Sam stood and walked back into Alex's office. "What's up?" "Weirdness. Or, as someone said, 'curiouser and curiouser.'" Alex shrugged, asking with her face. Cross quickly recapped what Griffin had told him. Alex leaned back, interlacing her fingers and cracking her knuckles. "Ok, you were right on one but not the other." "No," Cross pointed out. "I wouldn't say that. I haven't tried any of the federal agencies yet." Alex nodded. "Ok...hold off on that until I hear back from the FBI. I want to see what Dana thinks. Go over to Omega and see what you can find. Take Daryl with you. If you get there and they're still closed, call me, and I'll see if I can yank a warrant out of someone's ass." Cross smiled and left. When he had been assigned to Major Cases four years ago the commanding officer had been a stout, loud, impatient man named O'Riley who had demanded unwavering loyalty and instant results. Upon his retirement, freshly-minted Captain Alex Cahill had been given the job and Cross hadn't been sure he wanted to work for a woman. He recognized the shortcoming inside himself and decided to try and see if he could handle it. The results spoke for themselves. Alex was a great boss, and a great cop. She had the tacit ability to instantly understand things that marked truly great detectives, and she had political instincts that rivaled the mayor's. Cross hooked Daryl's elbow in front of the candy machine and they took the elevator down to the motor pool together. As the elevator descended, Cross thought that his life was exactly where he wanted it to be. Good job, good boss, and a mystery to solve. Just another day at the office. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine Scully's mood didn't improve with the first cup of coffee. In fact, after three cups, she was in a worse mood, if that was at all possible. The motel room had come with a small coffee maker mounted on the wall just outside the bathroom. There were two packets of Folgers Instant there, and Mulder wasted no time in making the coffee. Scully accepted the tiny cup without a word and drank it quickly. She finished it in two sips, looked at the empty cup and frowned. Without a word, Mulder handed her his cup. Again, without a word, Scully accepted it, drained it, and frowned at it. "God, that's horrible," she muttered. Running her hands through her hair, Scully wandered through the connecting door back into her room. "Shower," she called, and vanished inside her bathroom. Mulder plopped down on the bed, wondering what the hell was going on. Last night, they'd made what they thought was a major breakthrough in the case. They had snuggled, in a way typical only to them, had spent the night together. Had slept together. Well, what they called 'sleeping together,' anyway. What the hell, Mulder wondered, happened between last night and this now? Or was she like this first thing every morning? Shuddering at the thought, Mulder rose from the bed and prepared to take his own shower. +=+=+=+= Scully stood under the shower head, letting the water beat down on her. What the hell is wrong with me? she thought. I just about bit his head off for no good reason. No good reason except... Stop it, Dana, she silently ordered herself. Feeling as if that wasn't quite doing the trick, Scully said it aloud. "Stop it, Dana." There, that was better. She stood, one palm flat against the wall supporting her weight, head bowed, wondering what the hell she was going to do about the man in the next room. Her mind flashed back to the discussion they'd had right after Skinner had informed her that they were being promoted to the VICAP RT Squad. Closing her eyes, Scully remembered the sudden look of pain and hurt that had flashed across his eyes when she'd told him she didn't want to continue exploring their relationship. Looking back, Scully realized that she'd wanted him to argue, to fight, to insist that they go forward. And in typical Mulder fashion he had nodded, accepted and acquiesced. Given in. He's a thick-headed, hard-charging, obstinate asshole when it comes to his precious truth and anything having to do with his missing sister. Me? Us? When it comes to us, he's... Weak. That was the word that popped into Scully's mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Shamed that she would think such a thing of a man, a person, that had seen and done the things he had and still managed to get up every day and face the world, Scully sighed. Why did it have to be so hard? +=+=+= Dressed, Mulder knocked on the door separating the rooms; Scully had closed it while she dressed. "It's open," he heard her call softly. Pushing through, Mulder found Scully standing in front of the mirror, carefully donning earrings. "Breakfast?" he asked. Scully just nodded, looking down at the small gold hoop in her hand. "Sure." What's wrong? Mulder wanted to ask. He walked over to her as she finished putting the second earring on and turned to find her pistol. Mulder's hand came up, reaching for her face. At the touch of fingers against her cheek, Scully did the absolute worst thing possible. She flinched. As if burned, Mulder's hand dropped to his side, the words he had been about to speak forgotten. He suddenly wished for an earthquake, for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. "We should go," Scully said softly. "Yeah...just...just wait a second," he said weakly. Returning to his room, Mulder ducked into the bathroom and shut the door. Lowering the toilet lid, he sat, his head in his hands, wondering what the hell had just happened. I touched her, he thought. I've touched her a thousand times. And she...flinched. Without thinking about it, Mulder began dry-washing his hands. His left thumb rubbed the palm of his right hand over and over again, the friction building until it was painful. He looked down, saw the red, raw groove in his skin and frowned. Standing, he twisted to the sink and ran the tepid water, unwrapping a small bar of motel soap and lathering his hands under the water. He washed slowly, carefully, his thoughts sluggish, slow, sticky. Flinched. As if in pain, he thought. Her eyes downcast, unable to meet his, her shoulders turned away from him as if... Afraid. Afraid of my touch, his mind said, slowly, carefully. He looked in the mirror and said the word to his own face. "Afraid." The wave of sadness that washed over him was crushing. He felt his breath leave him in a long woosh, and for a moment, Mulder wasn't sure he would take another. When he did, it hurt, a deep, jagged pain in his chest. He brought the back of one hand to his mouth, hoping he could hide the sound of the next sobbing breath, and then the one after that. What did I do? he wondered. How did I make her so...afraid? "Mulder?" Her voice, faint, distant, as if calling from her room, or from the doorway between them. "Just a minute," he said, hoping she couldn't hear the terror in his voice. Get a grip, he thought. Think about the case. Finished, Mulder found a tiny towel and quickly dried his hands. They still felt dirty. He lifted them as a surgeon might, turning them over, examining them, looking for some flaw, something that would have caused such a reaction. They were clean, the nails neatly clipped, not jagged. He turned them over, examining the palms, the fingers, looking for something, anything... They were clean and smelled faintly of Dial. They felt dirty. Unclean. Mulder felt the trance coming, knew that he was slipping into that place that he sometimes went, that place he used to find the monsters. But it wasn't the time, wasn't the place. He needed to think and feel, not just feel. Concentrate, he thought. Focus. "Mulder?" "Coming!" he called out. Returning to the room, he saw that she had closed the connecting door. The sadness washed over him again. "Meet you outside," he called, and walked to the door leading to the parking lot. Scully exited a moment later, turning to close and lock her door. The unmarked car sat there, silent, waiting. Neither moved towards it. "Mulder," Scully started. "We'd better get going," Mulder said, moving towards the car. He had no desire to hear the next words out of Scully's mouth. An apology, even a heartfelt one, would only make matters worse. That she would apologize to him for...flinching at his touch was repugnant. She can't help how she feels, his mind announced. He shook his head to silence the voice, a little twitch of his neck, nothing more. Scully noticed it. After four years together, she knew him better than he knew himself. She knew what was going through his mind, knew that he was torturing himself with self-hate, knew that his heart was slowly tearing in two. And Scully knew that she was powerless to do anything about it. Sighing, she walked to the passenger side of the car, waiting for Mulder to unlock the door. For a brief moment, she wondered if he was going to get in, start the engine and drive off, leaving her standing there in the lot. She heard the lock pop and opened the door, climbing inside and closing it. Without a word, Mulder started the car, backed up, and drove out of the parking lot. Scully stared out the passenger window as Mulder drove, looking as if she were lost in thought. In actuality, her mind was blank. She was incapable of forming a single coherent thought. Bits and fragments of memories shifted through her consciousness, fighting for dominance and control. Moments, times, memories of when Mulder had been there for her, when he had been her rock, when he had just existed in her presence for her to take what she needed from him fought for control with the times she'd thought he was dead, when he'd left her standing behind at a crime scene or a motel as he ran off to chase his own monsters and demons, times when he'd been apologetic and truly sorry, and times when he's been insolent and insistent that he was right, that the case was about something paranormal, that the world was out to get them, that they had only each other to trust... all these things fought for control of Scully's soul as Mulder drove to the Portland Police Department. As he drove, all Mulder could think about was the look on Scully's face when his fingers had touched her skin. Her brows drew together, and she looked angry, afraid. Her neck muscles twitched, jerking her face away from his hand, her eyes casting down towards the floor, away from his. It replayed in his mind over and over again, an endlessly repeating film loop. As the tires of the car ate each black tarmac mile between the motel and the police station, Mulder's heart tore a little more. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City This was NOT working, Dupree thought. Second day. The police should have developed absolutely no leads, and felt compelled to ask for the public's help in catching the madman that was killing people. Instead, there was a small article in each of the daily papers noting that the 'investigation continues as police pursue leads.' What leads? There were none. Dupree had gone over the Nelson/Wagner murder a thousand times in his mind. He hadn't touched anything except the knife, and he'd used gloves. There was no way anyone could trace the knife to him. There was no way anyone could trace him, period. What leads were they following? Dupree paced in his office, hugging himself against the chill he felt. Think, he commanded himself. Think hard. There has to be a way to alert the police to the reality of the situation without tipping his hand. There has to be. Write. No, that was too obvious. Way too obvious. And the police brass would feel compelled to announce that there was a serial killer on the loose. That would make Dupree's job that much harder. They would look at the two murders in this series harder, wondering what connected the victims. And when they found that connection, they would be onto him. Pictures. A thought started in the back of Dupree's mind and worked its way forward, gaining power and acceptance as it moved. Instant pictures. Take one of those Polaroid's or whatever, take a picture of the body and send it to the papers. They would know what they had. Again, that made the investigation that much more of an issue. Questions would be asked, connections made, a trail started. A trail that led right back here. The Internet? Digital pictures. Upload them to a newsgroup. Too traceable. Even using an anonymous remailer offshore, Interpol would be called, warrants issued, the identity of the poster revealed. But...there was a way. Credit cards. Most of the online services would grant a few moments of access with a valid credit card number. If he took the credit card numbers from his victims, created a temporary account with the correct information, uploaded the picture and then immediately deleted the account, it would be virtually untraceable. Dupree's head popped up as the full weight of his idea sunk in. Before, he'd been worried about getting the credit in the New York press. It was important to him that the public knew what he was doing, and when the time was right, _why_ he was doing it. That was paramount. That was the whole _reason_ for this. With the Internet...with the net, he could make the whole world watch. Sure, not at first. It would take time, time for word to spread. He could drop a hint here and there, an anonymous call from a payphone in another state. Hey guys, there's pictures from a crime scene that weren't taken by the police, if you know what I mean, and you may want to check them out and confirm it. The only problem was that he couldn't upload them all from his office. Eventually, the cops would figure out what was happening and how, and then they would enlist the help of the phone company. They would slowly narrow it down, where the calls came from, and then a digital packet sniffer would be installed in a switch room somewhere, and when the right packet headers went by, they'd start the backtrace. That's what laptops were for, he thought. Cellular modems. Plane tickets to different cities. It would be worth it, he decided. The risk was minimal. He would spend the money. Hell, he had enough of it. But, once the killings gained the attention of the city... the country...the world, then everyone...everyone would know what was being done. And, when the time was right, when 'net surfers sat around their computers, looking at the crime scene pictures and wondering what the hell was going on...Dupree would reveal himself to the world and let them know why it was being done. Why it had to be done. And why he was the one to do it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 444 Madison Avenue New York City Detectives Sam Cross and Daryl Hicks exited the elevator and saw that the offices of Omega Productions were, in fact, still closed. Cross sighed, wondering how long he was going to have to wait for a warrant to be issued, and then for a ESU unit to respond and take the door. And then again, once the door had been forced open, a uniform would have to be posted here to make sure that nothing was taken. "Let's go," Cross said, turning to punch the DOWN button. "Where to?" Hicks asked agreeably. "Super. We're going to find out who the contact is on that lease." +=+=+=+= The Superintendent of 444 Madison Avenue looked more like an executive than a janitor. Which made sense, considering he basically managed a building that held more people than your average aircraft carrier, and had a support staff of almost three hundred people. The brass nameplate on his desk revealed that he was Mr. John Gates. Once the basics of the situation were explained to him, Gates decided that he could reveal the contact name on the lease. Turning to his computer, he called up the appropriate records and read the number off to the two detectives. Daryl Hicks wrote it down in his case notebook. Cross dialed it on his cellular. "The number you have dialed has been disconnected. No further information-" "Shit!" Cross said, angrily punching the END button. "Can you print out a copy of the lease, sir?" Daryl asked. "Well..." "You can blank out any financial information, if that's what you're concerned about. We really have no desire to know how much they're paying in rent. We just want to track down the leaseholders and ask them some very...pointed questions, if you get my drift." Gates nodded and hit a few more keys. A moment later the bubblejet printer on his desk began whish-wooshing. "It's sixty pages," he explained. "It may take a few moments." The two detectives nodded and patiently waited for the printer to finish its work. Cross called Alex. "Major Cases, Hinton." "It's Cross. Gimme the boss." A moment later, "Cahill." "Hey, it's Sam. Omega is still dark and quiet. Call your DA friend, ok?" "On it. I'll reach out to you on the portable when I get a verbal OK for the warrant." "Thanks, boss." "Anytime. What-" "We're getting a copy of the lease. I'll call Hinton in a few with some names to run through BCI." "Ok. Goodbye." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza Alex hung up and reached for her private phone book. Locating the name she wanted, she dialed. "Manhattan District Attorney's Office," a pleasant female voice answered. "Ken Washington, please." "May I say who is calling?" "Captain Alex Cahill, NYPD." "Please hold." A moment later, a deep baritone male voice came on the line. "How's my favorite blond honky cop?" "Well, if it isn't Mr. Clean...Harlem version," Alex joked back. Ken Washington was six feet six inches tall, coal-black, and as bald as an egg. He was variously known as the Mr. Clean of Harlem (where he'd grown up before attending CCNY and Fordham Law,) and OBBMMF, pronounce "Umph." It stood for One Big, Black, Mean Motherfucker. Ken Washington was known for not giving into the plea bargain requests of the various defense attorneys that haunted the Manhattan Criminal Courts building. Alex had always felt that the day after Ken Washington was appointed to the Superior Court Bench (and the fact of that appointment was accepted as just that...a fact,) he would be known throughout the criminal world as "Maximum Ken." Ken Washington liked sending criminals away for a long, long time. It was rumored that he ate Public Defenders for lunch. Alex grinned as she remembered a line someone has once said in reference to Ken Washington after watching him totally decimate a witness on the stand. The speaker had leaned over and whispered in Alex's ear, "You know...he's not that bad. He has the heart of a small boy." The speaker had paused and then added, "In a jar on his desk." The fact that the speaker had been Mrs. Ken Washington had not been lost on Alex. "What can I do for the NYPD today?" he asked. "Caught two murders, and my detectives went to talk to the employers of one of them, and aside from having an empty personnel file, they've vanished into thin air. The office is at 444 Madison, 12th floor, name of Omega Productions. I've got two First Grades waiting for you to tell me that I can tell them that ESU is responding to take the door under the careful and legal guidance of a warrant issued by your department." "Succinct," Washington complimented. "What do you have? You like someone at the work as the doer?" Alex grinned. Washington liked to talk like a cop. She could never tell if he was teasing her or not. "We don't like anyone right now, Ken. No suspects. But the boss and the work feels wrong. I want to toss the place and then reach out to BCI to find any connections to the first victim." "Ok...personnel records, lease documents, and the desk of the deceased. That's it. Can you live with that?" "Ok...guess I'll have to. Fax me?" "Sure. You can tell your guys to go ahead." "Thanks, Ken. Owe you." "Always, pretty lady. Always. Take care." Alex hung up and grabbed a portable radio perched on the corner of her desk. "One-Mike-Six to Central, K." she called. "One-Mike." "I need an ESU door team at 444 Madison avenue, 12th floor, forthwith." "Stand by, One-Mike. Central to Four-Eddie-Five." "Four-Eddie-Five, K." "444 Madison Avenue, 12th Floor. Major Cases needs a door entry." "Four-Eddie, Ten-four." "Central to One-Mike-Six, K." "One-Mike," Alex responded. "Did you get that, Captain?" "Ten-four, Central. Please contact One-Mike-Five and let them know that Four-Eddie-Five is enroute." "Ten-Four, One-Mike. Central to One-Mike-Five, K." There was no response. Alex turned the radio down, preferring to let Central contact Cross and Hicks. The brass frowned on unit commanders bypassing radio protocol, and until she had the gold and blue-enameled shield of a NYPD Deputy Inspector pinned to her chest, Alex wasn't going to risk pissing off the brass. Cross would know that if ESU showed up, she'd gotten the warrants. She glanced at her desk. A bank robbery in the Bronx. The FBI was making noise, even though it wasn't an FDIC bank. A double-murder in Harlem that was making Narcotics nervous about another posse war, and to top it off, the Traffic Department had actually had the gall to request Major Case detectives be assigned to investigate a series of incidents related to expensive cars. Someone was taking knifes, keys and other sharp objects to every single Lexus in the five boroughs, it seemed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine At a red light, Scully suddenly remembered that she hadn't checked in yet. Unlike Mulder, she enjoyed the use of voice mail and email, and she checked her messages religiously. Well, she mused as she reached for the cell, at least it'll give me something to think about. She dialed the special 800-number that allowed field agents to connect to voice mail. "You have...three...new messages," the computerized operator informed her. Scully dialed 2, and then the Audix voice began speaking again. "Call Received. Four-thirty-six...PM...yesterday..." Hmm..outside call. If it had been an internal FBI extension calling, she would have heard the name of the caller. "...fifteen seconds. To listen," Scully typed 0. "Dana! It's Alex Cahill. Listen, I have a question I think you can answer, and I need it kind of fast. Can you call me as soon as you get this? I really appreciate it." Alex's voice read off the number and Scully memorized it quickly. Disconnecting from the FBI email trunk, Scully dialed Alex's number. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza New York City "Cahill," Alex answered. "Alex, it's Dana Scully." "Dana! Hi! How the hell are you?" There was a long pause before Dana responded. "Fine, Alex. What can I do for you?" She's not fine, Alex thought. "I have a question about the NCIC and protected witnesses." Another long pause. "Go ahead and ask, but I'm not sure if I can help you." "When the feds put someone into the Program, they strip the prints from NCIC, right?" "That's my understanding," Scully confirmed. "The online version I know about. But do you guys keep a copy anywhere, online or off, that I can get to?" "Alex...that's confidential-" "Dana...I caught two jobs up here, two murders. It's looking more and more like both victims were protected witnesses. I need to know, Dana. Bad." "Let me ask," Scully said. Alex heard the sound of a cell phone being pressed against clothing. There were mumbles, then an answering mumble, and then Dana was back. "Yes, we keep a set offline, but the problem is that you have to know which agency entered your victim into the Program, and have them request a print check from us. We can't do it for you." "Would it be possible for me to just confirm that they were in the Program? I don't need any details at this point, just whether or not they were in the Program." "Alex...I'm on a case right now, in Portland, Maine." "I thought you were assigned to headquarters." "No...not right now. I'm with VICAP, on one of the Response Teams." "Wow," Alex said, and whistled. "Moving up in the world." "Alex, I'm pulling up to the police station now. I have to go. I wish I could be more help." "You've been a big help," Alex confirmed. "Take care, Dana. Thanks for calling me back." They hung up. Alex drummed her fingers on the receiver, thinking. Something was wrong with Dana. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine "Who was that?" Mulder asked. "Alex Cahill, a captain in the NYPD. We went through the academy together." "If you went through-" "She resigned after two years." Mulder did the mental math. "And she's a Captain already? Wow." "Yeah, and that's not all," Scully said mysteriously. "Look, Mulder...about this morning-" "Forget it, Scully," Mulder said. His tone indicated that he didn't wish to discuss the matter further. Too bad, Scully thought. "Mulder, we're going to talk about this, or you're going in there alone. I'm not going to work with a partner that has that kicked-puppy expression on his face all day. I won't. I can't." Mulder killed the engine and slumped back in his seat. "Fine. Say what you have to." "Mulder, I'm sorry I reacted so badly when you touched me. I had a ...dream last night. A dream about you dying." Quickly, Scully described her dream. "What does one have to do with the other?" "I don't know," Scully admitted. "But I think I'm afraid of falling in love with you and then losing you." "That's my line, Scully," he said softly, mocking himself. "Well, I guess you've rubbed off on me these last four years, Mulder. Remember when I told you that I wanted to take it slow?" "Scully, I didn't do-" "I know, Mulder. You didn't do anything. I did. I started to panic." "So what do you want-" "I don't know, Mulder. All I know is that when you went to touch me this morning, all I could think was "no." But that has nothing to do with you. It has to do with me. I need you to understand that. I'm not angry with you, upset at you, and I don't hate you. You're my best friend in the entire world, and I need your support." She paused, and then added, "...and you need mine." Mulder turned to face her, his face blank. "Scully...do you love me?" "Mulder-" "I didn't ask if you were in love with me, Scully. I'm talking about the love for a friend, for a brother." She thought about it for half a second. "Yes. I do." "That's all I need to hear. Let's go inside. We have some news for our friends." Scully studied his face, looking for signs that he was just saying what she wanted to hear. His face was blank, but there was something wrong. Hands, her mind announced. Her eyes flicked down to Mulder's lap. His left hand was rubbing his right, the thumb digging into the meat of his palm. "Ok," she said softly. She should have known better. Mulder was going to torture himself about this until she let him in again. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. A sudden knock on Mulder's window startled them both. Detective Chavez was standing outside, looking grim. Mulder popped the door open a crack. "You found another one," he said. Chavez nodded. "How did you know?" Mulder shrugged. "That's what we get paid for. We'll be up in a minute." He indicated the police station with a tilt of his chin. Chavez's eyes flicked to Scully and then back to Mulder and he nodded, moving off. "Scully...I have a feeling this is going to get ugly, fast." Scully nodded. "Me, too." Chapter 8 =+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland Police Headquarters The elevator ride was pure torture. Mulder studied the panel lights, watching as they slowly incremented. Scully was on the other side of the car, arms folded, leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Mulder chewed on the inside of his cheek, an absurd thought running through his mind. From day one, he thought, from day one, every single goddamn time we've been in an elevator, she was close enough for me to touch. Now...now we're in a 'relationship,' and she's on the other side of the car. "I was just thinking," he said gently, "that we might have to break up to get close again." Scully's head came down. She stared at him for what seemed to be a full minute before smiling softly. "Mulder..." She stepped closer, her hand reaching out for his. He took it, feeling her fingers lace with his. "What floor are they on?" she asked. "Sixteen." She glanced at the panel lights. They were just passing twelve. Turning her head back to face him, Scully reached up and brushed an invisible piece of lint off of his lapel. "There are times I want to kiss you and there are times I want to slug you, Mulder." "Which is this?" he asked, allowing his eyes to defocus for a minute to take in the panel. Thirteen. "I'm not sure, Mulder, and that's why I'm scared. Why I'm confused. Why I'm sending mixed signals. I don't mean to do it." She glanced over her shoulder again. Fourteen. "Before, it was easy," she continued, speaking quickly. "We both knew where we stood, on opposite sides of a line that divided us clearly. Now, we've crossed the line...a little." Mulder nodded, reaching down to quickly cup her face in one hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. "We'll talk about this later, Scully. As long as we keep talking..." She nodded and pulled away smoothly as the ding! announced they had arrived. When the doors slid open, Scully was standing slightly in front of him. Her usual cool, professional expression fixed firmly on her face, Scully stepped into the Homicide Task Force squadroom. Scully and Mulder entered the bullpen and immediately noticed the increased level of activity. "We're going out to the crime scene," Chavez announced. "Where and who?" Mulder asked. "About ten miles west of here, a heavily wooded area. We don't know who yet. We're not even sure it's one of ours. It's just a deceased naked female, and the body positioning is the same. So we're pretty-" "Scully and I have somewhere else to go," Mulder announced. "Please call us when the body's been transported to the morgue." Chavez's face grew red. "Where the hell else do you have to go?" he asked. "To visit a monster," Mulder said softly. Scully bit her lip, silencing the question on her lips. "James Lee Dysan," Mulder explained, both to Chavez and to Scully. When he looked at her, his eyes begged her understanding. Chavez's eyes widened. "What the hell do you want with that psycho?" "His MO was very similar to our UNSUB's," Mulder explained. "I'm hoping that he can give us some insight." "Mulder," Chavez said loudly, "we need you here, helping us, not off gallivanting around the state playing kissy-face with a convicted serial murderer. That's what VICAP is all about, Mulder!" Mulder's face went flat. Uh-oh, Scully thought. "No, Detective Chavez, that is _not_ what VICAP is all about. VICAP was founded on the concept of interviewing convicted criminals to gain an insight into the minds of UNSUBs. I'm just continuing a grand tradition, Chavez. Get over it." With that, Mulder spun on his heel and left. After a moment, Scully followed him. In the elevator on the way down, Scully turned to her partner, arms crossed. "Do you really think Dysan can help?" "Can't hurt," Mulder muttered. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Kawukanatuk Maximum Security Penitentiary Kawukanatuk, Maine They were met at the visitor's gate by the Deputy Warden, a huge, florid-faced man whose nametag read "Watkins." He wore a portable radio in a holster on one side of his belt, and a PR-24 through a ring on the other. Things did not get off to a good start. "I don't know who the hell you people think you are," he began, "but I do not appreciate having the FBI show up unannounced and ordering my people around like waiters." Scully glanced at Mulder, wondering if he wanted her to handle this. The entire ride over had been spent in silence, and Scully knew that Mulder was trying to get inside another monster's head. And succeeding. "Mr. Watkins," "WARDEN Watkins," he corrected her. Sighing, Scully tried again. "Very well. Warden Watkins, we're not just two random FBI agents that get a thrill out of making demands from local law enforcement or the penal system. We're part of the VICAP Response Team Squad, and we have a hot case right now. My partner is a VICAP Profiler, and he needs to talk to Dysan, and needs to talk to him now. The lives of nine women may ride on this." Watkins, who had a plug of what was obviously chewing tobacco jammed between his cheek and gum, worked his lips, turned to the side and spat a stream of brown saliva at the ground. "Just so's you don't forget...when it's time to give credit where it's due, don't you forget how we helped you." Scully nodded, finally beginning to see the problem. "Very well, Warden Watkins. I'll be sure to mention your...cooperation in my report, and to the press, if I'm lucky enough to speak to them." Watkins smiled, his teeth stained brown from years of tobacco use. "Well then, we don't have a problem, I guess." They checked their weapons with the gate guard and followed Watkins inside past several checkpoints. At each one they were examined closely by the guard on the other side of the bars. Each time they were found acceptable, and the doors would slide open on greased tracks, only to slam shut behind them with a deep, bone-jarring clang! that shook Scully to her core. She hated prisons. They ended up in a visiting area. There was a long room divided in half by two-inch-thick Plexiglas with chairs on either side. Convicts on one side, friends, family members, lawyers and other visitors on the other. Communication was accomplished via a two-way radio system that used telephones. "We've got you set up in Interview Room C," Watkins said. "Mr. Dysan will be brought down shortly." Mulder glanced around the room and nodded. "This will be fine, Warden. Thank you." Watkins grunted and waddled off. Mulder and Scully stood there for a moment, neither one of them very eager to enter the room. "Listen," Mulder finally said, "I need to tell you a couple things." He glanced down the hallway, his eyes far away. "I'm going to have to say and do some things in there that are going to shock you, Scully." He paused. "Aside from Boggs and Roche...how many prisoners have you...been around...inside?" Scully shrugged. "I'm not sure." "Well...there's a code of conduct among prisoners. Certain things you do and don't do, no matter what. The way I'm going to get inside this maggot's head is to push all his buttons. Every last one. I'm going to need your help, Scully." "Anything, Mulder." He sighed. "Listen to me, Scully..." He reached out his hand, finding her left bicep and squeezing gently. "Listen carefully. If I do, or say something that you just cannot handle, please just get up and leave. Don't try and correct me, don't make any faces, don't roll your eyes. These guys are cobras, Scully. Snakes of the highest order. They sense even the smallest bit of division between us, he thinks you don't trust me, that you're not with me a hundred and ten percent, and our time here is wasted. Just follow my lead. If you can't, I'll understand. This is going to get..." "Ugly," Scully finished, finally beginning to understand what, exactly, that word meant. She glanced around. No one could see them. "Mulder," she said softly. His eyes found hers. "You're the expert in this. I trust you. I'll do whatever you want, as long as you promise to explain to me after it's over why we did anything that I don't agree with. Can you understand why I need to know?" Mulder's head bobbed once, twice. "Fine. One last thing...if you get in too deep, I want you to give me a signal so the guards can get him out of there. I remember Clay, Mulder. It was only a few days ago. I want to be able to protect you, too." He smiled. Scully had never seen that smile on his face before, and it made her uncomfortable. "Scully...if it will make you feel better, I'll tug my left ear if I get in too deep. But you won't see that signal." He paused. "If anyone screams to get out of that room, it's going to be Dysan, not me." Scully took a step back, frowning at her partner. "Let's go in," Mulder said. "It's very important that we set the stage for this." They went inside, Scully opening her briefcase and removing a few case files. She opened one or two of them, spreading the contents on the narrow table. Mulder found a few crime scene pictures from Dysan's portfolio and moved them around as if he'd been studying them. "Find a legal pad. Make notes. Anything that Dysan says that sounds like he's bragging, make notes. I don't care what you write, but don't write shit unless he's in his 'Look at how evil I am' mode. Look at him with the most cool, detached expression you can manage. No matter what he says, no matter how disgusting it is, just ignore him. He will try to intimidate you, to gross you out, to make you feel scared and humiliated. Don't let him." Mulder took off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up as he spoke. "Remember this: First, you're leaving here today, and he isn't. Second, he's the scum of the Earth, a monster in human form. He's not a person, Scully. He's a thing. Third...no matter how dirty you feel after this, and you feel dirty, Scully...no matter how dirty you feel...I'll always-" Mulder broke off as the door opened. James Lee Dysan, lead by Deputy Warden Watkins and another guard, slowly shuffled into the room. He was wearing handcuffs and leg irons. He glanced around the room with intelligent eyes, and Scully pursed her lips. There was something wrong about his eyes, and it took her a moment to realize what. James Lee Dysan had one blue eye and one brown eye. Like a Husky, she thought. "Mr. Dysan," Mulder said politely. Dysan nodded and hooked a chin at Scully. "Who's the bitch?" "That," Mulder said slowly, pointedly, "is Special Agent Dana Scully, MD. You will address her as Dr. Scully, or in the alternative, Special Agent Scully. If you call her 'bitch' again, I will instruct Warden Watkins to break one of your fingers." Dysan laughed. It was an evil, hollow sound, but he nodded. "Ok...tough guy, huh?" "Tough enough," Mulder said slowly. Dysan grinned, lifted his hands the three inches the handcuffs allowed. "Awfully easy to be tough when you got me trussed up like a Christmas turkey." "Remove the restraints," Mulder said slowly. Watkins looked like he was about to argue, but he clamped his mouth shut and went about removing Dysan's hardware. "You are excused," he said to Watkins and the other guard. Again, the Warden looked as if he was about to argue, but instead he nodded and left, closing the door behind him. "Who'n fuck are you?" Dysan asked. "I am also a Special Agent of the FBI, and I am also a doctor. You have a choice, Dysan. You can call me Agent Mulder, Mr. Mulder, Mulder, or Dr. Mulder. Anything else will result in punishment. The severity of that punishment will depend on the nature and severity of your offense. Is that clear?" "Fuck-" "Yes or no, Mr. Dysan. I am trying to be polite and professional." "Yes, Mr. Mulder," Dysan parroted. "Very good, Mr. Dysan." Mulder moved to sit down across the table from the prisoner. Without looking, he reached over to his right and drew several photographs towards himself. "Do you know why we have requested an interview?" Mulder asked. "I have no fucking idea," Dysan replied. Mulder chose to ignore the obscenity. "Mr. Dysan, in certain circles within the FBI, you are somewhat famous. You were an extraordinarily hard man to catch. It took us less than six months to identify that a serial murderer was working in this part of the country, but almost two years to narrow our suspect list down. And when the State Trooper happened to stop your truck for running a stop sign, you had already been eliminated as a suspect. If that Trooper had not caught you, it is quite possible that you would have been able to continue killing for a long, long time." Dysan said nothing. "How does that make you feel?" "What? That the pig caught me?" "That," Mulder said slowly, "and the fact that he took all the fun out of your life." Dysan looked like he was about to answer, but at the last moment he changed his mind and remained silent. "That's what it was...fun, right?" Mulder pressed. "I mean, you obviously enjoyed your work." He glanced down at the crime scene photograph. "I mean, judging by your fourth victim, you certainly had a taste for your work. A skill, one might say. I mean, using a field telephone to send an electrical charge through your victim's body by connecting the leads to both breasts and her anus...that shows a certain inventiveness. A certain...elan, if you will." "I don't know what that word means," Dysan admitted. "It means, sir, that you have a certain flair for administering pain before you murder your victims. During your trial it became clear to us at the FBI that you were not a serial murderer. You were a serial torturer who murdered to cover up your other crimes. In other words, sir, you were not a killer, per se. You were forced to kill by circumstance. You took no joy, no pleasure in killing your victims. For you, the joy, the pleasure, the fun of it was in giving them pain." Dysan's eyes slid off Mulder's face. He stared at a corner of the room. "So...I guess I have a few questions for you." "I ain't gonna answer shit," Dysan said. "Sure you are," Mulder said slowly, gently. "Says who?" "Me," Mulder said. His voice was quiet, soft. "What's in it for me?" "Well, for starters, I'll get you moved into another block, Dysan. I hear that you...made some friends in your current situation." Dysan's head snapped around. "What the fuck you talking about?" Mulder grinned. "I heard you turned bitch." Dysan swallowed and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him on top of the table. "I will kill any man that says that about me," he said slowly. "I heard," Mulder continued, "that you get down on your knees for any man on the block. That you like it. That you beg for it." Mulder shrugged, making a 'what can you do?' gesture with his hands. "I mean, I can understand it. Locked away for the rest of your life, no women to rape, torture or kill. Gotta do something to pass the time. I guess sucking cock _could_ be considered a hobby." Dysan was out of his chair in a flash, his hands coming down flat on the table, hard. "I'll kill you," he whispered. Unfazed, Mulder made a 'sit-down' gesture with his hand. "Down, or I'll break your arm," he said gently. Slowly, Dysan sat. "And besides, you won't kill me," Mulder continued. "I'm not your speed. I mean, I must have five, six inches on you. And I'm not a woman." Mulder pulled another sheet from the file towards him so he could read it. "I'm not a short, weak little woman. I can struggle. I can kick your ass. Not like your victims." Mulder glanced up at Dysan. "I'm not a weak little woman like Agent Scully here." Magnetized by Mulder's words, Dysan's eyes were drawn to Scully. She stared back at him, her eyes flat, hard. Dysan licked his lips. The snap of Mulder's fingers was loud in the room. "Over here, Dysan." Dysan sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. Scully knew what was happening: The worm was reliving a torture-murder in his mind. He was remembering his hands on the body, touching, twisting, causing pain, ecstasy. Scully felt as if she would vomit. "And that's not all I'll do for you, Dysan." The killer's eyes fluttered open. "What else?" he croaked. "Well, in this case, it's what I won't do. See, Watkins knows which hacks and cons are in the shit together. Who's moving what, where and when. He may not know exactly how, but I won't need that, will I? All I need to do is drag your ass through the block, stop at a cell, look in and ask you if he's the guy you mean. Only thing lower than a punk on the block is a rat punk." Mulder hesitated. "You wanna be a rat punk, Dysan? Or you want to help me and my partner?" Dysan swallowed. "Or maybe you'd like that. I mean, word gets out that you snitched, you won't be wanting for friends. You'll be swapping warm spit in the shower with the entire population, I'd imagine. Nice, upstanding white boy like you...you'll be very popular, word gets out." Dysan swallowed again. "That's blackmail." "Well, duh," Mulder said, shaking his head, his eyes wide. "What, you thought that since we caught you, we gotta play by the rules? VICAP doesn't have any rules, Dysan. You know that. You know what they call us." "...The Jedi Knights," Dysan muttered. "That's right, Dysan. The Jedi Knights. The rules don't apply to us. There's no recording device running in this room; there's no one behind the one-way glass. It's you, me, and my partner. No witnesses." Mulder leaned across the table, looked deeply into Dysan's eyes and smiled. "I can do anything I want to you." A moment later there was a crack! Mulder's hand had moved faster than Scully could track it. One moment both of his palms had been flat against the surface of the table; the next, Dysan's head was turned to the side, a red mark of palm against face blooming on his left cheek. "I can kick the shit out of you, no one will say dick. You call your lawyer. Shit, I'll let you use my cellphone. Guards, Watkins, even my partner will say you got into a beef with another con and it turned ugly." Mulder sat back down, snorting. "Shit, I could make you vanish, if I wanted to." Dysan raised a hand to his face. "The last man that touched me like that...regretted it," he said carefully. Mulder stood, using his fingers in a come-here motion. "Bring it on, Dysan." The killer didn't move. After a minute, Mulder retook his seat. "That's what I thought. Punk." Dysan twitched. "Cocksucking punk." Dysan twitched again. Scully looked away, unable to watch Mulder verbally torturing this man. "What do you want from me?" Dysan moaned. Mulder sat back, spreading his hands. "I want to pick your brain. I want you to answer my questions without bullshit, without bragging." "About what?" Mulder shrugged. "About anything, Dysan. First time I think you're lying, this discussion is over. And then what passes for your life will be over." Dysan nodded, his shoulders slumping. "Ask your damn questions." Mulder sat back, cracking his knuckles one by one. "How did you pick them?" "I told-" "Dysan...you know the drill. We go over it again and again, looking for inconsistencies. So...how did you pick them?" Dysan closed his eyes, leaning forward, lowering his head onto his arms. "They picked themselves," he moaned. "How?" Mulder asked. Dysan just shook his head. "It's...hard." Mulder glanced at Scully. She turned away, unable to look at him when he was this way. He stared at her until she glanced back. He made a small motion with his head towards Dysan. No, her eyes said. A look of disgust flitted across Mulder's face. Sighing loudly, Scully let the pad she was holding drop to the table with a loud splat! How? her eyes asked. Mulder shrugged. You'll figure it out. Go with your instincts. Scully, hands on hips, walked behind Dysan's seat and slowly began pacing. The click of her heels against the cement floor was loud in the room. "Do you know why the walls are green in here?" she asked quietly. "N-no," Dysan mumbled. "To hide the blood," Scully answered. "Back when it was still accepted to beat confessions out of people, the green color hid the bloodstains." Dysan twitched when Scully said "beat confessions." "How did they pick themselves, Dysan?" She stopped and leaned over his back, whispering in his ear. "Did they wear slutty clothes? Was that it? High heels? Too much makeup? What was it, Dysan? Why did you...select them?" "T-they w-wanted it," he stuttered. She straightened. "I doubt that." "They did!" he insisted. Mulder, silent, watched. "How do you know, Dysan? How do you know they wanted it?" "They t-told me!" Mulder spoke up. "Ah, yes...the tapes." "Tapes?" Scully asked. "Video and audio," Mulder nodded. "That was one of the things that helped secure the conviction. That was also one of the things that the defense tried to use as exculpatory evidence." "How so?" Scully asked, ignoring, for the moment, the quivering form of Jimmie Lee Dysan. "Well, while he was torturing the women, he'd make them beg for it. He tried to use those tapes to show that the sex was consensual." Scully frowned at Dysan's form. She leaned down again. "With you? Consensual sex? I doubt it, Dysan. I doubt that any woman in her right mind, any woman with an ounce of self-respect would want your hands on her body. The thought...the thought of you touching me makes me want to puke." She paused. "And that was the problem, wasn't it? No one wanted you, Dysan. No one wanted you. So you had to take them, had to make them want you." Mulder nodded, encouraging her. "So you saw a woman you wanted, knew you couldn't have her... and you took her. Took her to your little chamber of horrors and you punished her for not wanting you. Made them scream for you. Forced them to admit they wanted you. But you knew...you knew, you sick son-of-a-bitch, that they really didn't want you, not deep down, that you had to force them to say it, that you had to _torture_ them to say it. And so it wasn't enough. It was never enough. You had to find another one, and then another one, and before long it wasn't even about them wanting you or not wanting you...it was about pain. Giving them pain for not wanting you. Is that it? IS THAT IT?!" Dysan was sobbing, wincing at her words. Mulder caught Scully's eye and held up a placating hand. Winded, Scully stopped, hands on hips and turned to face the two-way mirror. She ran a hand through her hair, taking a deep, calming breath. If this was profiling, she thought, Mulder can have it. "Now that we've established exactly what transpired," Mulder remarked dryly, "perhaps we can continue." Dysan continued to sob. "Jimmie..." Mulder whispered, leaning forward, "what do you think the other cons would say if they saw you blubbering like a four-year-old? Reduced to a pile of tears by a mere woman?" "B-bitch!" Dysan hissed. Scully spun on him, her hand moving towards his head, fingers extended to grab his hair. Mulder stood, moving to block her. She stopped. "Dysan!" she snapped. "Answer his questions!" Slowly, the man raised his head from the table. "God, I hate this," he mumbled. "Tough," Mulder said. "Now...we're looking for another monster, another sick son of a bitch. You ever see the movie 'Silence of the Lambs?' Well, I'm Jodie Foster and you're that Hannibal guy. I need you to help me catch this prick." Dysan nodded, swallowing noisily and then sniffling. "Will you leave me alone?" Mulder nodded, a promise he never intended to keep. "What do you want to know?" Scully stood behind him, her hands still on her hips, trembling with rage. "We want to know where to find this guy. We want you to tell us who to look for." "H-how would I know that?" "You do, you just don't know you do," Mulder explained. "I'm going to describe this guy. I want you to tell me where you'd look to find him. This guy sounds like you and he have something in common. He likes hurting women just as much as you do. And he has an... obsession with electricity." Dysan's eyes glowed as he remembered. "Yeah," he said, the word sounding moist in his mouth, the sound someone would make when the moaned a lover's name. Scully turned away, disgusted. Mulder slowly read him the partial profile he'd written, and then went over the crime scene details slowly, one by one. Dysan asked for a notepad. Scully gave him hers, making a mental note not to touch it without gloves. "So..." Mulder said ninety minutes later. "What do you think?" "He's going to be older," Dysan said. "Closer to forty than thirty. He's taken a long time to build up all this anger. He hates them. He really, truly hates women." "Sounds like you're speaking from experience," Scully snapped. Mulder glanced at her, a warning in his eyes. She ignored him. "He's drugging them. That's the only way he could get them to come with him. The thing is...when I'd get one...I'd be so eager to start, so hungry, that I couldn't wait. And I didn't want them to scream, to make any trouble. So I drugged them." Scully shook her head. "I'm a pathologist, Dysan. I did the autopsies myself. The tox screen came back negative on each one." He laughed. "There are dozens of drugs that I can think of that you wouldn't find unless you were looking for them. Diluted curare, for one." "That'll kill them!" Scully objected. "Not if it's diluted enough. One to one-hundred-thousand should be enough to knock them out and not kill them." "What else?" Mulder asked. "Morphine," he said with a smile. Scully sighed. "How stupid do you think we are? Morphine is an opiate. We'd see that in a heartbeat." Dysan shook his head. "Nope. Not Demerol, either." Scully made a "can you believe him?" face at Mulder. "Why not?" Mulder asked. "Narcan," Dysan said and smiled. Scully opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. "What?" Mulder asked. "Give me a minute," she said, thinking. Of course. It made perfect sense. Perfect evil sense. "Narcan is an anti-opiate. It's used by paramedics and ERs to immediately counteract the effects of any opiate drug. Morphine, heroin, Demerol, like that. If he uses Morphine, and then later, Narcan, it's possible it would reduce the effects to such an extent that the body would flush...breathe...it away." "What?" Scully continued, thinking aloud. "Opiates are central nervous system depressors. If you OD, you go into respiratory distress. You start to breathe slower and slower, perfusion drops, the patient loses consciousness, and then death. Before Narcan, you had to hyperventilate the patient to work the drug through their system." "With Narcan," Dysan continued, "it's immediate. It's a magic drug, Dr. Mulder." "What's perfusion?" "The exchange of oxygen and nutrition for CO2 and waste products at the cellular level. When your perfusion drops, your brain doesn't get as much oxygen as it should, and you pass out." Scully and Mulder looked at Dysan. "You sound like a doctor yourself," Scully muttered. Dysan beamed. "I learned a lot about anatomy and physiology," he said proudly. Scully had a sudden mental image of exactly how he had learned so much, and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. "So, there are ways to drug them without leaving a trace," Mulder mused. "Wonderful. So, do we trace morphine suppliers? Is he stealing the stuff? Does he work for a pharmaceutical company? Can he get the stuff on the street?" Dysan shrugged. "He could use a hotshot of heroin. It has the same basic effect. He wouldn't use Valium, because it's not an opiate. Narcan doesn't work on Valium." "Is he right?" Mulder asked. Scully, mute with shock, just nodded. "But the problem with heroin," Dysan continued, "is that unless he's an able chemist, he can never be sure of the purity. A lot of the dealers will step on the stuff so hard that the dosage is hard to gauge. Also, he wouldn't know if the victim is a user herself unless he was already close to her, or-" "He was selling to her," Mulder finished. "Any record of them being drug addicts?" Scully shook her head. "There was no forensic evidence to support that. They could have smoked pot or taken recreational drugs, but none of the three so far showed needle tracks or had any of the secondary and tertiary internal symptoms of long-term abuse. I'd have to say no." "Ok, so we're back to Morphine or Demerol." "But not cocaine, or any stimulant." "What about amyl nitrate?" "Well, it's a hallucinogen, but I wouldn't count on that. They could still fight." "Ruhipnol," Scully muttered. "Date-rape drug." Dysan shook his head. "Can't be given intravenously. Or SubQ. Has to be ingested." Scully nodded, amazed at the man's knowledge of drugs. "He's right," she said. "Ok, back to Morphine. Is he buying or stealing it?" Dysan shrugged. "What would you do?" Scully asked. "I stole it. Drug stores, dentist's offices, ambulances." "Ok," Mulder said to Scully, "we need to tell the Portland PD to start rousting narcotics dealers, start talking to hospitals and EMS, drug stores, the usual. See if anyone's reported any kind of Class II drugs missing, anything. And anything experimental, anything that would cause drowsiness, anything." Scully nodded, unconsciously reaching for Dysan's pad to make notes. He saw her hesitate and frowned. Carefully, he tore off the pages he'd made notes on and then used his elbow to slide the pad closer to her. Scully glanced at Mulder without a word, and then took it, reaching into her pocket for a pen. "What else?" Mulder asked. "He probably doesn't have a job," Dysan said. "I didn't. I was living on a small inheritance." "Why do you say that about him?" Mulder asked. "Because..." Dysan trailed off and glanced at Scully. "Maybe it'd be better if she didn't hear this," he said softly. Scully thought about arguing with him and then thought better of it. "I'm going to go get some air," she said softly. "I'll call Chavez with this drug stuff." She got up, walked to the door and let herself out. "Talk," Mulder ordered. "I was going to say that...you become obsessed with them. Once you pick one...she's all you can think about. Night and day, every single thought is focused on your target. You have enough of your brain left over to function, but just barely. All I could think about was getting them, getting them alone and stripping them naked, and then...doing my things." His things, Mulder thought, revolted. "You dream about them," Dysan continued. "In my case...I used to dream about making them scream, about the wonderful music they'd make as I..." He shrugged, not wanting to say it. "When you got them," Mulder wanted to know, "how long did it take you to...get into it? Get into the groove, so to speak." Dysan leaned back, frowning. "You should know that, Mulder. You of all people should know that. You're a profiler. Don't give me that. When we started, you asked for total honesty. You even sicced your partner on me to make the point. Don't bullshit me now, Mulder." He grinned. "Don't ruin a beautiful friendship." Hearing that word come out of his mouth made Mulder gag. He stood up, walking to the mirror behind Dysan's back, wondering if he was going to be able to resist the urge to throttle the man. "Ok...I understand that you're in the groove from the minute you select the victim. That's what you wanted me to say, right? What you wanted to hear?" Dysan nodded, and Mulder saw his head move in the mirror. Mulder smiled at the mirror. On the other side, Scully smiled back, knowing that he couldn't see her, but knowing that he'd know she was. Mulder pressed the palm of his right hand against the glass. Touched, Scully did the same. Mulder thought that he could feel the warmth of Scully's hand through the glass. It gave him strength. "So, you think he's got money of his own, right?" "He'd have to. Or have a job that no one would notice if he was gone." "Like what?" "Cab driver, something like that." Mulder turned. "Would that be a way to meet victims?" Dysan nodded. "Sure. Anything that brings him into contact with the world. But, you should know that, Mulder!" Mulder nodded. I should have. "What else? I mean, besides cab drivers?" "Anything like that. Or, like I said, he could have his own money." "Forensic evidence supports that he's using more than one car. We took some tire tread samples at two dump sites. Different cars, neither of them typically used for rental fleets." "So what's the problem?" "Nothing has come back yet. Both sets of tires were the same type of tires. Both used on trucks, SUVs, like that. But the victims were last seen getting into a late-model sedan. A Caprice Classic." Dysan twisted in his seat. "Don't the cops drive those kinds of cars?" Mulder dropped his hand from the glass at the same moment Scully reached for her cellphone. She was in the process of dialing Chavez's number when her hand froze over the keypad. In her limited reading about the psychology of serial murderers, Scully knew that often times they tried to insert themselves into the investigation. What better way then to head it up? She decided to wait for Mulder's opinion. "Do you think it could be a cop?" she heard him ask. Dysan nodded. "It's hard for me to say that with any kind of certainty," he said. "Only because it might look like I was trying to stick it to a cop, seeing as where I'm at." "How would a cop get a hold of Morphine?" Mulder wondered aloud. Scully knew the answer to that and was surprised that her partner didn't. She thought about writing it in lipstick on the mirror and grinned. Sure, she thought. And I'll write REDRUM beneath that. Mulder was packing his things on the other side of the mirror. Finished, he glanced at Dysan and seemed to be considering his next move. "Thank you," he finally said, offering his hand. "Sorry about before." Dysan looked at it as if it was soiled. "Mulder, if you catch this prick, make sure to send him here." "Why? You want a new cellmate?" "Sure. We can relive our murders together." Mulder shuddered, knowing that Dysan wasn't kidding. "I'll have the guard take you back," he said, withdrawing his hand. Mulder moved to the door and let himself out. A guard was standing just outside, a bored expression on his face. "We're done," Mulder said. The guard nodded and entered the room, a pair of handcuffs and leg irons clutched in one hand. Scully left the observation room and met Mulder in the hall. "Evidence locker," she said softly. Mulder nodded. "I knew that. I wanted to see if he did. Ok, call the DEA and find out if there were any large opiate busts in this area in the last two, three years. If so, find out the case status, where the evidence is, all that good stuff." "Should I call Chavez?" Scully asked. Mulder glanced at her, smiling at the perfectly enigmatic expression on her face. "You're learning, Scully. No. He's not officially a suspect, but he's not ruled out, either." "But you think it's a cop," she said. Mulder nodded. "It's very possible. One," he said, ticking the points off on his fingers, "he has access to the car of the type the witnesses have reported. Two, he would have access to drugs via the evidence locker, and finally, most importantly, he would be in a position to put his victims at ease, to have them respond to his commands automatically, without thinking. Did you notice any evidence of handcuff use?" Scully shook her head. "No...but restraints were used. Ligature marks." Mulder bit his lip. "Ok, maybe he's not in 'cop' mode when he's in the groove, as Dysan said." "He's an evil little shit," Scully muttered. Mulder nodded again. "You got it, partner. As evil as they come." "So now what?" "Now we run a make on all dark-colored sedan-type vehicles registered with municipal police agencies. Four county area. Then we start quietly investigating who had those vehicles on the days in question. If we're right, a pattern is going to emerge pretty damn quickly. I figure....more than three hits, same person in the same car on the days in question...we got someone to look at a little harder. Until then, this is just a theory." "I guess we should run it out of DC." "Good idea. I don't want to alert the local constabulary until we have to. Bad feelings and all that." Scully jammed her hands into her pockets. "You ready to get out of here?" Mulder's head bobbed. "Hell, yeah." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza New York City Sam Cross and Daryl Hicks entered the squadroom carrying two large cardboard boxes filled with paper. "What's up?" Alex called from her office. "Some personnel records. Basically, anyone that was placed with Omega from the school, and the contents of Wagner's desk." "Just what the warrant said, huh?" "Not a bit more, boss. You know better than that!" Alex smiled. "Any luck tracing the leaseholders?" "Not a bit. Every name is a dead end. Mr. Sanders never existed, according to BCI, NCIC, NYSPIN and FINEST. We drew a blank." "Don't worry," Alex said. "Something will break. It always does." As if responding to her words, there was a commotion at the front of the bullpen. Alex came out from behind her desk to watch as two very well-dressed men made their way through the maze of desks and filing cabinets. "Captain Cahill?" one of them called out. Every time they passed a MCS detective, they'd point and ask the same question. Finally they came to Sam and Alex. "Captain Cahill?" the taller one asked, looking at Sam. "Who's asking?" "United States Deputy Marshal. Are you Captain Alex Cahill?" Sam twisted his mouth into a grin. "No," he said honestly. "I'm not." "Shit!" the shorter one said, looking around. "Where the hell is he? We were told he was in his office." "I doubt that," Sam said. "You calling me a liar?" the shorter one asked. "No, not at all. What were you told...exactly?" "We requested to see Captain Cahill. We were told that Captain Cahill was in the building, probably in the Commanding Officer's office." "Exactly what was the conversation?" Alex asked. "Who are you?" the taller one asked. "Answer the question, Deputy," Alex said, an edge creeping into her voice. "I asked the Desk Sergeant if Captain Alex Cahill was in his office. He said, and I quote, that he would check to see if the Captain was in. He called upstairs, I assume, and then told me that the captain was in, probably in the Major Cases Squadroom." Alex nodded. "So far, Sergeant Anderson was correct." "So where is he?" the shorter one demanded. Sam glanced at his boss. "Should we put them out of their misery?" he asked. "Sure, what the fuck?" Alex replied. "So is Captain Cahill in the office?" the shorter one asked. "Or not?" Alex took a step back into her office. "She is now," Sam said with a smirk. They both turned to face her. "You're Captain Cahill?" "Alex Cahill, NYPD Citywide Major Cases. And how may I help the Department of Justice's posse?" "Very funny, Captain. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a fed." "I used to be. FBI. Now..." Raising her eyebrows, Alex asked, "What can I do for you?" The two Marshal's glanced at Alex and then pointedly at Sam Cross. "Detective Cross is the squad whip," Alex lied smoothly. "I'm sorry," the taller one said, "but this matter is classified, Captain." "Classified?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. The shorter one nodded. "Very," he added. "Very well," Alex sighed, nodding the two men into her office. She waited for them to pass and then shut the door. Walking around behind her desk she sat and folded her hands in her lap. "Let me guess. Leon King and John "Jack" Wagner." The two Marshals exchanged a glance. "That's...How did you...?" Alex shrugged. "Contrary to what you might think, we do some good work here. Especially in Major Cases." "That's obvious!" the taller one gushed. "So what have you come here to tell me?" The taller agent folded his own hands and leaned forward, an earnest expression fixed on his face. "We wanted to know what, if anything, you've developed on the case." "You said case, not cases," Alex mused. "Does that mean you think the doer's the same on both?" Another exchange of glances. "Yes," the taller one said hesitantly. "I see. So we were correct in assuming that both victims were federally protected witnesses?" "Yes." "Do you think there are going to be any more murders?" The shorter one shrugged. The taller one shrugged and then added, "We hope not." Hope, Alex thought, rarely has much to do with homicide investigation or serial killers. She elected not to share that particular pearl of information with her two brothers in federal law enforcement. "I see. I guess the main question, then, is...how is the doer finding your witnesses?" Tall bit his lip and nodded. "I agree. That is the most important question." "You mean aside from the identity of the doer." "Yes. Of course." "Uh-huh," Alex said, not convinced. She could see where this was going. It was obvious that the US Marshal's Service was not so much concerned with the fact that two of it's protected witnesses had died at the hand of an unknown party, a party that had somehow managed to break the vaunted security of the WITSEC program. They were more concerned with image-building and protecting the name of both WITSEC and the USMS. "Do you have any suspects?" "What do you mean?" Short asked. "I mean," Alex explained, "that since the WITSEC database is not open to any other law enforcement agency in the world, it logically follows that the doer is either on the inside, or knows someone that is. Unless you're telling me that your security can be breached from the outside world?" "No, of course not!" Tall protested. He look shocked that Alex would even suggest such a thing. "Either of you familiar with the systems used to store the information? I mean, really familiar?" "How familiar?" "Like what kind of network operating system it's using? Novell? Lantastic? Is it stored in a Oracle database? DB2?" Short shook his head, and after a moment studying his nails, Tall followed suit. "So, neither of you is capable of assessing whether or not an outside attack would succeed." "I can assure you, Captain-" "Assurances don't count for shit unless you know what you're talking about, Deputy...I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name." Tall's face went flat. "I didn't give it," he said evenly. "I see. So that's how it's going to be. Well, I'm afraid I'll have to see some identification, otherwise I'll have to arrest you both for carrying a concealed weapon and failing to properly identify yourselves to the police." "You can't-" "Wanna bet?" Alex asked. "I want your names, now." Tall sighed. "Joel Williams." Short grinned. "Phil Evergreen, like the tree." "Alex Cahill, but you already know that. But you didn't know that I was a woman, which calls into question your intelligence- gathering ability." "Now see here!" Williams started. "I was kidding," Alex said with a smile. "I guess the thing to do is to show you what we have on Mssrs. King and Wagner." "Nelson," Evergreen said. "Excuse me?" "Jack Wagner was born Jack Nelson. Wagner was his cover name inside the program." "What was King's real name?" Short shrugged. "King, as far as we can tell. He elected to keep it when he entered the program." "I see. Detectives Cross and Hicks are the primaries working the cases. We caught the Wagner/Nelson one first, and then the King one when we discovered that we had certain...similarities between the cases." Alex drummed her fingers on the desktop. "Let me ask you another question. Does the name Omega Productions mean anything to you?" Alex nodded with satisfaction as Williams' face paled. "I thought so. You may want to recover some files that my detectives seized during a warrant execution this morning. We were trying to track down the leaseholders to ask them some questions. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask Cross and Hicks to join us so they can bring you up to speed." Both Marshals nodded, so Alex punched a button on her phone. "Sam, grab Daryl and come on in." A moment later Detectives Cross and Hicks entered Alex's office and shut the door. "These are Deputy US Marshals Evergreen and Williams. They have confirmed our suspicions about Mr. King and someone we now know as Jack Nelson, not John Wagner. Additionally, Omega Productions was a front for the USMS, or, if not a front, a dumping ground for WITSEC clients in the Tri-State area. That about cover it, fellas?" Evergreen and Williams nodded. "Ok, before I let the four of you go play in the sandbox, I want to know...what did they do?" "Excuse me?" "What were King and Nelson in WITSEC for, Deputy?" "Uh, that information is not-" "Now, Williams. Or you get zero help from us." Williams flushed, clearly not used to having to deal with someone demanding answers from him. "King was a major drug dealer in Chicago. Nelson is a pedophile and a child pornography distributor." "Was," Alex corrected without thinking. "Nelson's dead." "I'm aware of that, Captain!" Alex held up her hands in a surrender gesture. "Sorry." "You like anyone for the doer?" Cross asked Evergreen. "Excuse me?" Cross rolled his eyes at Alex. "Do you have any suspects for the murderer?" "Your Captain just asked us that," Williams said officiously. "We do not." "Very well," Cross said, a trace of a veddy propuh English accent lacing his words. "Either of ya'll know anything 'bout yer systems?" Daryl Hicks asked, lying his native Southern accent on thick. Williams visibly winced at his words. Alex made a motion Williams couldn't see, and Hicks mouthed "I'm sorry" to his boss. "Again, no. Are those the only two questions you people know how to ask?" Alex smiled, leaned forward, hands clasped on her desk. "No, Deputy Williams. As a matter of fact, no. My next question is: What do you hope to get from the NYPD? What can you offer us?" "Well, I was planning on calling the ISU and having a profiling team sent up to consult," Williams said smugly. Without looking, Alex reached over and dialed a number by touch. Twelve seconds later, a female voice answered. "Scully." "Alex, Dana." "How did you get my portable?" "When you called me. ANI information was saved on my phone." Scully sighed. "What can I do for you, Alex?" "How long before you and your partner are free from your current case, Dana?" "Why do you ask?" "Because I've got two US Deputy Marshals sitting in my office making noises like they want to get a VICAP RT up here, and since I happen to be very good friends with one of the Special Agents assigned to that elite unit, I thought I'd give her a call and see when she's free." Alex's intended message got through. Williams had been planning to double-team the NYPD. The FBI, in conjunction with the USMS, would be more federal firepower than the NYPD would be able to handle. Requests would not be denied, and cooperation would be required. Not any more, Alex thought with a grin. She smiled wider as Joel Williams' shoulders slumped. Scully hesitated before answering. "Alex, I honestly have no idea when we're going to be done up here." Alex bit her lip. It had been a gamble, but the point had been made. She wasn't about to let the Marshals push her around. "Understood. Any chance of you or your partner flying down for a day? Just for a quick look-see?" Another long pause, during which Alex got the impression (although she would be hard pressed to explain exactly how,) that Dana was completely and utterly annoyed with her. "Alex, can I call you back in a few hours? I'm really in the middle of something here." "Sure, Dana. I'll be here all day." They hung up. "Captain Cahill," Deputy Williams said, "your point is made. I apologize for trying to strong-arm you, the Citywide squad and the NYPD. You of all people should understand that we're getting pressure from Washington to make sure this is handled as quickly and quietly as possible." "Williams, I've got no reason to go glory hunting with you or your men. The NYPD Major Cases Squad has taken over this case from the Borough Task Force. It will be handled out of this office. No one, and I do mean no one but the detectives assigned to this squad, sixteen in all, sixteen men and women that I hand-picked, will be investigating this case. There will be no leaks." Willams shared another glance with his partner. This is getting annoying, Alex thought. "Very well, Captain. We're going to trust you on this." "What about the FBI?" Evergreen asked. "They..." he trailed off, looking uncomfortable. "What?" Alex asked. "They like to come in to town and take all the credit for the big arrests?" Evergreen nodded. "That won't happen in this case," Alex assured them. "For one thing, I do have a good relationship with the FBI." "And for another," Cross interjected. "We know some good places to dump a body." "If it comes to that," Hicks added. All three NYPD members smiled evil, dark smiles at the two federal officers. Alex clapped her hands. "Now that we've gotten all the usual jurisdictional bullshit out of the way, let's get to work. We have one very bad doer to find. And let's see if we can manage to do it without the FBI this time, okay?" Cross turned to Evergreen. "First question. How hard would it be to get a list of all the WITSEC clients in the Tri-state area. No, check that. How about just New York City?" Evergreen sighed. "I'd give it to you in a heartbeat," he said. "But the fact of the matter is that I have to put a request like that through my supervisory Deputy, and I'm all but sure he's going to turn it down." Cross stroked his chin. "Ok, let me ask you this. Do you guys at least have a terminal, a computer, something that connects you to the database?" "Sure," Williams nodded. "We've got quite a little setup down there as far as computers go." "And I'm assuming that there's someone down there to run all that stuff? Maintain it? Fix it when it breaks?" "Chet," Evergreen said. "How would you describe Chet?" Cross asked. Alex glanced at her detective; his voice had slid into his Interrogation Tone. "What do you mean?" "If you had to use one word to describe Chet, what would it be?" "Geek," Williams said without thinking. "Nerd," Evergreen added. Cross smacked his palm. "Perfect!" "I don't understand," Williams said. "He'll know how to get the information we need," Cross said. "I know it." "How?" Sam drew himself up to his full height of six feet and one inch and smiled wisely at his federal brethren. "Cross' first rule of Cybernetic Sleuthing. When you need to break into a system, find the guy whose job it is to make sure no one can break in, and make this man or woman your friend. The quickest way to pick a lock-" "Is to find the guy with the key," Hicks finished. "You guys are good," Evergreen admitted. "I never would have thought to....do that." Cross beamed. "Sam, Daryl, take Deputies Williams and Evergreen out of my office so I can get some work done." "Yes, Ma'am," they parroted. Everyone stood and slowly filed out of her office, leaving her alone. Alex stared at the door after they had gone, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Politically, she was playing with fire. Not getting a Deputy Inspector or higher involved on this case could kill her career if it went to shit. Or, she thought, it could guarantee the promotion to Deputy Inspector. Just as long as the CofD didn't hear about it. He would, of course, eventually hear about it. But by that time, Alex planned to be so close to catching the son-of-a-bitch that it wouldn't make any difference. Closing her eyes, Alex silently prayed for Cross and Hicks to work their magic. Please God, she thought. I really need this one. Fuck that. I want it. Chapter 9 =+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Maine "If the state of Maine can ever help you folks again, you just let us know," Warden Watkins said. Scully glanced at the man from the corner of her eye, hearing in his tone that he was not completely sincere. "Thank you, Warden," she said, using a saccharine tone she reserved for those in local law enforcement that were reluctant to cooperate. It usually worked, but judging by the look on Watkins' face, her words had fallen on deaf ears. Deaf and dumb, she thought, and smiled wider. "Sure 'nough," he said, leaning over to spit again. "You're not from around here, are you?" Mulder asked. "Nope. Mis'sippi," Watkins said. "Nice Southern boy like you?" Mulder said. "Why would you want to spend your life in Maine, with winters like this?" Watkins glanced around as if afraid that what he was about to say would be overheard. "Let's jus' say that Maine still 'members how to treat a con-vict." Which meant that the Warden, the _real_ warden, looked the other way when Watkins or one of his goons decided to use a PR-24 on one of the inmates. "We may be back," Mulder said. "I'll call ahead to let you know next time, but I'd appreciate it if you'd make Mr. Dysan available for re-interviewing in the near future." The look of disappointment on Watkins' face was evident. Obviously, Mulder thought, he'd been planning some 'private time' with Dysan after he and Scully left. "I think that can be arranged," Watkins replied. "Thank you again," Mulder said, offering his hand. Reluctantly, Watkins shook it, and then Scully's. The two FBI agents walked back to their car. Mulder was looking at the ground as he walked, his hands jammed into his pockets. "You were great back there," he said softly. Scully glanced away, not sure if she wanted praise for what had happened inside the walls of the prison. "Thanks, I guess," she finally said. "I'm sorry you had to-" "It's OK, Mulder. We didn't have a choice." He stopped and turned to face her. After a moment, she stopped and looked back. "What?" she asked. "We make a good team," he proclaimed. "Five years and you're just figuring that out now?" she teased. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I always knew it. I just figured it was time to tell you that...I do know how lucky I am to have you." He waited a beat, and then finished. "...as a partner." Scully smiled gently, wanting to reach out and touch him in some way. Just a hand on the arm, something. But this was not the time or the place. "Let's get out of here, Mulder. I want to see the crime scene." "Deal," Mulder said, pulling the car keys out of his pocket. "This place gives me the creeps." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Citywide Major Cases Squad One Police Plaza New York City Detective Sam Cross faced Deputy Evergreen, hands on his hips, fire in his eyes. "No, Deputy, you _will_ get me a list of all of King and Nelson's known criminal associates. I want to talk to his cellmate, his mother, his brothers and sisters-" "I just can't," Evergreen said. "That information is classified. I didn't classify it, and I can't un-classify it. It's above my pay grade, Detective." Cross fumed. "How the hell are we supposed to conduct an investigation if you keep stonewalling us? We need that information!" Evergreen shrugged. "Have your Captain-" "Call her Inspector...yeah, yeah, I know the drill. Shit." Daryl Hicks entered the squadroom and made his way over to Sam's desk. "Hey...how's it going?" he asked. "Rosewood here isn't helping much," Cross complained. "Evergreen," the Deputy corrected. "Whatever," Cross said. "Anyway...I think what we need now is a list of all federally protected witnesses in New York City so we can go start interviewing them. We also need a list of anyone and everyone in the City that has access to the WITSEC client list." Evergreen snorted. "Good luck. Shit, I don't even think the President of the United States could get that list." Cross glanced darkly at Evergreen. "Don't bet on it," he muttered. Spinning on his heel, Cross walked over to Cahill's office and knocked twice. "Come!" He pushed the door open, entered the office and shut it behind him. "Do you want us to solve this case?" he asked. "What the....of course!" "Get on the horn to the CofD, tell them that the USMS is stonewalling us. We need lists of all the WITSEC clients in the City, as well as anyone and everyone that has access to that information, and we need it yesterday. I'm taking Rogers and Hammer off that drug thing in Queens and giving it back to Narcotics. The Lexus Bandit is going back to Auto Crime. The serial flasher should never have been our case, and wouldn't have been except for the fact that the flashee in this case is the seven-year-old granddaughter of Councilman Sharpes. _That_ is going back to Brooklyn Public Morals. We need all the bodies we can get on this, First Grades only, Alex." Cahill nodded. "Tell me again," she said softly, "why you never took the test for Sergeant?" "Because I like being a detective, and being a boss has too much paperwork involved. All I want to do is catch bad guys." "A minute ago you sounded like a _very_ pissed off Lieutenant of Detectives who was whipping the squad into shape. Too bad I can't give you the whip slot." Cross glanced back through the windows into the squadroom. "Not for nothing, Alex, but you and I both know that in the absence of the Twelfth Floor assigning us a Lieutenant, I _am_ the whip." Alex nodded, accepting this. "You're right. The other detectives look to you for guidance and approval. You make the assignments, you shift the partners around. You earn as much as a Lieutenant, and with your overtime, you earn almost as much as a full Inspector." "Three years, Alex. Three more years and I'm pulling the pin." Alex sat back, lacing her hands behind her head. "I doubt that," she said. "You're in this for life." Cross snorted. Alex sat forward, hands on the desk, fingers interlaced. "Did I ever tell you that I pulled your jacket when I took over this command?" Cross nodded. "No, but I'd have assumed that you did. Only makes sense." "Have you ever _read_ your jacket?" she asked. Cross shrugged. "How many decorations do you have, Detective?" "I honestly don't know," he said. "Bullshit. About thirty, possibly thirty-five. You have two Combat Crosses, Sam, and a Medal of Valor." "That was bullshit," Cross pointed out. "The Captain in the one-six wanted to have a hero in his precinct, and his brother was the IAB investigator on that. I shouldn't have gotten that. Hell, I don't even wear the damn thing." "When was the last time you were in the bag?" Alex asked. Detectives and plainclothes officers referred to the dark blue uniform of the NYPD as 'the bag.' Being put 'back in the bag,' meant that you had been demoted from plainclothes back to patrol, or busted from the Detective Bureau for some gross violation of regulations. "When I got my First Grade," Sam said crossly. "I talked to the IAB Sergeant who investigated that case. He's now a Lieutenant in TARU in Midtown South. He speaks very highly of you, and of that case. Being modest is one thing, Sam. But don't insult my intelligence." Cross just nodded. "Is there a point to all this?" Alex nodded. "Yeah, Sam, there is. Send those jobs back to where they came from, and that stupid homicide on the Hutch back to Highway while you're at it. That'll get you two more bodies-" "Yeah. Carlyle and Davis," Cross said, rolling his eyes. "Carlyle is four months from his pension," Alex pointed out, "and gave eighteen and a half great years to this department before his wife and daughter were killed. I think we can cut him a little slack-" "He reeks of booze!" Cross said. "AND," Alex said, speaking over Sam, "I am aware of that. Like I said...he's functioning, and he shows up every day on time. Yes, he reeks of beer, and we WILL allow him to finish out his twenty and retire. Detective Carlyle and I have had a VERY long discussion about his performance or lack thereof, and he has agreed to be my personal ... problem solver until his retirement. At twenty years and one day, he has promised me that his shield, ID and piece will be on my desk. I trust him, Sam." "Personal problem solver?" Cross asked. Alex nodded. "Yes. I've watched your assignments, Sam. Carlyle hasn't caught one in seven weeks. So, he will answer phones, and run down BCI checks and anything else you need done out of this office or One PP." "Davis-" "Is a problem, I will grant you. He..." she trailed off, looking for the words. "Is a pussyhound," Cross helpfully supplied. Alex flushed, struggling to control her temper. "Watch your step, Detective," she said, pointing a finger at Sam's chest. "Sorry," he said. Sam's contrite look was so obviously genuine that Alex's anger vanished. "Yes, DETECTIVE Davis appreciates the ladies, perhaps a little too much. But his wife of nineteen years left him for a rookie out of Highway Three. That's gotta be hard." "I wouldn't know," Sam smirked. "Well, you weren't exactly fun to be around when Pat left," Alex pointed out. Cross shrugged. "That was different." "Why?" "Because Pat and I were together only a-" "Four years, Sam. You and Pat were together four years." "Yeah, I know." "Do you..." "Can we change the subject, please?" Sam asked. "Detectives Carlyle and Davis will offer... administrative support," Alex said, so visibly pleased by her delicate phrasing that Cross laughed out loud. "That gives you eight bodies on the street, plus two here." She held up her hands. "Barring divine intervention, that's all I can spare, Sam. I still have a division to run, and we do still have some hot cases. Eight will have to do." "And when another body turns up?" Cross asked, not unkindly. Cahill sighed. "Then we'll re-evaluate our options at that time. I can probably toss some stuff back to the borough commands, but I don't want to be seen, I don't want this command or any of its detectives to be seen as not being able to handle the assignments we've been given." "Or the ones we've taken," Sam said, smiling evily. "Yes, those, too. So...CofD, to pull some muscle with the Marshals?" Cross nodded. "They just don't have the weight we need." Alex pursed her lips. "Zolinski might not either. The NYPD, while large, and possibly the single best police department in the world, is still a 'local' law enforcement agency." Cross seemed about to speak. Alex knew what was coming and held up her hand. "Before you say another word, let me remind you of an old proverb my father taught me." "That would be, Alex Cahill, senior?" Alex nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek, knowing what was coming. "The Alex Cahill of Cahill Industries? The one that was on the cover of Fortune Magazine not six weeks ago?" Alex nodded. "Yes. Anyway, he once told me that it's easier to get forgiveness than permission. So...do what you think is necessary, and if I have to, I'll cover your ass." Cross stood, moving back to the door. "Do you miss Pat?" Alex asked softly. Cross stopped with one hand on the knob. "Every day," he said softly. "Pat was...an amazing person. The only person I ever knew that could put up with me for any length of time." "If you don't mind my asking, what happened?" Cross was visibly debating whether or not to answer. "Pat wanted different things out of life," he finally said. "A house. Cats. Dogs." "Children?" Alex asked. Cross glanced back, amused. "Did you ever meet Pat?" he asked. "No. Daryl just mentioned that your..." she trailed off. "Lover?" Sam suggested. "Yes, that was the word he used." "And?" "He said that your lover had left you for another man." Sam nodded, getting it. "Well, there's a little more to that story, but I'll answer the first question first. There's a very good reason that Pat and I weren't discussing children. Or marriage." Alex waited. "Pat is short for Patrick." "Oh," Alex said, quietly, softly. "Is that a problem?" Sam asked. "No," Alex said. After a moment, she added, "Of course not. I just..." "What?" "Didn't..." "Suspect?" "Yes, that's a nice way of saying it. I had no idea." Cross shrugged. "Not a good thing to go around advertising on this job." Alex nodded, silently agreeing. "Well, Sam, I guess even Captains can learn something new every day." Cross just nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. "I should get going," he said, turning back towards the door. "Is anyone else in the squad-?" Alex asked. Cross sighed, his shoulders slumping. He turned back to face her, arms crossed, leaning against the door. "What? Gay?" "Well...yes." Cross shrugged. "We don't have a secret handshake or anything, Alex. I'm sure that somewhere else in this building is a homosexual or two. But I don't know of any. I don't date cops." "Me either," Alex said with a smile. "One last question, and this is job-related." "Go ahead," Cross said stiffly. "Does Daryl know?" Cross waited so long before answering that Alex wasn't sure he was actually going to before he spoke. "Are you asking because you're going to break his balls for not telling you? Or are you asking because if he doesn't know and he finds out, you want to be prepared for any possible fallout?" "The latter," Alex said, a thin smile splitting her face. "Yes," Sam sighed. "Daryl knows. I told him shortly after we partnered up. I didn't want there to be any lies between us, not at the start of the partnership, anyway. I told him that if he couldn't handle it, that I'd act like a dick and he could then go to the bosses and tell them the marriage wasn't working out." Cops of all genders and all sexual persuasions often refer to their job-related forced-partnerships as 'marriages.' The metaphor extends into getting a new partner (remarrying,) and looking for a new partner (dating, or in the alternative, cheating.) "Good decision," Alex said. "Ok...go. Let me commit political suicide in peace." Cross grinned and turned to the door, letting himself out. Alex waited until the door was closed before lifting the phone and dialing the private number for the NYPD Chief of Detectives. Carmine Zolinski, the current Chief of Detectives for the New York Police Department, had started as a probationary police officer almost forty years before walking a beat in Coney Island. His familiar growl answered the phone. "Zolinski." "Alex Cahill, Chief." He grunted a response. "What?" "Got a thing. Need to talk to you." "Talk to me, Cahill." "In person, Chief. You're gonna want to do this face to face, sir." Zolinski grunted, "Ten minutes," and hung up. Great, Alex thought. A royal audience with his Royal Copness, The CofD. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine Office of the Chief Medical Examiner Scully signed the autopsy report, handed the clipboard to the morgue clerk and padded into the locker room. Rubbing her neck with one hand, Scully ran the other through her hair, taking the scrub cap with it. She closed her eyes, trying hard to forget the image of her most recent patient. There was little doubt that the body on the table was that of one of the missing women. The marks of torture were hard to miss. Among other things, Scully thought, trying hard not to shudder. Scully heard movement out in the autopsy bay, and then a moment later, Mulder's voice, muffled: "Scully?" "In here," she called, moving to the sink. She ran the taps, glancing in the mirror. The scrub caps always ruined her hair, but it was better than the alternative. "How'd it go?" Mulder asked, pushing the door open. "About as you'd expect. White female, approximately 25 to 30 years of age, dead about six to ten days. As with the others, she was killed somewhere else and dumped." "Did you get an ID?" Mulder asked. Scully took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No," she admitted. "That's going to be a little hard, Mulder." "Why?" "Because..." She trailed off. "Scully?" "The damage was...extensive," she said. Just then, the morgue clerk came back in, holding a copy of the report. "You said you wanted a copy?" he asked. "Thank you," Scully said, taking it from him. "Here," she said to Mulder. "Take a read. I'd rather not talk about it right now." Mulder frowned. Scully was an experienced agent and a hell of a pathologist. Getting upset during or after an autopsy was not her style. After reading the first six lines of her report, Mulder knew why. "The deceased," Scully had written, "presented as a Caucasian female, approximately 25 to 30 years of age. Original physical examination indicates that cause of death is cardiac arrest with the mechanism of death being extensive physical torture, coupled with manual strangulation. Additionally, severe post-mortem trauma has been inflicted on the corpse, including the removal of the primary epidermal layer of the skull." "He removed her face?" Mulder asked. Scully just nodded, leaning over to wash her hands. Mulder continued to read. "Section II: External physical examination. The decedent's physical examination included a complete head-to-toe inspection, beginning at the midline and moving distally to the extremities. Both breasts show signs of extensive, long-term torture. Judging by the various wound patterns, it is my estimation that the wounds were inflicted over several weeks. The newer wounds appear more vicious and rage-driven, including several deep, penetrating stab wounds to both breasts. Both nipples have been removed. The left nipple appears to have been removed via the use of a thin, extremely sharp cutting edge, perhaps a scalpel or similar instrument. The right nipple appears to have been removed via human bite. A molding was taken of the bite wound, and entered into evidence as Exhibit I [see case addendum notes for cross-reference.] Moving distally from the midline, the left arm shows evidence of continued, long-term intravenous catheterization. There are several needle-track marks in both the left and right brachial veins, moving proximally towards the shoulder. Moving distally down both upper appendages, I have noted [please see head-to-toe chart, pp. 19,] that all ten fingernails have been removed. A partial right thumbnail was discovered still connected to the nail bed. "Microscopic examination of the partial right thumbnail indicates that a prying or pulling tool such as a pair of common pliers was used to remove the remainder of the right thumbnail. It is possible that a similar tool was used to remove the other nine nails, although no forensic evidence exists to support this opinion. "Both wrists have deep, penetrating wound trenches consistent with long-term use of restraints. Microscopic examination of the wound trenches revealed trace amounts of hemp and hemp-based fibers, indicating that rope was used. "The left rotator cuff shows evidence of inflammation and atrophy. It is my opinion that during the obvious physical torture that the deceased underwent that her left shoulder was dislocated and was not relocated correctly. "Returning to the midline and moving distally towards the pelvis, I noted several dozen deep, penetrating abdominal wounds, including what appears to be a wound resulting from the use of a common kitchen fork. Please see photographs attached hereunder for wound detail." "Have you gotten to the good part yet?" Scully asked. Mulder looked up from the report. "The good part?" "You'll know," Scully promised. "I'm going to change," she said, moving off behind a row of lockers. Mulder just nodded, turning his attention back to the sheaf of papers in his hands. "Pelvic examination revealed extensive, continuing, long-term torture. Examination and gross dissection of the external vaginal area revealed deep ecchymosis and evidence of blunt force trauma consistent with the use of a baseball bat or similar device. Gross examination and dissection of the intravaginal area revealed evidence that a baseball bat or similar device had been inserted intravaginally, resulting in loss of muscle elasticity. Urethral damage was also noted, possibly as a result of the bat [or similar device] being vigorously thrust into the vagina." Mulder looked up, feeling the blood draining from his head. He spied a long bench set in front of some lockers, and moved towards it. He sat down, shaking his head, forcing his eyes to return to the pages. "Gross external examination of the anus and rectum indicate that a smaller but similar version of the object mentioned in the above paragraph was violently inserted into the rectum. A gross pelvic cutdown was performed, [see attached diagrams and photographs.] Please take careful note of the extensive damage to the sigmoid colon and supporting structures. "Evidence of semen and blood were detected in the vaginal and anal cavities, as well as in the oral pharyngeal tract. Due to the length of time between death and discovery of the body, it is impossible to gauge muscle bruising as a result of violent physical force related directly to the intercourse indicated. Therefore, it is impossible at this time to determine if the traces of semen and blood found were the result of a rape. Taken into account with the obvious signs of repeated physical trauma and torture, it is unlikely that what occurred was consensual sexual activity, although it cannot be ruled out." "Continuing the gross external physical examination, cigarette burns of varying ages [approximated within one to four weeks from the time of death,] were found on both the ventral and dorsal surfaces of the buttocks and upper legs. Severe muscle damage as a result of these burns were detected in the quadriceps and gluteus maximus. Microscopic examination of the wounds themselves and of skin samples taken from the affected areas revealed trace amounts of cigarette ash and some flakes of unconsumed tobacco. Samples of this evidence will be forwarded to the FBI Scientific Criminal Laboratory (SciCrime) for further analysis and may potentially reveal the specific brand of cigarette used. "Additionally, what appears to be marks that might result from a severe whipping or caning were detected on the buttocks, upper thighs and in the dorsal lumbar surface. "Continuing with the gross external physical examination, it was discovered that both Achilles tendons were cut approximately four inches from the heel of both feet." The report continued on with the gross organ dissection, the craniotomy and preliminary toxicology report. Mulder folded the reported in half and stood. "This is...disturbing," he said, rounding the corner. Scully was standing in front of her locker, the scrub shirt held in one hand, staring blankly at her street clothes hanging on a hook on the back of the locker door. She was wearing the scrub pants, slippers, and her bra. "Whoops," Mulder said, turning to leave. "Sorry-" "Don't go," Scully said softly. Mulder froze. "Look at me," she requested. Mulder took a breath and turned back to face her. Scully was looking at him with the most forlorn expression he'd ever seen. He suddenly understood what Scully saw when he trotted out his own patented whipped-puppy expression. And a second later, he knew why it was always so effective on her when he used it. Taking two huge strides towards her, Mulder reached out, enveloping her in his arms. He wanted to say something soothing, something comforting, but a part of him knew that she only wanted to be held for a few moments, to reconnect with her own humanity after having been forced by circumstance to perform the autopsy she had just completed. "What kind of person?" she asked against his chest. "What kind of monster would...do that?" "Remember the Innis case," Mulder whispered, hating to bring it up, but knowing he had to. Scully shuddered against him with the memory. Rosemary Innis had been a normal, apparently well-adjusted homemaker, married to her husband Roger for ten years. Roger had jumped on the Internet bandwagon, had bought himself a computer and promptly obtained an account with a national on-line service. He'd given his wife a screen name, and while he was at work, she had learned to use the service, delighting in the electronic mail and shopping mall. Then she had discovered the chat rooms. She started in the public rooms first, and then, over time, had discovered the private rooms. Rooms dedicated to the width and breadth of humanity, covering everything from genealogy to gardening to more...dark topics. Unbeknownst to her husband, Rosemary Innis had deeply held, darkly erotic fantasies. She dreamed of being kidnapped, of being raped again and again, and finally, being sexually tortured to death. She had no idea where these fantasies came from; that much had been obvious when the police had read her diary. She only knew that they did exist, and that she had finally found a way to express those fantasies under safe, controlled circumstances. Or so she thought. In one of the private, adult chat rooms, Rosemary Innis came across someone with similar wants and needs. Only this person didn't want to be tortured...they wanted to perform the torture themselves. Emails were exchanged, escalating to long, drawn-out fantasy sessions conducted in a one-on-one chat room. Every step towards the completion of her darkest fantasy excited Rosemary Innis all the more. Until writing and thinking about it weren't enough, and she asked her new friend to make her dream a reality. A meeting was arranged. Rosemary wrote her husband a note, apologizing in advance for what she was about to do. She packed a bag, got in her car, and vanished. Four weeks later, after the police began the investigation, they secured search and arrest warrants for Timothy Duane Danniger, and discovered Rosemary's body buried in a shallow grave sixty yards from his mobile home. She had been tortured to death. During his interrogation by the police, Timothy Duane Danninger claimed that Rosemary had asked for what happened to her, that he had emails explicitly requesting him to do the things to her that he had, and that she had died with a smile on her face. Scully pulled back, looking her partner, her friend, straight in the eyes. "Mulder, you don't think that these women asked for this to happen, do you?" "No," he said, shaking his head. "Of course not. This poor woman was tortured and then executed. There's no doubt in my mind that consent was not an issue here." "So why--?" "Because there are two kinds of monsters, Scully. It might have started off as just kinky sex for our UNSUB, with willing, consenting partners. And then it got to be too much. The things he saw, the images in his head, became too much to bear. He had to do the things he fantasized about. Remember, most of that S&M stuff is fantasy anyway. It's as choreographed as a ballet. Sometimes, people just can't handle the fact that it's only make-believe." Scully's expression suddenly became very odd. "Mulder...those movies you have...?" Completely ashamed, Mulder moved back, putting some distance between them. He knew what she was asking, and why, and with a certainty he felt in his bones, he knew two things: The rest of his life depended very much on the answer to Scully's question. He also knew at that moment exactly what a trapped, cornered animal felt like. "No," he said softly. "That was never my thing, Scully." "But...," she said, an insistent tone in her voice. "... still. Those things teach that women are objects. That they exist for the pleasure of men and nothing more. How can you have watched them for all those years and not be affected by them?" "Scully," he said, searching for the words. "What do you think of me, Mulder? As a woman?" He grinned, going for levity. "It'd be a lot easier to answer that question if you had a shirt on." Her features darkened instantly. Wrong answer, he thought. "Mulder, the fact that I'm not wearing a shirt should have zero impact on your answer. In fact," she said, folding her arms behind her back like a butterfly, "neither should this." There was a soft snap! before the bra fluttered to the floor, leaving Scully bare-breasted and obviously angry. "I'll ask you again, Mulder, what do you think of me as a woman?" "This is not the time or the place to have this discussion," Mulder hissed, his eyes flicking to the door that led to the autopsy bay. "What if someone comes in?" "Ask me if I care, Mulder." She paused. "You know, forget I asked. I think I have my answer. The fact that you're afraid to tell me in and of itself tells me more than I wanted to know." She bent over to retrieve her bra. "Scully, wait," Mulder said, reaching for her. His hand landed on her bare shoulder and she wrenched it free, giving him her back. "Leave me alone," she said. "Scully-" "Mulder, get out. I want to change, and I really don't want someone that watches porno movies hanging around." Not sure exactly what he'd done wrong, Mulder walked away, leaving Scully alone. Once in the autopsy bay, he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. He realized that it wasn't so much what he had done, maybe, just what he hadn't. Fuck this, he thought. He walked back into the locker room and around the corner. Scully had shed the slippers and scrub pants, and was dressed only in a pair of panties. She was turned away from him, her hands at the small of her back as she leaned backwards, stretching. "Scully," he said softly. She straightened instantly. "Mulder, I told you to get lost!" she growled. "No," he said simply. She turned to him, her arms clasped across her breasts. "What?" "Sometimes," Mulder said slowly, picking his words carefully, "I don't see you as a woman." "I know what you see me as, Mulder," she snapped. "No," he said, shaking his head. "You don't. I'm not even sure I do. But I know I don't see you as an object, Scully. I don't see anyone that way. If the last four years haven't taught you that, then I don't know what else I can say to make you change your mind." Scully nibbled her bottom lip, digesting his words. Her arms dropped. "Do you like what you see, Mulder?" "I can't say that I'm particularly turned on, Scully, but if you're asking me if I think you have a nice body-" "I'm asking how I compare to those bimbos you insist on watching. How could I possibly compare to them, Mulder? They're the embodiment of surgical perfection." "I will grant that the movies you are referring to are created to appeal to the lowest common denominator, Scully. But just because they're created for that reason, and watched by those people, doesn't mean that's why _I_ watch them. What's the difference between me looking at a movie about nude paintings and watching a movie with live nude people?" "So why do you? Watch them, I mean," Scully asked, ignoring, for the moment, his art-versus-commerce argument. He shrugged. "Sometimes, it fills the empty spots," he said. She took a step towards him, hands on her hips. "What turns you on about those movies, Mulder? I mean, you are watching them to get turned on, right?" He nodded, and then shrugged. "I don't know. Who knows what turns us on?" "I know," Scully said. "I mean, I know what turns me on." God, this is a strange place to be having this conversation, he thought. "That's great for you, Scully. Not all of us are blessed with your self-knowledge." Or your skill at self-deception, he thought. "So, returning to your earlier statement," Scully continued, "would you get turned on by looking at a painting?" "Depends on the painting," Mulder said. Scully smirked. "You know what I mean. Say it was a painting of one of the scenes from your movies. All those bodies, writhing around-" Mulder held up a hand. "I've had enough of this," he said. He sounded angry, but looked hurt, Scully thought. Fuck him. "Get dressed," he said curtly. "I have an errand to run, and I'll meet you upstairs when you're ready." "Fine," Scully said, turning her back. "Whatever." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza Chief of Detectives Office "Captain Cahill," Alex said to the uniformed Lieutenant that served as Zolinski's administrative assistant. "Go right in, Captain. He's expecting you," the man interrupted. Taking a deep breath, Alex walked to the two huge oak doors guarding the entrance to Zolinski's inner office and knocked twice, hard. "Come!" he called. Alex pushed the door open and entered, closing it softly behind her. "So, Captain Cahill, what havoc have you come to wreak on my quiet, peaceful world?" Zolinski asked. As was traditional with the Chief of Detectives, Zolinski was out of uniform and was wearing what appeared to be a hand-tailored suit from Saville Row, London. His jacket was hung on a coat-tree in one corner of his office, and he sat behind the desk with his shirt sleeves rolled up. "Peaceful?" Alex asked, a smile on her face. "Let's see," Zolinski said, scanning the surface of his desk. "I have a triple homicide in the Bronx. Looks like DDGB." DDGB was NYPD shorthand for "Drug Deal Gone Bad." "I have the Chief of Inspectional Services on my ass to promote a new round of suckers to Detective so they can be assigned to Internal Affairs to go and chase bad cops. I have the Mayor on my ass about the problems in Bronx Borough Command. The Queens North Detective Commander has just requested a transfer to the Sixth Precinct since he has decided to announce that he prefers men to women, and to top it all off, I just got a call from ESU informing me that a horse has died in Central Park, and what would I like to do with the corpse?" "Shouldn't ESU be calling Mounted? Or Patrol?" "Chief Tanner is on vacation the rest of this week. I've been named Acting Chief of Patrol. Which means that I now have the power of eight stars, not just four. Technically, I suppose, I outrank the mayor right about now. What can I do for you, Cahill?" Alex stood in front of his desk, preferring to be offered a seat before taking one. An old rumor about Zolinski reverberated in her head. Apparently, a new Lieutenant assigned to the Narcotics Division had gotten a "Report to CofD's office, forthwith" radio message, had sped (lights and sirens) from Narcotics HQ to One PP, taken the elevator up, breezed past the AA guarding the portals of access, and dropped into a chair with a breezy "What's up?" directed at Zolinski. The rumor continued that the Lieutenant was never heard from again. "Hell, take a seat," Zolinski said. "That old story is bullshit." Alex smiled. It was also rumored that Zolinski could read minds. "We have...a situation," she started. "Talk to me. Am I going to like this?" "Probably not. Bronx North Detectives caught a DOA a few days ago, found a note at the scene and decided they were going to kick it upstairs to Bronx Major Cases. They decided to sit on it and not notify my office. Two days ago, Midtown North caught another DOA, also with a note at the scene. As I called around to the various commands to see if anyone had caught a similar job recently, I found out about the Bronx job and took it." Zolinski shrugged. "So? You're citywide commander, Inspec-, whoops...Captain. That's your prerogative." "That's not the problem," Alex explained. "The problem is that after Cross and Hicks started-" "Sam Cross?" he asked. Alex nodded. "The same." "You know, he's taken the Lieutenant's test six times ? And passed every time, last time at number three? He's refused promotion every time. Do me a favor...when the next test comes around, tell him not to take it unless he wants the bar." Alex nodded, making a mental note to do just that. "Anyway," she continued, "they found some problems in the guy's past, the one we caught from Midtown North, and then did some checking on the Bronx guy. Turns out they're both federally protected witnesses." Zolinski's eyebrows went up and he sat back, folding his hands across his middle. "Then, two Deputy US Marshals appeared in my office, humbly requesting the assistance of my unit in the apprehension and conviction of the person or persons responsible." "Note at the second scene?" Zolinski asked. Alex nodded. "Nothing useful. Two numbers separated by a colon." Zolinski pulled at his bottom lip, thinking. "FBI have anything to offer?" "An academy classmate is on the VICAP RT Squad. I called her and asked for some feedback. She's in the middle of a case, so she couldn't be much help." "So what's the problem?" "The fact that the two Deputy Dawgs in my office can't get me a list of all federally protected witnesses in the City. I need that list, Chief. Yesterday." Zolinski sighed. "Might as well ask for the original ten commandments, Alex. No way the feds are going to cough that up." "How many victims until they do?" she asked. "This is a serial job, Chief. I can feel it in my bones. This guy has access. How, I don't know. But he has it. Two witnesses, in two different boroughs, with the same cryptic note, less than a week apart. No co-winky-dink, Chief." "I know, but until the possible embarrassment overcomes their natural tendency to keep their mouths shut, I doubt anything will get them to move on this. I assume you've forwarded the notes to the FBI?" Alex shook her head. "I wanted to check with you before interfacing with another federal agency." Score one for me, Alex thought, noticing Zolinski's small smile. "Do it," he ordered. "Make copies for the files, and send the originals. FedEx ought to do it. Anything else?" "Yeah. Could you call someone, maybe in Washington, and make a formal request for the list?" Zolinski's eyes darkened. "Why would I want to do that?" "So when they turn us down, we have it on record later, when the press goes nuts." Zolinski resumed pulling at his lip. "I see where you're going with this..." "I just want to protect the department's name," Alex said, putting an earnest expression on her face. "Yeah," he snorted. "Right. You just...never mind." "What?" "You have your eye on a Deputy Inspector's shield, Alex. Don't bullshit a bullshitter." "Sir, I'm sure that when you were a captain, you had _your_ eye on the same thing." He nodded. "Yes, but I didn't expect it months after I got my railroad tracks." Alex grinned. "The command of a citywide unit _is_ slotted for a Deputy Inspector." Zolinski nodded. "Yeah, I know, and I know you know." He glanced around, as if he might spot someone hiding in the office. "Between you, me and the four walls, in about six weeks you'll be promoted." Alex fought not to smile. "If," Zolinski added, "this entire thing doesn't blow up in our face. Catch this bastard, Alex. Catch him fast." "Yes, sir," Cahill said. Realizing she'd been dismissed, she stood. "One more thing, Alex. Remember to act surprised when the PC calls you, ok?" Alex nodded. The Police Commissioner and the Chief of Detectives did not see eye to eye on many issues. None, in fact. The PC hated it when he thought Zolinski was going around behind his back announcing things before it was appropriate. Or politically expedient. "You realize that if you keep this up, you'll be a Chief before you turn 40." She nodded. "I do realize that." "Probably the first female Chief of Detectives in Department history," he muttered. Alex lost the battle not to smile. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine "What was so goddamn important that you had to drag me out of the station?" Scully demanded. Mulder said nothing, his attention focused on the road as he drove. "I just need you to see something, OK?" "What?" "In a minute, Scully. Shit!" Scully sat back, closed her eyes and leaned her head against the seat. If Mulder wanted to be mysterious, then so be it. He parked in the motel lot and got out without another word. She heard the trunk open, and got out to see Mulder lifting a heavy plastic suitcase. He held a white plastic bag in the other; Scully couldn't see what was in the bag. "What the hell-?" "Scully, just do me a favor, OK? Go to your room. Change into something comfortable, and meet me in my room in ten minutes. That's all I ask, OK?" "What do you mean, 'comfortable?'" she asked suspiciously. "Scully..jeans, t-shirt, something comfortable, OK? Trust me." She nodded. She was still upset, but he was still her partner and her friend. She went to her room and quickly changed. The fact that he wouldn't tell her what was going on was driving Scully nuts. He was secretive sometimes, but whenever she asked a question, he usually answered. Even when he knew that she wasn't going to like the answer. Ten minutes came very slowly. She knocked on the connecting door. "Come in." Scully entered Mulder's room and stopped dead in her tracks. The plastic suitcase had contained a rental VCR, which Mulder had already attached to the TV in his room. He was sitting on the end of the bed, the remote in his hand. In a flash, Scully knew what was going on. "No way, Mulder. No way am I going to watch-" "Have you ever seen one?" he challenged. "No, but that's no reason to-" "Scully, how can you judge them...judge me... without seeing for yourself? Do you think that's fair? To me?" Scully bit her lip, trying to find the words to describe why she found the suggestion, the very idea that Mulder was proposing repugnant. "Mulder-" "Scully...just ten minutes, OK? Just watch the first ten minutes. That's all I'm asking." Scully glanced back at her room, wishing for a reason to deny his request. This was insane. Nothing she saw tonight was going to change her mind. But she owed him the chance. "Fine, Mulder. But you realize that this may turn me off so much that I'll never want to have sex again." He grunted something under his breath. Scully was sure she didn't want to know what it was, even though she had a fairly good idea what he'd said. She sat on the end of the bed, folding her arms across her chest. "Fine. Let's do it." "Well, your body language says you're open to this concept," he said sarcastically. "Before I start, I want to tell you something about the movie I rented. This is one of my favorites." "God, Mulder, I don't want to know about your taste in-" "Scully, please. This is important. Just listen. I'll answer any questions you have later. Right now I need you to listen." Scully nodded. "This is one of my favorites. I've rented it so many times... I can't begin to tell you. Now, the thing you have to remember about these movies is that they do have a plot. It's not much of one, but it's not wall-to-wall sex, either." Scully nodded, her jaw set. "One last thing," he said quietly. "I hope someday you appreciate the...courage it took for me to share this part of myself with you." Scully's eyes flicked to his face and then back to the TV. Her chin notched forward as if to say, "Let's get this over with." Mulder pushed PLAY. On the screen, the opening credits had just finished. A woman was in what appeared to be an office. It was obviously not one, because the sets looked cheesy and borrowed. The lighting was bad. The sound was worse. But that was not what Scully noticed. She noticed the actress standing behind the desk, talking on the phone. Short, about five three. Red hair. Short red hair. Wearing a business suit. "Turn it off," Scully said, standing. "You promised-" Mulder started to protest. Scully took a single step towards the TV and searched the panel for the power control. Not finding it, she placed one hand on top and reached around, finding the power cord. She yanked, and it popped out of the wall socket. The TV went black. Scully turned to face her partner. "I can't believe you were going to...make me watch that." "Scully-" "So, is that it? You rent these movies, with women that look like ME, and sit on your couch and...and...!" "Masturbate?" "YES, goddamit!" "Sometimes," he admitted. "God, Mulder, that's disgusting!" she said. He stood and moved into her space. "Are you telling me," he whispered, "that you've never, not once, thought about me and touched yourself?" Scully put both hands flat against his chest and pushed, hard. Harder than Mulder ever would have thought possible. The backs of his legs came into contact with the bed and he fell back on it. "How dare you ask me that question!" Scully fumed. "I won't dignify that with an answer." She turned to leave. Mulder was off the bed in a heartbeat, his hand catching her elbow. "Hold on a second-" he said. She spun on him, fire in her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me, Mulder? Why didn't you just come out and tell me that you were... fantasizing about me? That you wanted me?" He dropped his hand, using it to dry-wash his face. "I thought so," Scully said, turning to leave. "You don't want me, Mulder. You want a real, live version of that _slut_ up on the screen." Mulder snapped. He reached for her again, grasping her upper arm just as she stepped through into her room. Hauling her back through, Mulder slammed the door shut and pinned her against it. "What?" he asked. His voice was low, dangerous. "Tell you? Tell Special Agent Scully, MD, that from the moment I saw her I wanted her? That the moment she walked into my office I was sexually attracted to her? What would you have said, Scully? When should I have told you? That first day? The first case? When would it have been OK to come to you and admit that I fantasize about holding you, kissing you, touching you? Huh? Before or after you vanished? I know you Scully, better than you know yourself. If I'd told you, you would have requested a transfer immediately. He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word. "I. Had. No. Choice. Understand that, Scully. I had no fucking choice in the matter. Hell, I know you! I knew I couldn't have you then. I knew that I couldn't just tell you how I felt, but I had to do something. I had to find a way to get rid of that urge without you knowing! I had to find a way to sublimate it without going insane! I know you're angry, and I know you're hurt. I never meant to do that, and you know it. You may not think so, but you're angry. Think about it. Think about it and you'll know that I'm telling the truth." He released her arm and stepped back. Shaking, Scully rubbed her arm. "Let me tell you something," she said, stepping close to Mulder, poking him in the chest with a finger. "Yes, I have thought about you. I have thought about kissing, and touching and holding you. But I never rented a goddamn movie and sat on my couch _jerking off_ thinking about you. I never saw a _Playgirl_ with someone that looked like you on the cover and brought it home! What I did was..." "Different," Mulder said. "That's all. A different route to the same destination, Scully." "No!" she said, stepping closer. "What I did was...pure and sweet and honest and loving. I touched myself and closed my eyes and imagined that it was you making love with me! I never thought about you as a fucking sperm donor! Not like those...receptacles." "We're just different," Mulder said. "You got that right," Scully snapped. "I think making love is about that: Love. Not about...mechanics." She spun on her heel, reaching for the door. Her hand paused on the knob. "As of this moment," she said softly, "do not enter my room without knocking and getting permission. On this case, and on every case." She opened the door, stepped through, stopped, and turned to face him. "And I want my apartment key back, Mulder." She shut the door. Chapter 10 =+=+=+=+=+=+=== Portland, Maine Dumbstruck, Mulder stared at the door. Before he could change his mind, he reached for the handle, pulled the door open and went into Scully's room. She'd almost made it to the bathroom before the sound of the opening door alerted her to Mulder's entrance. When she turned to face him there was fire in her eyes. "Get out," she said slowly, her tone making it clear that she was very, very angry. Mulder ignored her. He moved into her personal space, lowering his head to get right into her face. "What is it that bothers you, Scully?" "I said, get out," she repeated through gritted teeth. "Why is it always the woman that gets to set the rules, Scully? Why is it always you? When I don't want to talk to you about something, you keep insisting until I talk. Well, now it's my turn, partner. It's my turn. We will finish this discussion." "Fine," she said, pushing him away. "But you don't have to be in my damn face." He moved back towards her, his hands grasping her upper arms. "Why, Scully? Does it bother you when I'm in your face? Does it bother you when I'm close to you?" Mulder realized he was sneering at her, and he fought to regain control of his emotions. He lifted his head but didn't release her arms, taking a deep, calming breath. "Scully... I didn't have to tell you-" "I wish you hadn't," she said. "I really do." "Be that as it may," Mulder said slowly, carefully, "I did, and we have to find a way to get through this. Together or apart, we have to find a way to deal with this, to put it behind us." Scully shrugged. "I don't know if I can, Mulder." He dropped his hands. "You've always known that I... enjoy that kind of...distraction, Scully. Why is it such a problem?" "Because it's personal!" she yelled. "I never thought you were looking at those disgusting movies and thinking about me!" He held up his hands. "But you thought...you suspected, that I did think about you in that way, right?" "Of course, Mulder," she sighed. "We're both attractive, single people. You're my best friend-" "Even now?" he asked quietly. She nodded. "Of course. Nothing could ever change that, Mulder. But...we're not talking about being best friends right now. We're talking about you sitting on a couch, masturbating and watching those damn movies while thinking about me! In my mind, I can't get over the fact that it reduces me to an object to you! I'm no better or no worse than one of those porno actresses. You, whether you realize it or not, have lumped me in your mind with those women! Don't you see why I'm upset?" He shook his head and then nodded. "I can see why you would be upset if that were true, Scully. But I don't think that about you." She crossed her arms, drumming her fingers against her biceps. "Mulder, I know you don't think you do-" "I don't!" he screamed. "Goddamit, Scully, I know myself a hell of a lot better than you do!" "Is that so?" She snorted. "I doubt it, Mulder." She stared at him defiantly for a long moment and then her face softened, and then crumpled. "Aw, dammit," she said, wiping at her eyes. "I promised myself I wasn't going to cry." She moved to the bed and sat, her head in her hands. Mulder knelt before her, his hands on her knees. Scully flinched and then relaxed. She raised her head. "Why did you have to watch the movies and think of me?" she asked, sobbing. Mulder had no answer, so he said nothing. Scully sniffed twice and sighed, composing herself. "Don't you get it, Mulder? This changes everything. I can't get involved with someone so...your emotions are so close to the surface, Mulder. More so than anyone else I've ever met. That makes you such a great agent, and such a great cop, a great profiler, but it just...a relationship with someone like that is hard enough. Any kind of relationship! Being your partner is...hard. Demanding. Draining. "But to fall in love with someone who embraces something I find disgusting, repugnant...it's asking too much, Mulder. Too much." "Scully...where did you get the idea that I objectify you?" "You don't Mulder. Not consciously. But I'll always wonder, Mulder. I'll always wonder if when you look at me, when you touch me, when you hold me, if you're holding someone else, touching another woman, fantasizing about some porno actress instead of me." She paused. "And I don't want to live that way, Mulder. I don't want to take that risk. I can't. I won't." "Do you want me to get rid of them?" he asked. She shook her head, smiling at him through teary eyes. "Mulder, the gesture is appreciated, but you're still not getting it. The fact that they exist doesn't bother me. Not as much as the fact that you brought me into that entire dynamic without asking me. You involved me in something so incredibly personal..." she trailed off, unable to find the exact words. "The funny part," she finally said, "is that I'm actually glad you told me." "Why?" "Because it saved me from making a huge mistake, Mulder." Mulder felt his tethers on reality slowly loosening and slipping. His eyes suddenly felt heavy and tight, and there was an unfamiliar ache, a heaviness, in his chest. This, he thought, is what it feels like when your heart breaks. "We...we can still be friends, partners?" he asked, accepting her decision. She nodded. "It may take a while to get back to where we were, but...yes, Mulder. We're still friends, and we'll always be partners." She sniffed. "If I have anything to say about it." "How...how can you manage that?" he asked. "I mean, if you're totally ruling out a relationship...?" Her face a melting mask of pain and regret, Scully nodded. "...how can we still be partners? Knowing that I want you, that I want to touch you and hold you and kiss you and make love to you? How can you...expect to deal with it?" "I've dealt with it for four years, Mulder. No worse for the wear." Bullshit, he thought. "How am I supposed to deal with it?" he asked. "How can you expect me to look at you and know that you think I'm disgusting?" She smiled. "Mulder, you're not disgusting." "That's what you just said!" he objected. "No, Mulder. You still don't get it. You know how I feel about porno. How I think that it degrades women. And you made me a part of that world in your mind, in your heart. There are sexual memories inside your brain that you will always associate with me and those goddamn movies. That's what I can't tolerate, Mulder!" He stood. "I'll leave you alone," he said softly. "I'm going to..." He made a motion with his hand towards his room. "I'm going to take the...stuff...back to where I got it." She just nodded, staring at the floor. "I'll see you in the morning," he said. Again, Scully just nodded. Mulder let himself out, shutting the door behind him. Scully stood and quickly removed her clothes, moving towards the shower. She had a rule of sorts. She tried to do all her crying in the shower. And she wanted very badly to cry. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mulder moved on automatic pilot, ejecting the tape and disconnecting the VCR and then repacking it. His mind was a blank. The only thing he could think of was the image of Scully's face, eyes full of tears, her lower lip trembling as she looked at him with disgust. He kept replaying that image over and over again, letting it sink in, adding it to the mental catalog of images that would come and torture him in the night. He took the VCR and tape to the car. Pulling out of the lot, he tried to forget the image of Scully's head nodding as she ruled out any possible relationship. They had to get out of Portland, he thought. The case be damned, they needed time away. It was the case, he decided, the case that was screwing with Scully's mind. He knew he had never objectified her in his life. Scully wasn't even a woman in his mind...she was better than a woman. She was Scully. Just the sound of her name could make Mulder feel better. The sound of her voice on the other end of his cellphone, with her usual greeting of "Mulder, it's me," was the most beautiful thing Mulder could ever remember hearing. She was beauty personified. Classy, elegant, sexy, intelligent, sensual...all the best things about womankind were embodied in Dana Scully. She was, to Mulder's mind, simply the most perfect woman that had ever lived. Barring her tendency to second-guess him, he amended. And the fact that she wasn't exactly open to extreme possibilities. But that was part of her charm, part of what attracted him. So how to get out of the case? They could put a tail on Chavez. Sure, they didn't have much to go on, and the conjecture that it was a cop was just that: plain, flat-out conjecture. There was no solid evidence other than history and the fact that the victims were all seen getting into a car that vaguely matched the description of a detective's unmarked car. It was thin. Hell, it was anorexic. But it was all they had. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The Next Morning Mulder stood at the window, hands on his hips, staring at the early morning sky. He'd briefly considered lying down on the bed in the off chance that sleep would claim him. He'd dismissed that idea quickly as vanity. Mulder was having a waking nightmare. That's what he called them. They were hard to explain. He'd never told anyone about them, not the various therapists in his life, not his parents. Not even Scully knew about these. He called them waking nightmares. They were worse than the sleeping kind, he thought. With those, you could wake up. With the eerie logic and bizarre dichotomy of a nightmare, Mulder's mind toggled between two mental images, one a memory, the other a tenuous construct of his mind. The memory was of Scully flinching when he'd touched her face the previous morning. He played the moment over and over again his mind, alternating with the... What? Fantasy? Hardly, Mulder thought. It wasn't a fantasy; fantasies were supposed to be of something good, something you wanted, something you desired. Only a madman would want this. Only a loser would fantasize about this. He had done this for as long as he could remember. The characters and themes and plots rotated with his emotions and with the circumstances, but the basic outline never changed. In his mind, Mulder would witness a conversation that had never, to his knowledge, ever taken place. The subject of the conversation was always him, or about something he had done. He would imagine the people in his life talking about him, putting words into their mouths. This particular construct was different, though. There were two people in it. Scully and her mother. Normally, Mulder would have been able to hear them both. This time, he couldn't hear Scully's mother. He could only hear Scully. Or rather, only Scully's response. In the construct, Scully was answering a question from her mother that Mulder couldn't hear. He saw it over and over. Mrs. Scully would ask the question, and Scully would get this...look on her face, as if she'd just tasted something bad. Then she would laugh, a dismissive, incredulous laugh. "Mulder?" she would say to her mother, shaking her head. "No, Mom. Never." Over and over again. Like a mantra. Mulder knew he was paranoid. Professionally, it paid to be so. It had saved his life, and Scully's life, on more than one occasion. And it wasn't like he hadn't been given enough examples of why he had good cause to be that way. But his paranoia didn't stop at the professional level. It extended into every single facet of his existence. For as long as he could remember, he'd always had the feeling that people were talking about him behind his back, and that they weren't saying good things. He'd always suspected that the huge majority of the people in his life were merely humoring him. He thought he knew what question Scully's mother was asking. Mulder looked down at his hands. He was rubbing his right palm with his left thumb again, the skin raw and tender. He disgusted her. He closed his eyes, wanting to call back her words from yesterday. But all he could see was the mind-movie of her flinching from his touch alternating with the discussion between Scully and her mother. They had to get away from this case, from this town. Moving to the phone, Mulder lifted it and dialed quickly. "Danny, Mulder," he said when the voice answered. "Did you get the run back on maroon four-door sedans? Good. Do me a favor. Run a cross-check on all the names against membership in the Portland Police PBA. From that list, run a cross-check against all registrations of four-wheel drive vehicles that fit the profile I faxed you. When you're done with that, fax the list to the number I'm about to give you." Mulder read Danny the number from memory. "Oh, Danny...one more thing. Use the encrypted fax. No...just being my usual paranoid self." Mulder disconnected the call and dialed again. "Lone Gunmen." Byers. It was six-fifteen in the morning. Didn't the man ever sleep? "It's Mulder. In a few hours a list of names is going to appear on your encrypted fax machine. I want Frohicke to run that against all deeds in the Portland, Maine area, and the six surrounding counties for any lots ...say, four acres or larger. Any hits, and I mean any hits, Byers, and I want a call." "Mulder-" "Just do it, Byers. I'll explain later." Mulder hung up before the man had a chance to answer. He turned and sat on the bed. And once again, it started. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully reached for sleep, wanting it so badly, needing it so much, and fell completely short. Her eyes were closed but they felt gritty, dry. She could feel herself scowling with annoyance. She ran a hand over her face, sighing into the pillow. She tried to find something soothing to think about, something besides what was on her mind. Mulder. She cupped her face with both hands, her fingers massaging her scalp. Give it up, Dana. You've been spending the last six hours trying to think about anything but your partner, and we see how well _that's_ working. Sighing, Scully rolled over, facing the window. Ok, she thought, exactly what about this is bothering me so much? She could count with both hands the number of times she'd caught Mulder with a girlie magazine at the office or stopped by his apartment only to find him guiltily rewinding a tape in the VCR. She'd made comments about it. So had he. And deep in the back of her mind, Scully knew that from time to time, Mulder would have thought of her as he touched himself. It was human nature. With a gun pointed at her own head, Scully would have been forced to admit that not only had she thought of Mulder from time to time as she touched herself, but also of Skinner and, on one rather startling occasion, the mailroom clerk. What was her name again? So, Scully mused, the fact that Mulder masturbated and thought about her was not the problem. And the porno itself wasn't the problem. So it had to be the combination of the both of them, right? The fact that he thought about her as he watched some video slut going through the motions. So...what about that bothered her so much? She glanced at the travel alarm on the bedstand. It was almost time to get up. Almost time to get dressed and face her partner. Mulder. As she lay there thinking about her partner and friend, a sneaking suspicion began to dawn on Dana Scully. She was beginning to understand why Mulder's confession bothered her so much. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Wait, she cautioned herself. You've had less than no sleep, and you're desperately trying to find a way to repair the relationship, to regain the closeness we had yesterday. Don't grasp at straws, Dana. Make sure this is the reason before you say anything to him, before you do any more damage. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree paced his small basement office, feeling every fiber in his being vibrating like a tuning fork. If he concentrated, Dupree was sure that he could sense the resonating bounce of each individual molecule. The hunger was back. Sooner than he would have thought, but it was back. With a vengeance. And the fact that he was being totally ignored by the police was eating at him, an emotional fungus that threatened to devour him whole. He had to figure out some way to make the populace notice him, some way to force the police department's hand. What was the purpose of a reign of terror if no one was terrified? Dupree laughed, a short, hard little snort that sounded alien to his own ears. How childish, he thought. Wanting to make sure that everyone knows that it's me doing this, that I'm the one. Obviously, they were stumped by his clues. Which meant that they were stupid, as he'd expected. Surely, by now they'd managed to figure out the connection between Leon King and John Nelson. If not, he'd make sure they did. His next victim had already been selected. Thomas Ignatio Montoya. Also known as Tommy Two Chins by those that had counted him as a friend before he'd gone into WITSEC. He was mobbed up to his neck, a former hit man for one of the California families. Sixteen murders, by the feds' count. All of them unsolved, filed under "gangland slayings." The LAPD had desperately wanted to close all those cases and file them away forever, but the US Attorney responsible for entering Montoya into WITSEC had insisted they stay open. The Federal Grand Jury had agreed, and the cases had been sealed for all time. Except from Mark Dupree's eagle eye. He'd found the cases, traced the murders back, seen the classified RTA code, and linked them all to Tommy Two Chins, who was now living in Queens in a nice little two-story frame house out by La Guardia. Amazing no one at all, Tommy had put away some of the pin money that the California families had given him for removing their problems. He had an IRA and a 401(k) from a dry cleaning business he'd used as a front. So Tommy Two Chins actually had a little money stashed away, and he was living quite comfortably on it. The note that Dupree planned on leaving at the scene was already prepared. There was one little thing left to do. While researching the case, Dupree had noted that Tommy Two Chins had been arrested once by the NYPD, almost thirty years ago, on a bogus weapons charge. Well, it had been a 'bogus' charge once the arresting officer had been given a fat little brown envelope filled with twenty dollar bills. On the stand, the officer had perjured himself, stammering over his testimony before 'collapsing' before the onslaught of the high-priced defense attorney, and admitting to the court that he had framed Montoya. The officer had been relegated to patrolling the South Bronx for the last eighteen months of his career, and once a month since, an untraceable check for $500 had appeared in his mailbox. That fact was going to help make sure that the NYPD realized who they were dealing with. In addition to the code, Mark Dupree was going to leave two more surprises on Montoya's body. Two very nasty little puzzles that the NYPD would have to figure out all on their own. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland, Maine Mulder's cell phone rang. "Mulder." "Hey." It was Danny. "Whattya got?" "Six names. Got a pencil?" "Is any of them Anthony Chavez?" "No, but I got a Walter Chavez." "PBA?" "Yeah, but his status shows as retired." "Father?" "Probably. Maroon four-door Chevy Caprice Classic. Maine DMV shows no tickets, no wants, no warrants, nada. But the address of record is a six-acre parcel of land an hour north of Portland." "Ok, get on the horn to the Portland Field Office. Get an agent to go up there and check it out. Send two, as a matter of fact. If they find anything, and I mean any single fucking thing, Danny, I want them to sit on it. They can call an ambulance for any victims they find, but they are to cordon off the area. No one in or out until they hear from me. Clear?" "Sure, but why?" "Safety. Give me the other five names." Danny read them off and Mulder listened, not bothering to write any of them down. "Thanks," Mulder said. "I owe you one." "I'll add it to your bill," Danny joked. "Take care, Mulder." Mulder hung up the phone. It was Chavez. He could feel it in his bones. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland Police Headquarters The ride over had been spent in a distant, icy silence. Scully had obviously gotten about as much sleep as Mulder had, and by mutual unspoken agreement, they decided to let insomniac dogs alone. "I've got a lead," Mulder said in the elevator on the way up. "I'm going to take the case files into the interrogation room. Two hours from now, bring Chavez into see me. I'll need you to hang around for about ten minutes after that." Scully nodded. The doors slid open, and Mulder hesitated. "It will probably get ugly in that room, Scully." He stared at his shoes, unable to meet her face. "Why?" "Because I don't think any of the other victims are alive. And I'm not sure what I'll do if that's true." Images of the Roche interrogation tape flew through Scully's mind. She saw Mulder's hand flashing up and around, and then Roche's head rocketing back, tendons audibly popping. "Whatever you need, Mulder." He smiled at the floor, nodding. "Right. We're still partners." "Yes," she said softly, touching his arm lightly with just the tips of her fingers. "We are. And friends, I hope." He nodded, still unable to look her in the face. "Sure," he said softly. "Always." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Two Hours Later The entire case was spread over the eight-foot conference table. Autopsy photos and reports were scattered everywhere. Mulder had completely filled two legal pads with notes. Scully knocked softly and entered, trailed by Chavez. The hulking Portland cop was all smiles. "How goes it, Mulder? Learn anything at the prison?" Mulder grunted in response, waving towards the empty seat. "Scully, I need you to hang around for a second," Mulder said. Scully nodded and closed the door, leaning back against it, her arms crossed. "Detective, the most recent victim...do we have anything else on her yet?" "Waiting for dental records, as far as I know." "Did you read the report?" Mulder asked mildly. "Nope, been working on the canvas results." Mulder nodded. Ok, fact one. "I want your impression on something," Mulder said slowly, digging through the piles of paper, looking for his notes. "About this killer...this UNSUB." He laughed, looking at Scully. "UNSUB. What a wonderfully dry, technical term for a fucking scumbag. Motherfucker takes...how many? Nine? Ten? Eleven women? Tortures 'em, kills 'em, dumps their bodies." Scully raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She wasn't sure how much of this was an act. "What kind of sick fucker would do that?" Mulder asked. "A monster," Chavez agreed. "But that's why we called you, Mulder. Chief Monster Catcher for the FBI." "Yeah," Mulder nodded. "That's me. Do you know how many monstrous minds I've had to climb inside in my years with the FBI, Chavez?" The detective shrugged. "Too goddamned many," Mulder answered for him. "We... Scully and I, that is...had just gotten back from a case in Florida when we got the call for this one. We were on vacation, as a matter of fact. That particular piece of shit kidnapped and murdered little boys for fun. Liked to pour quick-dry cement into their rectums. After raping them, of course. Then he would...well, you can probably figure that part out." Chavez nodded. "Killing little kids. Fucking freak." "And our guy isn't?" Mulder asked suddenly. "I mean, the Florida guy kidnapped, raped, tortured and murdered little boys, but at least he did it quick. He didn't make it last weeks and weeks, Chavez." Chavez nodded but didn't say anything. Scully noticed that fine sheen of sweat had broken out across Chavez's brow. And it was chilly in the interrogation room. "I mean our guy really has to hate women, Chavez. I mean, a deep, pathological, psychotic hatred for women." Mulder glanced at his partner. "Look at my partner, Chavez. Special Agent Dana Scully. Smart, beautiful, sexy, right?" Scully straightened, opening her mouth to speak. Mulder's head snapped around, his eyes locking on hers. The message was clear. Scully bit back the words she was about to speak. "Sure, I guess," Chavez said, his eyes flicking between the two agents. "She's got a good body, huh?" Mulder asked. Chavez swallowed. "Mulder..." he said, holding up a hand. "I have no idea where you're going-" "Did you know her middle name was Jennifer?" Mulder asked. Chavez flinched. Gotcha, Mulder thought. "But she's got a good body, yeah," Mulder sighed. "Times, I can't even keep my hands to myself. Of course, Scully'd shoot me fucking dead, I ever laid a hand on her. Or anything else. She's a strong one, my Scully. Strong as steel, and as mean as a rattlesnake, you cross her." Mulder leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "But that's not the kind of woman you go for, is it, Chavez?" "What?" "Strong, independent women. Not quite your style, Chavez. Am I right?" He shrugged. "I dunno. Hypothetically, I guess I like..." He glanced at Scully. "No offense," he started. Scully shrugged. Makes no difference, her expression said. "I like more...traditional women, I guess." "Yeah," Mulder snorted. "Hey, here's a fact, Chavez. Six of the victims...single mothers. Working hard to make ends meet. Women that would love to meet a sugar daddy. A man with a stable job, a job with a future, you know what I mean? A pension, promotion opportunities, like that." Chavez rubbed a hand across his forehead. "No, I didn't know that." "Yeah, but the killer did. Scully, what's your mother's name?" Scully was about to answer, but thought better of it. "Jane, right?" "Right," she answered, just as Chavez flinched again. "Jane, Jennifer. Scully, you had a daughter. What did you name her?" "Julie," Scully said, picking up on Mulder's ruse. "Yeah, that's right. Julie. Jane, Jennifer and Julie. Funny how that works, Chavez, right? You...know anyone like that?" "Like what?" Chavez gasped. "Families that use cute names like that. Like naming twin boys Ryan and Brian and then dressing them alike. You know anyone like that?" Chavez shook his head. "No," he said, swallowing loudly. "I don't." Mulder withdrew a piece of paper from the pile. "Too bad. Back to the case. Fucker bit the nipple right off. Probably ate it, too," Mulder said. Chavez sighed deeply, closing his eyes. "Sick fucker," Mulder repeated. "I mean, look at what he did to this broad," he said. "Cigarette burns on the legs, cut her all up between the legs, bit her left nipple clean off, removed her fucking face!" Scully was about to correct her partner. She caught something out of the corner of her eye, a dark, shadowy motion beneath the table. She saw Mulder's hand on his knee, making a side-to-side motion. She held her tongue. "Right," Chavez mumbled. "What?" "Right nipple," he said. "Bit off the right nipple." Mulder sat back, smiling. "Get the tape recorder, Scully." Scully moved to the edge of the table, digging in Mulder's briefcase. She found his microcasette recorder and withdrew it, setting it on the table between Mulder and Chavez. "What the fuck?" Chavez asked. "Playtime," Mulder said slowly, "is over." "What are you-" Mulder held up a finger. "Listen to me," he said slowly, softly. Scully thought she'd never heard her partner sound so dangerous. "You get once chance. I know...everything. I figured it out last night. I have the records. I have the car. I have the six-acre spread. I have agents going there right now looking for the victims. Your only chance to escape the death penalty is to talk to me, to tell me everything, to answer every single question I ask completely and honestly. But you don't know what I know. I'm going to ask you a lot of questions, Chavez. You lie once...once...and you go down for all of it. And I will make sure that you get the needle." "I-" Mulder held up a finger again. "Quiet," he hissed. "Mulder-" Chavez said again, his eyes wide. "Quiet," Mulder said. "I ask, you answer. One false answer, you go down." Chavez looked at Scully. She saw his leg muscles tense. Holy shit, she thought. He's gonna go for it. Her hand was moving before she was aware of it, reaching towards the small of her back to where her SIG was holstered. "Easy, Scully," Mulder said. "Detective Chavez isn't going anywhere. Are you?" Chavez looked back at Mulder, visibly deflating. "No." "She'll shoot you where you sit, Chavez. Take it from me." Scully smiled ruefully. She would have, too. Without a second thought. Mulder's cell rang. "Mulder." "This is Special Agent Goen," a voice said. "Talk to me." "We found them. Three are still alive, but they're in bad shape." "Call ambulances. Get the Federal Mobile Crime Scene Unit rolling now." "What about Portland PD?" "No." "Can I ask why?" "Later, Goen. Do what I tell you." "Got it. I'll call you in a few hours." Mulder hung up, sighing. "Three left alive," he said softly. Scully winced. "Three...what?" Chavez asked. He honestly seems surprised, Mulder thought. He had a sudden sinking feeling. "Chavez...I know. I know everything. But I want to hear it from your mouth. Who...who is Walter?" "Wally?" Mulder shrugged. "Sure. Wally. Tell me, Chavez. Who is Wally?" "My...brother?" Scully's eyes found Mulder's at the same instant his found hers. "Where is Wally now?" she asked. "At work, I guess." "What does he do?" "He's a......oh my God," Chavez said. "He's a butcher." "WHERE?" Mulder asked. "The Grand Union," Chavez said. "On Sixth and Pine." Mulder arched a shoulder at Scully. She was out of the conference room a second later, running back towards the squadroom. "I need a SWAT Team!" she screamed. She pointed at two pairs of detectives. "You and you...follow me." She turned and lead them towards the stairs. "Shotguns, body armor...let's go!" The detectives glanced around, shrugged, and moved to comply with Scully's orders. Back in the interrogation room, Mulder circled his quarry. "Tell me about the J's," he said softly. "Tell me." "What do you..." Chavez gulped. "You're in this...don't fucking lie to me, Chavez. You knew that I had the wrong nipple. Talk to me, man. Don't let your brother go down alone. You were in this. Talk to me. Be a man. Stand up on this, Chavez. Stand up on it." "Our...stepmother," Chavez gasped. "Juanita." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Grand Union Supermarket Pine Avenue and Sixth Street Portland, Maine Scully was wearing modified body armor underneath a undercover windbreaker. A large, four-inch high panel on her back, and another, smaller panel on the front of the jacket could be ripped from its Velcro moorings to reveal the letters FBI in bold, gold letters. But she wasn't going to do that until she absolutely had to. She was paired with a Portland PD detective whose name she didn't know. They strolled through the supermarket, casing the place. A small combination speaker/microphone was nestled in Scully's left ear. She could hear the quiet murmurs of the SWAT team as they moved into position, waiting for her go order. "Two exits out the back," Scully said softly, stopping to examine a can of soup. "One out the front. Team One, back. Team two, off the side, wait for our signal." "Excuse me?" Scully turned and saw a man wearing a store uniform. He was smiling quizzically at her. Probably thinks I'm nuts, Scully mused. She glanced at his nametag. "Sidney," it said, and beneath that, "Store Manager." God smiles on fools and drunks, Scully thought, and the X-Files Team. "Oh!" Scully said brightly. "Are you the manager?" "Why...yes," he said, smiling. "Yes, I am." "I wanted to ask you something..." Scully said, turning slightly away, using her body language to draw him closer. "Yes?" Sidney asked, taking a step closer to her. Scully had her ID handy. She held it flat, using her body to shield it. "Special Agent Scully, FBI," she said softly. "Don't turn around." Sidney looked down at Scully's hand, saw the gold shield and laminated credentials and gasped. "What is it? Are we being robbed?" Scully quickly folded her ID and put it away. "Sir..? Sir, relax. You're not being robbed. I just need to ask you a couple of questions." "Yes...yes, of course." "Do you have a Walter Chavez working here?" "Yes...he works in...he's a butcher." "Is he here today?" "I believe so." "Where is he?" "Back in the...the workroom," Sidney said. "Is there anyone else there with him?" "The other butchers..." "How many of them?" "Two. Bill and Juanita." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Portland Police Headquarters Interrogation Room "C" "Tell me about Juanita," Mulder said softly. "Nothing to tell, really," Chavez said. "Our mother died when we were young. I was six. Walter was four. My father met her... she was a waitress...a barmaid. She wanted a husband...but wasn't too keen on the kids." "What do you mean?" "Well, she didn't want to work. She wanted to stay home and have our father take care of her. But she didn't want us around. She drank a lot, and the old man started drinking with her, you know, to keep her company and stuff. And when my old man got drunk, he got mean." Chavez paused, sighed, and continued. "It got worse from there. About six, seven years later, the drinking...it took my father's manhood, so to speak. He couldn't get it up anymore, you know what I mean?" Mulder nodded, not wanting to interrupt him. "So, Juanita started to bring men home when Dad was at work. He was a cop, you know. Like me. Like Walter wanted to be." "Why isn't Walter a cop?" Chavez shrugged. "Busted the psych screening." "Any idea why?" "Getting to that," Chavez said. "My Dad found out about Juanita's fucking around him. By that time, he was hitting the sauce pretty goddamned hard. He was drunk on the job a lot, and was in danger of getting thrown off the force. He really tore into her, Mulder. Beat the shit out of her." Chavez paused again. "The fact of the matter, Agent Mulder, is that my stepmother was a nympho slut. When she couldn't bring men home anymore, she turned inward, as it were." "Inward?" Mulder asked. "She seduced my brother, Agent Mulder. She took him into her bed and made him service her for four years, Mulder." "Where were you during all this?" "Living in the same house. But she didn't want me. I was sixteen. I was too old for her. She liked my brother, liked the fact that I knew what she was doing and I couldn't...wouldn't do anything about it. She liked how nasty it was. How dirty. That's what she got off on, the control of my brother and outright nastiness of the situation." "How do you know this?" Mulder asked. "I mean, about how she felt?" "I read her diary," Chavez said. "I know." Mulder sighed. It was a typical story. At least, in the world I live in, he thought. "Getting back to your brother...what's your involvement, Chavez?" "I knew he was doing it. Or...I felt it, I guess. I wasn't sure." "The car?" Chavez shrugged. "Lots of four-door maroon sedans in Portland and the surrounding counties. It's a very popular color." "But you knew your bother owned one-" "Yes." "And...?" "I haven't been up to the farm...that's what we call it, the farm. My father bought it a bunch of years ago as a summer place, a retirement place. But the booze got to him before his pension could. Walter and I inherited it." Mulder spread his arms. "How did you know about the nipple? You didn't read the report, by your own admission." "I heard your partner on the phone," Chavez said. Mulder gaped. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Grand Union Supermarket Scully followed the manager into the butcher's shop. Just outside the double doors that separated the refrigerated work area from the rest of the store, Scully touched the manager on the arm, stopping him. She drew her weapon and reached for the tab on the front of her jacket, tugging it free. Her partner tugged at the one on her back. They switched positions and repeated the process. "Ready?" Scully asked. He nodded. "Let's do it. SWAT teams, stand by." Scully entered the workroom, her pistol held alongside her leg, out of sight. Three butchers were hard at work. The woman, Juanita, stood at the band saw, moving a huge chunk of meat through the revolving blade slowly. The two men were working on the cutting block. They both held massive cleavers in one hand. Christ, Scully thought. This was almost as bad as some of the nightmare takedown scenarios that the bastards at Quantico Tactical came up with. "Walter Chavez?" she asked loudly. One of the men's arm froze in the middle of a downstroke. The other turned around stupidly. Bill, she thought, zeroing her attention on the other man. He moved more quickly than she would have thought possible, dropping the cleaver and grabbing a thin, sharp boning knife. With two steps, he was behind Juanita, his arm snaking around her neck, pulling her away from the band saw. Ah, shit, Scully thought. She felt the Portland detective moving to her right, widening the field of fire, setting up an effective crossfire. The other butcher, Bill, stood with his arms in the air, trembling. "Get out," Scully ordered, not taking her eyes off Walter. Bill scurried away. "Puta!" Walter screamed, his eyes wide, crazy. "Calm down, Walter," Scully said. "We just want to talk." "Lying BITCH!" he screamed. "Team one moving in," Scully heard in her ear. Hurry up, guys, she thought. "Walter, put the knife down," Scully said, starting the script at the top. "No fucking way, bitch!" he screamed. "I'm taking this BITCH and walking out of here!" Walter jerked Juanita against him, hard, the tip of the knife digging into the soft flesh under her chin. Juanita whimpered. "Walter, I'm not going to let you leave here with her," Scully said. Walter took a deep breath, calming himself. "You're going to do exactly what I tell you to, FBI Bitch, or this pretty little slut is going to fucking die. I don't care anymore. My life is over." He paused. "So...you can kill me, but I'll take her with me. I promise you that." Scully hesitated. "That's right, cunt. Think about it." "No, Walter, you think about it. You can call me all the names you want, and that isn't going to change the fact that you and I can walk out of here together, or I can walk out of here alone. Your choice." Walter glanced at the Portland cop and then back at Scully. He pointed at Scully with the knife. "I should have killed them all," he rasped. "But at least I can take one more with me-" The knife started to move back towards Juanita. Scully saw the speed with which it was moving and knew he was going to plunge it into her chest. Her mind kicked into automatic. Scully had already staged the trigger of her SIG. Less than two pounds of pressure was all that it took. The pistol bucked in her hand, the slide moving back, ejecting the spent casing and then sliding forward, lifting another cartridge off the top of the magazine and sliding it up the feed ramp and into the breech. The pistol came back into battery in less than a quarter of a second, the front sight blade settling down on target just as Scully pulled the trigger again. Scully's elbows had taken most of the force of the shot, letting the kinetic energy of the pistol recoil down her arms and across her back. The first shot took Walter in the meat of the knife-hand shoulder. The second shot took him in the cheek, traversing laterally at over twelve-hundred feet per second. Scully's height disadvantage translated into a killing arc as the bullet traveled at a slight upward angle, crashing through the soft palette and into the cerebellum, shredding bone and tissue as it went. Walter collapsed, dead. The knife buried itself in Juanita's chest, leaving about three inches showing. The woman looked down at the blade, jerking with every beat of her pulse and screamed. Unknown to Juanita, the blade had neatly pierced her ascending aorta. The sudden force of the penetration had all but sealed the wound around the blade. The sudden rise in blood pressure caused by the scream widened the wound just enough. Juanita began hemorrhaging into her thoracic cavity. Scully saw Juanita scream, saw the sudden drain of blood from her face, and then the first two spurts of bright red arterial blood from the chest wound. In a half second, Scully realized what was happening. "GO!" she screamed at the detective. "Find me something to clamp with!" "What?" he asked. "Vice grips! Chicken Tongs! Anything!" He nodded and turned to leave. Stopping, he turned back only to see Scully as she reached for another boning knife. Kneeling over Juanita's body, Scully took a deep breath and began cutting, widening the wound. "Oh...GOD!" the detective said, turning and pushing through the door. He found Sidney standing outside along with the other butcher. "Hardware!" he screamed. "I need vice grips!" Sidney blinked twice and then turned to his left, pulling open a drawer. It clattered open, revealing a pile of jumbled, rusting tools. Grabbing two pairs of vice grips, the detective pushed back into the workroom. Scully had widened the wound enough to get a hand inside. She was feeling around, trying to find the ascending aorta. "Got the clamps!" he said. "Tighten them down as far as they will go, and get a fucking ambulance here!" Scully screamed. He nodded as he fumbled with the grips, tightening the jaws as far as they would go. One of the SWAT Team members had heard Scully's shout and radioed for an ambulance on a separate frequency. "Give me one!" Scully said, holding out her free hand. The detective handed it over, noticing that Scully's arms were bloody to the elbow. Tossing her hair out of her face, Scully widened the wound enough to slip the grips inside. Opening them, she moved them as close to the actual tear in the artery as she dared and clamped it. "The other one!" she gasped. He handed it over just as two paramedics burst into the workroom. "Oh my GOD!" one of them yelled. "What are you DOING?" "I'm a doctor!" Scully said. They looked relieved, but only for a second. "What the hell is going on?" the other asked. "I'm cross-clamping an aorta. Tell me you have some thread in there!" The two medics exchanged a blank stare. "Childbirth kit!" Scully said. "Tell me you have a-" The medics nodded, both of them reaching down at the same moment towards the drug kit, knocking heads in the process. The taller one ripped the kit open, located the childbirth set and peeled it open. He found the two Dacron suture packs and held them out towards Scully. "Gloves," she gasped. Get me sterile gloves-" They found a pair and opened them, holding the non-sterile sides out. Scully grabbed one, then the other, snapping them over her blood-slick hands. "Peel the suture open," she said. The taller medic peeled the foil-wrapped packet open, being careful not to contaminate it. "Do either of you have a Kelly clamp?" she asked. The taller one reached to his belt and found the small silver clamp. It wasn't sterile, but it would have to do. He handed it to her. Scully took it, deftly using the clamp to pick up the needle. Reaching into the wound, she found the tear. Removing the knife with her free hand, she tossed it over her shoulder. "I need someone to help retract this so I can see," she called. A gloved hand appeared in her field of vision, holding the wound open. Scully took four quick sutures, baseball style, pulling it tight as she dared. "Releasing the clamp," she said through gritted teeth. She slowly turned the knurled ring on the vise-grips, holding her breath. The suture held. "Gauze," Scully said. "Gimme a trauma dressing." A huge pad of sterile gauze was handed to her and she packed it into the wound, tamping it down tight. "Scoop and go," Scully said. The medics nodded, reaching down and grabbing Juanita by the arms and legs. They physically carried her to the gurney and all but slammed her down on it in their haste to get moving. "What hospital?" Scully called after them. "Saint Mary's!" one called back. Scully stripped off her gloves and reached for her cell phone. It rang in her hand. She pushed SND. "Not now," she said, and disconnected. Dialing information, Scully waited for what seemed forever for an operator to come on the line. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI. Connect me with the Saint Mary's ER immediately!" Five seconds later, another voice answered. "ER." "This is Doctor Dana Scully," she said. "I'm also an agent with the FBI. One of your ambulance crews just picked up a patient at the Grand Union on Sixth and Pine. She's been stabbed in the chest. Her aorta was nicked. I cross-clamped and sutured the wound. She's enroute now." Scully could sense the amazement in the listener's voice. "I'll be by in about an hour or two to file my report. But I've got a situation here now...I've got to go." Over the protests of the voice, Scully ended her call. She dialed *69 and waited. "Mulder." "Sorry. I was in the middle of something. What's up?" "Chavez gave his brother up. He's giving his formal statement now. We're done here, Scully." She heard the relief in his voice. She shared it. "I have to get cleaned up, and then I have to go to St. Mary's hospital," she said. "What happened there? Are you all right?" "Mulder, why are you even calling me? I could have been right in the middle of-" "I heard on the radio that the suspect was down, and that there was someone down at the scene. I..." "I'm fine, Mulder. I shot Walter. He took a woman hostage. I...I couldn't get him before he got her." Quickly, Scully brought her partner up to speed. "So I have to go and file my report at the hospital," Scully finished. "I'll be right there," Mulder said. "Mulder..." Scully started to protest. And then, to her amazement, she discovered that she really did want to see him. "I'll be out front waiting," she finished. There was a pause. "We really make a good team, Scully," Mulder said. The line clicked dead in her ear. Chapter 11 =+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Grand Union Supermarket Sixth & Pine Portland, Maine Mulder turned onto Pine from Main and moved south, counting off the streets as he drove. He saw the sign for Fifth a moment before he saw Scully standing by the curb. Mulder slid the car to the curb and shifted into Park. The passenger door opened just as he was opening his own, and Scully slid into the seat, slamming the door behind her. "Hey," she said, her mind obviously elsewhere. "I'll ask once," Mulder said quietly. "You OK?" Scully opened her mouth to say "I'm fine," but shut it without speaking. The truth was, she didn't feel fine. "The Bureau is sending a shooting team to St. Mary's. I told them that's where I'd be. I have to go through that entire mess. And I have to file a report with the Portland Police Department, the Maine Medical Association and the Medical Director of Emergency Services for Portland explaining why I used a boning knife to cut into a woman's chest in a meatlocker. I'm sure that the paramedics that responded are by now blowing the entire thing out of proportion and making it sound like I used a rusty chainsaw to open the poor woman's chest." She paused. "Mulder, I'd like to say that I'm fine, but the truth of the matter is that I'm not fine at all. I want to go to the hospital, get cleaned up, file my reports, and then go back to the motel and sleep for a month." Mulder nodded, not exactly sure if he was happy or not that Scully was telling him how she really felt. It was strange, in a way. Comforting, but strange. "Well, the sooner we get going, the sooner you can get into bed." He put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. "One more question?" Mulder asked. Scully shrugged. "Do you have any idea where the hell St. Mary's Hospital is?" +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Saint Mary's Hospital Emergency Room Portland, Maine Scully entered through the ambulance doors, striding briskly through the corridor leading to the trauma bays. Doctors, nurses, physician's assistants and orderlies, all wearing different color- coded scrubs and lab jackets, scurried this way and that, pushing gurneys to and fro, carrying surgical and instrument packs, or just looking generally harried. Finding the front desk, Scully offered her ID to the admitting clerk. "Special Agent Dana Scully, MD," she said. "I...ah..." "Operated on a patient in a meatlocker? We heard. Dr. Stevenson would like a word with you. There are also two gentlemen from the FBI here to speak with you about the other...matter." Scully nodded. "Is there a place I can clean up?" She held up her arms, showing the clerk the blood streaks reaching just above her elbows. "Sure. Doctor's lounge, third door on the left. You'll find some scrubs in the cabinet under the sink." Scully nodded her thanks. As she walked towards the lounge, two agents she'd never seen before approached her. "Agent Scully?" "Just a minute," she said, pointing at the door. "I want to get cleaned up. I'll be with you in about five minutes, OK?" "Sure," the older one said. "Take your time. I know it's hard." Scully stopped and turned to face the man. "Agent...?" "Johnson. This is Agent Armfield." "Well, Agent Johnson, have you ever had to take a life in the line of duty?" Johnson shook his head. "No." "Well, then, I doubt you know how hard it is." Johnson's jaw tightened. "I see. Well, Agent Scully, since you point it out, I ran a quick records check on you before coming over here today. It seems that you're quite the gunslinger. How many is this now? Six? Eight?" Scully was saved from ripping the man's throat out by her partner. Mulder appeared at the tail end of Johnson's statement and slid between them neatly. "Why don't you get cleaned up, Scully, and I'll talk to the nice gentlemen?" "Fine," she growled and stalked off, slamming through the door to the doctor's lounge. Mulder turned to face Agent Johnson. "And you are?" he asked. "I was just about to ask the same question," Johnson replied. "Special Agent Mulder. I'm Scully's partner." "Were you at the scene?" "No, I was back at the Homicide Task Force interrogating an accomplice." "Then you have nothing to say that I want to hear," Johnson informed him. Mulder looked around the corridor, making sure they couldn't be overheard. "Yes," he corrected him, "I do. Special Agent Scully has just been involved in a traumatic incident. Since, as you just admitted to her, you have never used your weapon in the line of duty, I think it behooves you to give her a break. It doesn't get easier, you know." Johnson stared at Mulder. "Since you brought it up, have you ever had to shoot anyone?" "Yeah," Mulder said evenly, staring at Johnson's face, wondering why the Bureau would send such a prick to investigate. "I have." "Well then, you know the drill. I have to get her statement and her weapon. I have to make arrangements for her administrative leave-" "Uh," Mulder said, holding up a finger. "Agent Johnson, how long have you been assigned to a field office?" "Since I was sworn. Almost sixteen years, Agent Mulder. Why do you ask?" "Because Scully and I are assigned to headquarters. ISU, to be specific. The...rules are a little different for us. When Scully gets back to Washington, she'll go to SciCrime and have her weapon test-fired, and as far as mandatory administrative leave, I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen." "The hell it isn't!" Johnson objected. "Johnson, if you have a problem with this, I suggest you call Division Chief Littleton over at ISU, and if you still aren't satisfied, call Assistant Director Skinner." At the mention of Skinner's name, both Portland agents exchanged a quick glance. "You work for him, huh?" Mulder nodded. "I heard about Skinner. Supposed to be a real hard-ass. Any truth to that?" "Depends. If you get on his bad side, he'll get neck deep in your ass, Johnson." Johnson nodded. "She's going to make a statement, right?" "Of course." "Good. My ASAC will have my ass otherwise." Mulder nodded just as he heard Scully's voice calling his name. "Excuse me," he said. Johnson tried to follow him into the doctor's lounge, but Mulder moved to block his way. "Don't take this the wrong way, but she...might not be decent." "And you're going in there?" Johnson asked. "Uh...yeah." Mulder turned and pushed his way through. He'd been right; Scully had removed her jacket and blouse and was standing in front of the sink in nothing but slacks and her bra. "Gotta stop meeting like this," Mulder joked quietly. "What?" Scully looked down at herself. "Oh. Sorry." "Don't worry about it. What's up?" "Did I get it all?" Scully turned and faced Mulder, holding her arms straight out. "There's no mirror in here." Mulder looked at his partner, his mouth suddenly dry. God, but she was a gorgeous woman. He sighed and attempted to focus his attention. "No," he said. "You missed some on your neck and cheek." "Get it, please?" Scully nodded towards the sink. A washcloth sat on the edge, visibly damp. Mulder walked over and grabbed it and then turned to face his partner. "Don't let Johnson get you down," he whispered. "He's a prime-grade asshole." "Aren't they always?" Scully asked. She was looking off to the side, offering Mulder access to her neck. "Well...just so you know..." "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Scully said softly, smiling gently. Mulder laughed. He heard the knob rattling a moment before Johnson burst into the lounge. "Agent Scully, I must insist that you..." He trailed off as his eyes took in the scene. "Oh. Excuse me," he said, turning to leave. "Come in, Johnson," Scully said. "I'm sure you've seen a woman in her bra before." "Don't be too sure," Mulder said just loud enough for her to hear. Scully smirked at him. "Did you get it all?" she asked. "Almost," Mulder said, leaning down to get the last little bit off her cheek. Johnson was busy studying the walls, the floor, his shoes, anything to keep from looking at a shirtless Dana Scully. Scully bent down and opened the cabinet underneath the sink and found the pile of fresh scrubs that the admitting clerk had promised. She rifled through them quickly, locating her size. Extra medium, she thought with a smile. Donning it, she turned and smiled at Johnson. "Fire away, Agent Johnson. Oh...sorry. Pardon my pun." Johnson smiled thinly at her and grunted. He pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket, tested it, and then started the recording. "Special Agent Daniel Johnson, shield number JTA 40129491, taking the statement of Special Agent Dana Scully..." Scully read off her shield number, the date, time and location, and then mentioned that Special Agent Mulder, her partner, was in attendance. The interrogation proceeded fairly quickly. Johnson asked her to set the scene, and Scully did so quickly and professionally. "The suspect informed me that he was going to quote "take one with me," and then he proceeded to thrust the knife towards Juanita. It was my judgement at that time that he intended to do her grave, possibly fatal bodily harm, and I shot to defend the victim. I shot the suspect twice, once in the right shoulder, and once in the face. The second bullet killed him instantly." "How do you know you killed him instantly?" Johnson asked. Scully gave him a withering look. "Because first of all, Special Agent Johnson, I'm a medical doctor. And secondly, the first thing they taught us on the first day of medical school is that when a donut-sized chunk of brain goes flying out through a hole in the skull and lands on the floor, the person whose brain that was is usually dead." Johnson nodded. "Take it easy; I had to ask." Scully nodded. "Sorry. I'm a little tired. Where was I?" "Brain donuts," Mulder said, trying to hide his smile. "Right. Anyway, I saw that the wound to Juanita was possiblyfatal, and that I had to act right away. So, I did what I had to do. Since that's not pertinent to the shooting investigation, I'm going to save recounting that for the medical investigation. If that's all, I believe we're done." Johnson nodded and stopped the tape. "I'll have this transcribed and messengered over to your motel room. Sign it, and we're done. Just so you know, we'd already interviewed the detective that was in the meatlocker with you. His account of the situation matches yours exactly, so I don't think they'll be any problem." Johnson paused. "He also mentioned that you did a hell of a job saving Juanita's life." "Thanks," Scully said. "Well...take care," Johnson said, preparing to go. "Thanks," Mulder said, offering his hand. His smile was genuine. "Not nearly the prick you thought I was going to be, huh?" Johnson asked. Mulder couldn't resist. "No...exactly the right amount of prick." Johnson grinned. "I heard you were a smart-ass. Glad to know that some rumors aren't all false. Take care, Agent Mulder." Dropping his voice so only Mulder could hear, Johnson added, "You've got a hell of a partner." Mulder grinned wider. "I know." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Stop-n-Sleep Motel Scully came out of the bathroom wearing the obligatory bathrobe. She was glad to see that the door between the rooms was open. She was doubly glad that the damn case was over and that they were scheduled to fly back to DC the next afternoon. The medical portion of her statement had gone much better than the shooting team interview. The director of emergency medicine had been quite impressed with her handiwork, and had managed to mention at least half a dozen times that she had saved Juanita Carter's life with her fast actions. Scully had thanked the man each time, and each time she had remembered one of the reasons she had gone into law enforcement rather than private practice. Most doctors were so impressed with themselves and each other that they lost sight of what was really important. She wandered into Mulder's room and found him channel surfing. Lying on the bed, his shoes off, Mulder had one arm curled around his head. His eyes stared at the television, but they saw nothing, Scully noted. He was staring off into space. "Hey," he said mechanically, finally detecting her presence. "Hey yourself," she replied softly. "How do...how was the shower?" he asked. Scully smiled at his utterly Mulderesque attempt at diplomacy. "Fine," she said after a moment. "So, what's on the schedule, Mr. ISU?" Mulder thumbed the TV off and grunted. "The usual," he sighed. "File a report, sign my name, give interviews to screaming throngs of fans, get my own recording contract, then it's on tour, videos, Lettermen, Leno...you know." Scully nodded, half of what might have been a grin twisting her face. "No," she said softly. "Really." "File the report tomorrow morning. Final interview. The chief of the Portland cops wants to do a sit-down in his office. Then you and I go to the airport, jump on a plane, and fly back home." His eyes, which had been fixed on the blank, mute television, found hers. "After that, we...we aren't due back at work for a few days, Scully." He looked as if he was going to say more, but at the last moment, his eyes slid from hers. When, they seemed to ask her, are you going to forgive me? I wish I knew, Scully thought. I truly wish I did. Scully looked at the floor, fixing her expression into a carefully blank mask. "Mulder," she said softly. He grunted. It was a Mulder grunt, a sound Scully knew well. She tried not to smile, failed, and then tried to hide it, and failed at that. This particular MulderGrunt was the noise he made whenever Skinner called him out on the carpet, the sound Mulder made when he knew was wrong, knew he had been caught, and was desperately trying to think of a massive rationalization to cover his tracks, or at least justify what, to him, had seemed like a perfectly normal choice at the time. It sounded like the sound a trapped animal would make, Scully thought. "When we get back to DC, I'll need some time." He made an assenting grunt, another familiar and strangely comforting non- sound. That grunt seemed to say, 'Yeah, I know I screwed up; if I were you, I wouldn't want to be around me, either.' "Mulder," Scully said slowly. "It's not about you this time. It's about me. I...need time to figure out where I am with this." "Still friends?" he asked quietly. His voice sounded afraid, Scully realized. Afraid, tentative, like...like a lost little boy whose last friend is packing to move away forever. And for a reason Scully could never identify, that tone in Mulder's voice made her want to grind her teeth. She felt the muscles in her jaw tighten and she fought the urge to spin and tell the damn man to grow the hell up. That was not what he needed to hear. And then she could, suddenly, identify the reason why it made her so damn angry. It was just another way Mulder had of turning every issue, no matter what it was, back to him. Everything always had to be about him; his needs, his wants, his way of investigating a case. She had worked long and hard to make him see her as an equal professionally. She'd be dammned if she was going to do it in a relationship. "Of course," she said. "Always." His answering grunt seemed to indicate that he would have liked a more forceful statement of her feelings, one way or the other. Scully felt her head nod as she thought about it; Mulder didn't mind if you hated him or if you loved him. He just wanted to know how you really felt, no bullshit, no sugar-coating it for delicate emotions. He just wanted, as in all things, the truth. Scully felt the stray tendrils of a thought teasing her mind, and she nibbled her lip, chasing the thought down, pinning it against the wall of her mind. Or did he? she wondered. The fact that with his body language, his words, his non-word grunts, Mulder seemed to force you to expand on whatever you yourself were trying not to say had an opposite effect sometimes, Scully realized. Because she knew him so well, she realized that he wanted her to say more, to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be all right. In the guise of finding the truth, he was forcing her...no, encouraging her...yes, that was better... encouraging her to perhaps say things that were not one-hundred- percent true. By making it look as if he could take anything, emotionally speaking, you wanted to dish out, you felt like a jerk for not telling him the truth. Scully felt another notch click into place as she realized that she had figured out a little more of the way her partner's mind worked. They weren't always pleasant discoveries, but they did come in handy. Mulder waited for Scully to say something more. It took him a few moments to realize that she wasn't going to. And then he realized what had happened. How odd, he thought. How totally strange that we reached this place, this strange place that is just so totally us without any words. This is about me not saying what I need to, about her not saying what I want her to, and both of us knowing. They each waited for the other to break the silence. Power politics, Scully thought idly. "I'm going to sleep," she finally said, standing. "It's been a hectic day-" "To say the least," Mulder said, his tone reaching for teasing and not quite making it. Scully slid a long breath out, tracing her bottom gum with her tongue, fighting for control. God, sometimes he makes me just want to smack that insolent little- "Good night, Mulder," she said shortly, walking back through to her room. "'night, Scully," he called after her. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Four hours later Scully sat up in bed, fuming. She could never remember being so angry at another human being. No, she corrected herself, she had been plenty angrier. But she had never felt this infuriating combination of anger, frustration and disappointment. Mulder, the great profiler, Mulder, the Oxford-educated psychologist, Mulder, the Seeker of the Truth, Don Quixote on his Quest. Mulder, she thought, letting some of the anger seep out of her pores...my partner, my best friend, and...what? Flipping the covers back, Scully stood and marched across her room towards his, her hands balled on her hips, ready to give him a serious What-For. She stopped, her hand reaching for the knob, her thoughts jumbled together. Think, she instructed herself. You go through that door, you tell Mulder what is on your mind, and there is no going back. There are no second chances. There is no way you'll ever be able to unsay those words. The next two words through her mind settled the issue: Fuck it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Wake up," Mulder heard. The voice was low and dangerous, laced with steel and ice. He froze, trying to identify the speaker. The voice sounded familiar, but not overly so. "Mulder, wake your ass up before I drag it out of that bed," the voice whispered. Scully. What the-? "You wanna climb in?" he teased, flipping the sheets back. He sensed the movement, the rush of air, a moment before the flat of Scully's palm impacted against his face. "You son of a bitch," she said slowly, evenly. Mulder worked his jaw, feeling for loose teeth with his tongue. In the darkness, he could see her standing by his bed, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding her arm up, ready to strike. "I take it I have offended," Mulder said slowly, feeling a small ball of ice forming in his heart. He was suddenly infuriated at the fact that if a man offended a woman, if he hurt her, made her feel bad, she was free to whale on the guy. God knows his mother had often enough. But God forbid he ever do the same when he was hurt, when he was angry. A woman hits a man? High drama. A man hits a woman? Assault and Battery. His dry words, spoken behind a sudden veil of wariness and pain, shattered Scully's carefully constructed rage. Her arm trembled and then fell. "Goddamit, Mulder, why is nothing, not one single thing, easy with you?" Mulder was about to reply, 'Just part of my charm, I guess,' but thought better of it at the last possible moment. Instead, he just shrugged. "Do you know why I came in here, Mulder?" His hand reached out and Scully flinched. A short, frustrated little bark of a breath honked through Mulder's nose as he found his original target: the lamp on the bedside table. He turned it on, wincing at the sudden brightness. "Obviously, with malice in your heart and dirty deeds on your mind, Scully." He ran a finger inside his mouth, along the gumline. It came back tinted pink. "See?" he said, showing her the finger. "Blood." Scully felt a tiny shard of her resolve break away and float free. She'd hurt him. And then the frustration, the anger, the rage of the last few days forced that feeling from Scully's mind and from her heart. "Do you know how hard it is to have any kind of relationship with you, Mulder?" He shrugged. "I thought we'd already settled that, Scully." She shook her head, moving to the chair in his room and collapsing into it. "I'm not talking about that kind of relationship, Mulder. I want to know if you have any idea how hard it is just to be your friend. To be your partner." Mulder glanced at the ceiling, rolling his eyes. "For you?" "For anyone," Scully corrected. "You hide behind this..." She faltered, looking for the words. Words she could use were right there, right on the tip of her tongue, but something, some vestige of wanting to preserve his feelings was holding Scully back. "...attitude," she finally finished. Her brow creased as she dug deep and found the words. "This eerie, fucked up combination of this holier-than-thou, superior, mocking sneer...and underneath that, the most complete and comprehensive inferiority complex I've ever seen. But you know what? That's not really what's driving me up a wall, Mulder. That is not what's causing this problem between us." Scully's hand waved back and forth between them. "Then what is it?" Mulder asked quietly. "Your attitude towards women," she finally said, "and by extension, your attitude towards me." Mulder glanced away. "I don't accept that," he said. "I've always treated you...personally, anyway...with the utmost respect. I know my job performance hasn't always been what you expected or what you wanted, but..." "So, the videos, and the magazines, and all the snide little remarks. What was that, Mulder?" He glanced back at her, confusion clouding his features. "What....do you mean?" "Mulder," she sighed, wondering if she really, truly had to tell him, if he really didn't know. "the girlie magazines you keep in the bottom drawer of your desk, right next to your pencils. I know you keep the pencils there. I need a new pencil, I go and get one. And I have to see it, Mulder. I have to pull open that drawer and see those magazines. Don't you know...what that does to me?" Mulder pulled at his lip with two fingers. "If it bothered you that much, why didn't you say something? Before now, I mean?" Scully spread her arms. "I shouldn't have to," she pointed out. "You should know better, Mulder." "So...we're back to this...issue again, huh?" Scully sighed slowly. "We never left it, Mulder. Don't you get it? Your attitude towards women is...immature, in a way. Unformed. Adolescent, sometimes even childish. Some of the remarks you make, I know you're trying to distance yourself from women as emotional partners, as equals. You want to be able to treat it...them...us... me, as a kind of...object. Not in the way that word is normally used, at least not consciously. I really don't think that you see women the way that word normally means, Mulder. But...we've been on cases, and encountered women....women that fit the stereotypical definition of what the magazines and the videos represent, and you're always there with a remark, a comment, an observation." "Do you feel threatened?" Mulder asked. "Inadequate?" Scully frowned, wanting to bite his head off but having to admit that it was an honest question. It was also, she realized, a rather common question, a question asked in preparation for some kind of defense. "Sometimes," she finally admitted. "But...not really. In a way, sometimes, it does hurt to know that your standard of beauty and sexuality is some artificially inflated bimbo. But, at the same time, Mulder, because you are such a complex, complicated man, I know that on some other level, you don't see me that way. And on multiple levels of my own personality, there are times I wish men did look at me the way you look at those women. All women, at one point or another, want to be looked at that way. It's human nature, the desire to _be_ desired. "But it's still just not that easy. Mulder, I've spent my entire life trying to achieve a true sense of who I am. That sense is constantly changing. But one thing I know for sure. You'd never find me posing between the pages of one of those magazines. When I share myself with someone that way, it's between me and him. It's an incredibly private thing, Mulder. Your actions, the way you flaunt it sometimes, brings that portion of any relationship that you and I could have, and makes it...public." She shrugged, knowing that she was doing a bad job of explaining herself, but unable to find the true words she wanted to use. "What," Mulder asked. "You think I'd want to take pictures of you or something?" She shook her head, smiling. "No, Mulder. I really don't think you want to be shot again." He grinned. "But I guess what I'm trying to say, Mulder, is that I don't get the overall sense from you that you take relationships seriously. Not romantic, physical ones, anyway." He seemed to consider this. "I think I'm offended," he finally said. "I mean, I don't really know how I feel about what you said, only because no one's ever said that to me before." He paused, and seeing that she was about to say something, hurried to add, "But maybe it's time that someone did say something to me about it." "Let me give you my feelings in a nutshell, Mulder. I'm angry at you for trivializing the way you deal with women as a whole. When you're working a case, the women you deal with fall into separate categories. If they're victims, you deal with them as female victims, not as women. If you encounter a female agent or local law enforcement officer, then you file them away in that pigeonhole, and you deal with them accordingly. Me? I'm your partner, your friend, and you deal with me that way. But women...just women...you have a problem with." She paused, sighed, and continued. "Maybe it was your mother. Maybe it was Phoebe. I'm not sure what the causation was, but the fact is, Mulder, when it comes to dealing with women on the intimate emotional terms I'd need you to, you're..." She didn't want to say it. "Immature," she finally finished. "And I can't handle that. I... the men that I want to be with...when I let myself think about it... the men I want to be with are mature. They know who they are. They have a deep respect for women...all women, in all walks of life. The relationship isn't a joke to them, isn't a source of humor. I mean, I like to laugh just as much as the next person, but I need a bedrock of seriousness, Mulder. Commitment. And not to me, but to the relationship." She thought about it and then added, "To the process, I suppose. Treating the process itself with respect." Mulder had a sudden mental image of Scully performing an autopsy. He saw the way she moved just so, her fingers describing precise little arcs as she sliced and diced. She proceeded the same way every time, starting with the head-to-toe physical examination, then moving inexorably closer to the middle, dissecting the body, extracting and examining internal organs, finally finishing up with the craniotomy and the gross physical examination of the brain. A ballet, he thought, a dance that has certain prescribed steps. Scully had been taught to do things just so, first as a child with a ramrod-straight Naval officer as a parent, and then again as a student, a student of both physics and medicine, disciplines that demanded orderly, algorithmic approaches to any problem. Differential diagnosis, he thought. Take the symptoms and then proceed in an orderly fashion to a diagnosis, discarding anything along the way that was not pertinent or relative. Hear hoofbeats? Think horses, not Zebras. He remembered the way she had been on certain cases in the past, cases that intersected with her professional training and personal experiences. Orderly. Mature. Professional. And now, she was telling him that in her life, in her romantic life, she needed the same thing. A logical progression from position A to B. No frivolity. Scully, he knew, valued the ability to be able to classify, quantify and qualify every single thing in her life. A place for everything, he mused, and everything in its place. "Rigid, but in a really wonderful way," he'd mentioned about her once. To a woman that fit the description that Scully had just provided. "Scully," he sighed. "Mulder, I'm not asking you to change. I'm not expecting it, even if you offered it. I'm just saying that...as much as I care about you as my friend, as my partner, and as the single most important person in my life, that I can't just jump into this relationship the way we both want. I can't." Mulder nodded, accepting her logic. At the very least, he thought, she's given me something to deal with, something tangible. Because now, he knew, now the question had become something else. She had just said that she didn't expect him to change. But she wouldn't resist it, either. If he managed to change, if he managed to find a way to deal with the women in his life, the women he always saw as having the potential to hurt him, like his mother, like Phoebe, and God help him, like Scully herself -- if he managed to find a way to deal with those women in a way that Scully found acceptable, she was telling him without words, signaling without actually coming out and saying it, that the issue of a relationship between them could be reopened. So, was he willing to change? Was he even willing to try? "Mulder, I've said my piece. I'm going back to bed." Scully got up and crossed to the door, her hand on the knob. Impulsively, she turned and went back to the bed, leaning down, her hand finding his face. "There is nothing particularly wrong with you, Mulder," she said softly. "I just need...more." He nodded, unable to meet her gaze. Tenderly, Scully kissed his forehead, ruffled his hair, and quickly returned to her room. She was asleep within minutes. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City The Next Afternoon Mark Dupree glanced at the words on the computer monitor. He had decided that the first one had to be easy. It had to be easy, but not too easy. It had to tell the reader that a superior mind was at work. A mind worthy of the battle that was to come, for Mark Dupree held no illusions about what the next few weeks and months would bring. A battle of wits between the NYPD and himself. He read the note again. First, the ELS code. 9125:126 Then, the NYPD booking number. Then, beneath that, the puzzle. "How many birthdays does the average man have?" A delicious puzzle. The kind to cause most cops to answer it automatically. An oft-quoted statistic, available on the health segment of most nightly national news broadcasts. But the answer they would automatically give would be wrong. Perfect. Dupree turned to the laser printer after clicking the small icon on the toolbar. He'd been wearing heavy winter gloves when he'd purchased the paper at Staples. He hadn't handled anything having to do with the printer without wearing latex examination gloves. The paper was as generic as possible, the font used was Times New Roman, 12 points. It came with the operating system. The same operating system that was used on 90% of the world's computers. The note was clean. As the jet-engine whine of the printer's engine spooling up filled Dupree's ears, he thought ahead to the rest of the day. Tommy Two Chins was waiting for him, waiting for Dupree and his destiny. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alexandria, Virginia Special Agent Fox Mulder unpacked his suitcase slowly, intending to get everything he could into the laundry as quickly as possible. He found two pairs of wadded-up socks at the bottom of the carry-on, and yanked them out. Underneath was a copy of this month's Playboy magazine, untouched since he'd covertly purchased it at an airport on the way to a long-forgotten case. The socks forgotten, he lifted the magazine out of the nylon bag and regarded it. A picture of airbrushed perfection stared back at him from the cover. He flipped it open, moving by habit to the centerfold, turning the magazine to let the page unfold. His eyes took in the picture. Hourglass figure, subtly enhanced by the pose the model had struck; one hand on her hip, the other held shoulder high as if about to wave at the photographer. Wearing a wisp of nothing, her smile wide and genuine as if to say, "You like what you see?" But she wasn't real. Not an object, but...not quite a person either. A symbol, maybe, Mulder thought. But of what? Ask yourself this, his mind announced. Would you want Scully to pose? For you? For all the men that read this magazine? Would you want sweaty-palmed teenagers poring over her picture, gasping as they touched themselves while they looked at her? No, he thought, of course not. So why was it OK for you to look at this woman? At all the women? They were all someone's daughter, perhaps a sister or an aunt or a cousin. Someone cared as much about them as you do about Scully. Mulder reached into the back pocket of his jeans and found his phone. Without looking, he hit the speed dial for Scully's cell. Two rings later, her warm, familiar voice. "Scully." "Scully, it's me." "What's up?" she asked. "I'm standing in my apartment, staring at the centerfold of a Playboy." Silence. Scully wondered why Mulder had called to tell her this. Not always the most sensitive of individuals, Mulder wasn't the type to call her just to torture her. Mulder realized what he'd just said and hurried to add, "I'm getting ready to throw this magazine out." "Mulder, I'm not asking-" "Scully, let me finish, please. It was..." He wondered if he should tell her where he'd found it. Honesty, he reminded himself. Honesty. "I...it was in my bag. I didn't read it in Portland. I bought it a while ago and completely forgot about it. I was unpacking to do laundry, and found it underneath some dirty socks. I just wanted to tell you that I opened it and looked at the centerfold, and...I think I understand a little more." Scully said nothing, letting her silence speak for her. "She's someone's sister, Scully. Someone's daughter. But not to me. Not before, anyway. She was just...a picture. A symbol." Scully remained silent. "I'm not there yet, Scully," Mulder said softly. "But I'm trying." "I know," she finally said. "Thank you." Without another word, Mulder disconnected the call. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Tommy Two Chins had an odd hobby, Dupree realized. He sat out in his back yard with a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes, scanning the trees. At first, Dupree had thought that the man was beyond paranoid, that he was looking for assassins in the trees. With a start, he'd realized that Two Chins was a birdwatcher, that he was relaxing. The straight razor, honed to a killing edge, rested in the flat of Dupree's palm as he slowly walked up the driveway. Surveillance had revealed that Mrs. Two Chins had left for the afternoon, possibly to go shopping at the malls, possibly to visit her friends. Tommy Two Chins was alone. There was a small chainlink fence separating the driveway from the backyard. Dupree stopped and studied the gate. He wondered how many years that fence had withstood the brutal New York winters. He decided the chances were pretty damn high that if he pushed it open, it'd squeak, giving Tony Two Chins more advance warning than Dupree was comfortable with. Without giving it another thought, Dupree mounted and cleared the short fence. He continued walking, turning the corner and finding Two Chins right where he expected: Sitting on his deck, binoculars plastered to his face, scanning the trees. Time slowed to a crawl for Dupree. The world once again slid into black and white, with only Two Chins standing out in colonized, stark relief against his background. Dupree changed his angle of attack only slightly, wanting to make sure one last time he was at the right house. There. Across his forehead, the letters crimson red, dripping with blood, as if the words had been carved into his forehead with the same razor that Dupree was only now slowly opening with his fingers was the word CHOSEN. Dupree faded back, moving even slower now, not wanting to push any air in front of him and give Two Chins a warning. He slid up behind the man. Closing his eyes, Dupree titled his own head at the sky, his left hand coming around, reaching for his target's forehead. Wait. Dupree froze, a confused frown on his face. He waited for his mind to speak to him, waited for direction. No. Use the other hand. With a grin, Dupree switched the razor to the other hand. He hunched his shoulders, once, twice, loosening the muscles. His right hand came down on the man's forehead, hard, pushing the head back, revealing the fat, pulsing arteries in the man's neck. @ A single swipe was all it took. Dupree felt the metal cutting into Tommy's skin, felt the flesh separating under the pressure of his fingers. A momentary moment of resistance as the sharp edge sliced through the right carotid artery, and then it was easy sailing, the blade cleaving the skin. # Tommy dropped the binoculars with a gasped "awk!" as his hands went to his throat. Tommy felt his lifeblood oozing and then spurting between his fingers. He twisted in the seat, wanting to see the face of his murderer. Dupree adroitly sidestepped, moving out of the spray. Tommy didn't know the face of the man who had just sliced his throat. Why? his eyes asked. "You were Chosen," Mark Dupree explained. "It's nothing personal," he added, although it was. Secure in the knowledge that when Tommy Two Chins got to where he was going it would all be explained to him, Dupree waited for him to die. It took only moments, really. Tommy stood up and took one, two lurching steps towards the house. Dupree's arm flashed out, the sleeve of his jacket catching Tommy in the face. Tommy landed flat on his ass and died. Dupree glanced around, his eyes and ears searching for any sound, any indication that the act had been witnessed. There was none. Time to get to work, Dupree thought with glee. Clutching the razor in his gloved hand, Mark Dupree leaned over the corpse of Tommy Two Chins and began. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland Dana Scully sat on her blue and white striped couch and stared at the television. TCI of Maryland had been running a special for the entire month; try out any pay-per-view or premium channel at half price, no questions asked. Just use your remote to buy the service you want, and you'll be billed. The TV was playing a heavily-edited adult movie on the Spice! channel. If Mulder can make the effort, Scully remembered thinking, then so can I. Those words seemed hollow now as she watched the movie. Nameless, faceless bodies, actresses with names that defied comedic description, actors endowed so far beyond the norm as to become cartoonish writhed on the screen in impossible, spine- stretching, eye-popping combinations. A close-up appeared of an actress as she pretended to reach for orgasm, her partner moving above her. She has dead eyes, Scully thought. Lifeless. How could Mulder...watch this? What was the attraction? Middle ground was a concept that was very important to Dana Scully. She had a rule about relationships, a rule she realized she'd never shared with Mulder, at least not vocally. She called it the "Two C's Rule." Compromise & Communication. If you adhered to both concepts, then any relationship, be it business, personal, familial or romantic, had a better than average chance of working. Could she compromise? Should she? Shaking her head, Scully continued to watch the movie. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Angela Conners, who had been born Ann-Marie Ferucci, pulled her Cadillac Cetara into her driveway and shut off the engine. She closed her eyes and listened to the soft sound of the engine ticking as it cooled. Queens wasn't so bad, she told herself. There was culture, food, shopping. Sure, none of her friends from California were here, and most of them thought she had been killed by the vengeful employers of her husband, but Queens wasn't so bad. It wasn't California, but it also wasn't traveling hundreds of miles every weekend to go visit Tony in some shithole federal pen. All in all, he'd made a good deal. They had a house, they had nice cars, they had money to spend on nice things. Queens wasn't so bad, she repeated. Getting out of the car, the woman who had been renamed Angela Conners by a clerk in the WITSEC program she'd never met grabbed her packages and headed up the walk to the front door. After letting herself in, shutting and locking the door behind her, Angela went looking for her husband. She glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the hallway as she passed it. Judging by the time of day, Tony would be in the back yard, those damn binoculars plastered to his face, looking for his birds. Or, "boids," as he called them. Funny man, she thought, not unkindly. Stepping into the kitchen, Angela peered through the sliding glass door. The deck was empty. Curious, she leaned forward a little, wondering if Tony was out in the yard, trying to get a better angle on some "boid" that he'd spotted. Angela froze. Something was not right. Red. She glanced down and saw a puddle of red just at the edge of her vision. Taking another step towards the glass, Angela craned her neck and tried to see what the puddle was. When she saw, she began to scream. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Major Case Squad One Police Plaza Alex Cahill was nose-deep in monthly manpower reports when the portable radio perched on her credenza began to squawk. Tuned to the Citywide Special Operations Division (SOD) frequency, Alex could hear jobs being assigned to the six or seven Citywide SOD units."Mike Six, on the air, K," the dispatcher's voice called. Any MCS supervisor on the air, please respond. "Central, Mike Six," Alex said. "Mike Six, in the confines of the 1-13 precient, Queens Homicide Task Force requests MCS response for an 89 via radio." Alex frowned. "Central, show Mike Six in on that." "Ten-Four Mike Six." Alex twisted the frequency control knob on the radio to the SOD(South) Frequency. "Mike Six, on the air," she called. "Mike Five," Daryl came back. "Mike Three," Sam came back. "Three, Five, in the confines of the 1-13, we have an 89 from QHTF. I'm enroute. Meet me there, K?" "Mike Five, Ten-Four," Daryl called. "Mike Three, Ten-Four," Sam added. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= En Route To Conners Residence As Alex was crossing the TriBorough Bridge into Queens, she heard Sam come up on the radio. "Central, Mike Three, K?" "Go, Mike Three." "Show us sixty-two at the scene. Five and three in on that." "Ten-Four, Three." Alex peered through the windshield at the traffic ahead, still amazed that not many people were trying to edge to the curb, despite the fact that she had the red bubble-light on the dash going full blast, as well as the red and blue alternating grill lights, and the wig-wag highbeams, and the car's siren. Four minutes later, Cross was up on the air again. "Central, Mike Three, K?" "Go, Mike Three." "Ah, can you see if Mike Seven is up?" Mike Seven, also known as Pamela Renyolds, was one of the two female detectives First Grade assigned to the squad. About forty seconds passed before Alex heard Pamela's voice. "Mike Seven, Mike Three." "Three. Seven, we need you in on this job in the 1-13. Can you respond forthwith?" "Ten-four, Three. Central, show me enroute and in on that Queens job." "Ten-four, Seven. Mike Six, on the air?" "Six," Alex answered. "You catch all that, Captain?" "Ten-four, Central." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Conners Residence Alex parked her Caprice Classic at the curb and got out, her shield swinging from a chain around her neck. She saw both Daryl's and Sam's cars parked up the block a stretch. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off a driveway and the walkway leading up to a two- story, brick-faced row house. Must be the place, Alex thought. She smiled at the uniform guarding the scene and ducked under the tape. Another patrolman was guarding the front door. "Cahill, Major Cases," she said to him, and he dutifully entered her name into the record of every person that entered or left the crime scene. "ME here yet?" Alex asked. The cop shook his head. "CSU, HTF and your guys," he said. Alex nodded. Good. Crime Scene was here. She followed the activity outside and found Detectives First Grade Daryl Hicks and Sam Cross working the scene. Two disgruntled- looking Queens Homicide Task Force detectives stood on the corner of the deck, talking to themselves. Alex glanced down at the body and then quickly averted her gaze. The victim, at this time unknown to her, had been worked over with a knife. Extremely worked over, Alex thought. In addition to the rage cuts she was growing used to seeing, her half-second glance seemed to confirm her suspicion that the man's eyes had been cut out. "What's up?" Alex asked, keeping her gaze away from the body. "CofD sent a teletype to all Task Forces and PDU's this morning about homicides that match a specific pattern," Sam started. "These two guys caught this one off the wife, who came home and found him this way, discovered the note and phoned it in to Dispatch." "Note?" Sam nodded, standing, holding her the clear glassine EVIDENCE envelope. "Yup...with something new." "What?" "Two new things, actually," Cross said as Alex turned the envelope over in her hands, tilting it so she could read it. "An NYPD booking number, and...well, you can see." "How many birthdays does the average man have?" Alex read. "Seventy-two?" Daryl offered. Alex shook her head. "No. One." Cross and Hicks shared a smile. "Told you," Cross said, holding out his hand. With a good-natured grumble, Hicks handed his partner a five dollar bill. "So what does it mean?" Cross wanted to know. Shrugging, Alex handed Cross back the bag. "Fuck if I know, Sam. BCI come back with a name off the booking number?" Cross nodded. "Thomas Montoya, arrested a long-ass time ago on a bogus weapons charge. He walked, moved to the coast. He was mobbed up a little, but that's the last I've heard. I've got Intelligence reaching out to the US Attorney's office in California over this guy." "Well, I was going to ask if you liked him for another in our serial job, but obviously, that's moot. The note tears it." "Plus the fact that his driver's license, social security cards and every other piece of ID or paper that I can find in the house has this guy being a Conner and not a Montoya. WITSEC all the way." Alex sighed, nodding. "Shit. Where are those two feds? The tree guy?" "Evergreen," Sam corrected. "They're down at One Federal Plaza fighting the good fight to get a list of all WITSEC's here in the city." "Call 'em. Find out everything about our guest." She paused. "Where's the wife?" "Upstairs with Pam," Sam said. "She'll cover that." Alex nodded; Sam was right. Detective Pam Renyolds would get every single bit of information out of the wife, and make the wife glad she did it. Pam had a gift with witnesses, especially witnesses that had seen violence up-close and personal. "Ok, you guys know the drill. You don't need me peering over your shoulder. Anything else you need from me?" Cross thought about it. "Any brass outside?" Alex shook her head. "Central was smart. They didn't put it up on the air that this was about the CofD's teletype. So we don't have any gawkers." Cross grinned. "We have a problem," Daryl announced, standing. "What?" Alex asked. "The doer on this job is left-handed. The other two jobs were both primarily right-handed." "Great," Alex muttered. "He's getting clever. Just what I fucking need." She sighed. "I'm heading back to the house. Call me if you need anything." "What're you gonna do?" Sam asked. "Call the FBI," Alex said. "This mutt just went from being an annoyance to being a liability. I want some fallback in case this guy goes on a tear that we can't stop." Cross looked hurt. Alex glanced over at Hicks, and then at the two Queens detectives. "Listen to me," she said softly, trying hard not to be overheard, "sometimes being a cop at the level we are demands that we play bullshit political games. I don't want us having to explain why we can't catch this fucker if I can blame the FBI instead." Sam nodded. "Isn't your contact at the FBI a friend?" Alex nodded. "But not her partner, and he's the profiler." Chapter 12 +=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland The Next Day Special Agent Dana Scully woke to greet her first of three days off with a groan and a shiver. She had forgotten to turn the heat up before going to bed, and the apartment was more than a little chilly. Swinging her legs out of bed, she padded into the hallway and gave the thermostat a quick, angry twist. Standing in the kitchen while waiting for the Mr. Java to fill the pot, Scully yawned and palmed both her eyes, wondering why she still felt so tired. The clock on the coffeemaker confirmed that she had slept for almost ten hours. So why do I feel like something the cat dragged in? Scully wondered, although a part of her knew why. Mulder. She'd slept fitfully, tossing and turning most of the night, her thoughts on her partner and his problem. No, not problem, Dana, she thought. That's judgmental. It sounds accusatory. Like there's something wrong with it. Something dirty. Which wasn't true... Exactly. Opening the refrigerator, Scully spied some old Chinese food, three white cardboard boxes cheerfully perched on the top shelf. Just the thing, she decided, for breakfast on a day off. Grabbing one of them, she turned and pulled the microwave door open, placing the box inside. With a flick of the wrist, Scully closed the door and twisted the dial. Her camera was sitting on top of the microwave. Frowning, Scully picked up. And then she remembered. She remembered that night. The pizza, the beer, the laughing and talking. Feeling so close to Mulder it was as if she had always known him. The feeling was almost beyond her grasp now. She could remember having the feeling, but for the life of her, Scully couldn't remember the feeling itself. That comfort level had vanished. Depressed, Scully put the camera back on top of the microwave and moved to the phone. "Psych Services," the voice answered. "This is Dana Scully. I was wondering if Dr. Larkin has a free session today?" "Just a moment, Agent Scully," the secretary asked. "Yes, as a matter of fact, she had a cancellation at ten. Will that be all right?" Scully glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker again. It would be close, but she could make it. "Yes, that's perfect. Thank you." "Of course, Agent Scully." Taking a cup of coffee in the bedroom, Scully quickly drained half of it and then dashed into the shower. She had to talk to someone about this, and she sure as hell couldn't talk to Mulder. Likewise her mother. Just the thought of bringing this particular topic up with her mother made Scully shudder. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree purchased all five newspapers again, and once again he purchased them from five different locations. Collecting them all, he drove back to his house and crept down into the basement, eager to read what had been written about his newest accomplishment. The murder had made the second page of the three tabloids. The _News_ made mention that the murderer had used a razor, and had severely cut and stabbed the victim. The _Post_ had the ubiquitous picture of the Medical Examiner's Office staff loading the gurney into the van. A Detective Cross had been interviewed, but he had referred all questions to the Public Information Office at One Police Plaza. Cross. Dupree frowned. He swung over to one of his computers and booted it, signing on to a privileged account. He ran the name and read what came back. Samuel Cross. Detective First Grade. Seventeen years on the job, commendations out the wazoo. Currently assigned... Citywide Major Cases Squad. With a flush of pride, Dupree realized they were finally taking him seriously. He ran a quick cross-check on Cross, finding out that his partner of record was one Daryl Hicks. Dupree ran him too, and was equally impressed with the Georgia native's record on the job. Either Hicks or Cross was listed as the primary detective on the three murders. Perfect. Now he had a name. On a whim, Dupree moved to another machine, starting it and waiting for the OS to load. He entered Cross' name and his own into the software and began the search, returning his attention to the newspapers. He was almost sure that the name "Cross" was going to appear in the system, but was curious to see in exactly which passage their names intersected. The _Times_ had a more sedate piece about the murder, noting only that the wife had found the body and that public identification was being withheld at police request until other family members could be notified. No mention had been made of the fact that Montoya's eyes had been cut out. No mention, of course, had been made of the note. Time to up the ante, Dupree thought. Time to turn the heat up just a little. He booted a third PC and signed onto one of the national Internet Service Providers. He had a credit card that was clean, according to the skel that had sold it to him. Guaranteed for at least 30 days, the man had said. That was 19 days ago. Dupree quickly created an account, choosing the handle MrKnife. He thought that was cute enough. Then, taking a moment to crack his knuckles, Dupree composed an email: TO: editor@nyt.com FROM: MrKnife RE: Your Story on the Conners Murder Dear Sir, As usual, the police aren't telling you everything. First, ask yourself these questions, and then you may want to ask the police: 1. Why is the Major Cases Squad working three similar murders? Detectives Cross and Hicks are also working the murders of Leon King and Jack Wagner, AKA Jack Nelson. 2. Ask them how many birthdays the average man has. 3. Ask them why Mr. Conners (who was born Tony Montoya,) had his eyes cut out. Sincerely, MrKnife Dupree checked the letter over one last time and then clicked SEND. A few moments later, he cancelled the account and signed off. He found the credit card the skel had sold him and quickly cut it up, gathering the fragments into a sandwich bag. He'd dispose of them later. Dupree was pleased with himself. This would drive the cops nuts. The New York Times would have a reporter down at One Police Plaza by the end of the day, and hard questions were sure to be asked. Once it was made public that he, Mark Dupree, was stalking the city, the coverage would begin to reflect the panic that the city _should_ be feeling. The computer running the search beeped. Swinging back, Dupree saw that, indeed, the name Cross and Dupree did intersect. Well, taken with a small liberty, they did. The passage was not one that Dupree knew, and he took a moment to read it. Perfect, he thought. He selected a portion of the text, marked it, and then opened a new version, a different translation of the same text. He found the identical section, highlighted, and then copied it to a separate file. He would mail that to Cross after the next cleansing. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= FBI Headquarters J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Psychological Services Bureau 9:58am Scully pushed her way into the PsychServices Bureau outer office and smiled at the receptionist. "Special Agent Scully, go right in. Dr. Larkin is expecting you," the receptionist said with a smile. Scully nodded her thanks and continued walking into Dr. Larkin's inner office. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza New York City Press Room Lieutenant Gloria Barrington glanced at her notes and cleared her throat. The daughter, wife and sister of cops, her career had been determined almost from the moment of conception. She'd applied to the NYPD almost the moment she'd graduated from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, had passed the entrance exam on the first try, and had graduated sixth in her Academy class. A brief tour as a patrolwoman in Staten Island had preceded her transfer to the Public Morals squad (what other departments called the Vice Squad,) where she spent the next three years working hooker-decoy. Promotion to Sergeant had come right on schedule. An opening in the PIO (Public Information Office) at One Police Plaza had come along at the same time as the first Lieutenant's test that she was eligible to take. She passed that with flying colors (placing ninth on the list overall,) and was promoted and transferred on the same teletype. Now, as the Press Briefing Officer (Noon) for the NYPD, Gloria's day was spent collecting information from every precinct and unit in the Department and then briefing the press on important or high-profile cases. Her title implied that she gave the briefing at noon, but the truth of the matter was that it was given at 10:00 am so that the six local newscasts that occurred at noon would have fodder for the public. She began her daily statement, highlighting some of the drug warrants that had been served by the joint FBI-NYPD Violent Crimes Task Force in conjunction with the Emergency Services Unit. A quick reminder that the Aviation Unit would be having an open house at Floyd Bennett Field later in the month, and a small segment about the newly formed NYPD Bike Squad that was scheduled to begin patrolling Central Park once the spring rolled around, and she was finished. "Questions?" she asked, feeling the first rumble of anticipation in her gut. This was the fun part, she knew. The part where anything could happen. It was Gloria's job to make sure that the press kept an as favorable opinion of the NYPD as possible. And with the New York press, that was a challenge. They had sources and snitches in places that Gloria could only begin to imagine, and coupled with their annoying habit of asking the most pointed, embarrassing questions possible, keeping a straight face and answering the question without outright lying was a formidable task indeed, a challenge that Gloria relished. The crime beat reporter for the Times was on his feet in a flash. "Loo," he said, using the time-honored nickname for all NYPD Lieutenants, "is it true that a serial killer is stalking the city?" The fact that the _Times_ reporter would ask such a loaded question startled and shocked Gloria. But not so much as the question itself. "Excuse me?" she asked. "I have it on good authority that the Major Cases Squad is tracking a serial killer. His latest victim was Mr. Conners, who my source tells me is actually named Tony Montoya. The Times has uncovered that a Mr. Tony Montoya was a California mobster who vanished four years ago. Do you have any comment, Loo?" "Not at this time," Gloria answered quickly, flushing in anger. If MCS was working a serial job, she should have been told. If only to prepare her for these kinds of questions. "Follow-up," the Times reporter continued. "Is it true that Mr. Conners' eyes were cut out?" "Uh-" Gloria faltered. "I cannot comment on the particulars of an ongoing investigation, Gill. You know that." "I have one final question, Loo. How many birthdays does the average man have?" Gloria shrugged, not sure what the reporter meant. "Seventy-two?" she asked. Satisfied, for the moment, the Times reporter sat down. A reporter from Newsday stood up and started asking about increased crack arrests in Queens, and Gloria gladly switched topics, making a mental note to have her boss, Deputy Inspector Hodges, call the CofD and find out what the hell was going on with Major Cases. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Washington, DC "So," Dr. Larkin said, "what brings you here?" My car, Scully thought, and grinned. "I'm not sure. I don't know if you heard, but my partner and I are no longer working on the X- Files." "Oh?" "We were transferred to ISU. We're one of the Response Teams." Larkin nodded. "I see. A feather in your cap, so to speak." Scully smiled. Her own exact words. "Yes." Larkin paused. "You don't seem overly pleased by my statement." Scully shrugged. "It's difficult, draining work, as I'm sure you know." Larkin nodded, saying nothing, trying to draw Scully out. The petite agent remained silent, so Larkin tried again. "So why did you want to see me, Dana?" Scully shrugged. "I'm not quite sure. I'm...things have been changing in my life recently, and I'm not sure I like where the changes are taking me." Larkin nodded. "Ok...what changed?" Scully sighed. "It's not easy to talk about. I know that you're under a Bureau mandate to report certain...things-" "Only if I believe the situation contributes to a safety hazard for you, your partner, or someone else...or it's a security risk." Larkin paused. "Is that the case?" Scully smirked. "Depends on what you mean by security risk, I guess. Is falling in love with your partner such a risk?" Her head bobbing up and down twice slowly, her lips pursed, Larkin considered her next words. "I see," she finally said. Scully sighed. "I...I wish I could rephrase that. I'm not in love with my partner. At least, I don't think I am." Larkin nodded again. "But...?" "I think I might be _falling_ in love with him, and that can't happen." Larkin crossed her legs, trying to find a comfortable position. Her patient might or might not have been aware of it, but the status of hers and Mulder's relationship was the topic of more than a little speculation around the Bureau. And Dr. Larkin, having heard nothing specifically about such things in session, had participated in more than one discussion along that front. No more, she reminded herself. That's betraying the doctor-client privilege. "Why can't it happen?" Scully's eyes widened. "How can you ask that?" "Does he make you happy?" "At times," Scully conceded. "But that's not the point. My happiness is not at issue here." Larkin frowned. "Your happiness isn't important?" Scully shook her head. "That's not what I said, Doctor. I said the fact that Mulder might or might not make me happy is not at issue here. You're putting words in my mouth." "I certainly didn't intend to do that," Larkin said. "And that's not what you said." "It's what I meant," Scully insisted. Larkin nodded. "That's a horse of a different color, then, isn't it?" "I suppose," Scully admitted. "Fine. So you're falling...excuse me, you think you might be falling in love with your partner. Agent...Mulder, right?" Scully nodded, rolling her neck. "Please, Dr. Larkin, don't insult my intelligence. I know you know who my partner is. Half the Bureau knows who my partner is, and speculates on the state of our relationship." Well, Larkin thought, that settles _that_. "It was a technique," Larkin admitted. "A technique to get you to talk about him. By appearing as if I didn't know, I was hoping to encourage you to expound on him. And since your feelings for him are the reason you came here today, I expected that your feelings towards him would have been what you talked about." She paused. "I apologize for the technique. It won't happen again." Scully nodded, accepting the apology. "Forget it," she said. "I'm just touchy about Mulder, I guess." "Do you know why that is?" "Because for five years, I've always been the half of this whole. Mulder and I against the world. You remember the other times I've been here. You know how important his friendship and support have been to me in the past. And now it's changing. It's all changing. I don't know where it's going, or where I want it to go, or what I'll do when it gets wherever it _is_ going." Larkin nodded again. "I see. Has there been any...contact?" Scully cocked her head. "Why would you ask that?" Larkin shrugged. "Because, more often than you'd expect, male- female partnerships have an...incident involving sexual contact. Especially headquarters partnerships that travel a great deal on hard cases. VICAP, a long time ago, tried to create _only_ male-female partnerships, thinking that the generally accepted ying and yang of the male-female dynamic would work better on the majority of cases. We found that...as the stress level builds, as the time for personal, emotional and physical release dwindled as caseloads rose, that the male-female partners reported a much higher than average contact rate. We traced that rate not to love or passion, but simple human need. The need, one might say, to reconnect with humanity after having to witness the things those people did. The reason I asked was to establish if perhaps this was the case -- one of you mistaking simple human need for love." Scully listened to Larkin's speech with a blank expression on her face. The woman meant well, Scully knew, but she didn't have a clue about her and Mulder. "No," Scully said. "No contact, aside from a kiss here and there." "Is your partner participating? Encouraging it?" Scully shrugged. "We had sort of a fight yesterday and the day before. He...I'm sure that he wants the relationship to continue and progress, but...I'm not sure I can give that to him. Not that I don't want to." "Is your professionalism a problem for him?" "No," Scully said truthfully. "Never. It's my problem, doctor. A problem my partner has, so to speak, that's affecting my ability to show him my feelings." She hesitated. "No, that's not exactly right either. It's an issue I have with some of...his activities that's preventing me from getting to the comfort level I need to continue." "Trust?" "In most senses of that word, absolutely not. I trust Mulder with my life, and I always will. I trust him with our partnership, as far as work goes. I just can't trust him with my heart right now." Larkin made a note on her pad. "I see. Has he done something to betray that trust?" "I'm not sure I understand the question," Scully admitted. "How can I say this ... from what you've told me, the relationship has been progressing from a mere partnership to something...more?" Mere, Scully thought. Yeah, right. "First off, nothing about my partnership with Mulder could ever be considered `mere.' Secondly, no, not really." "What actions of his are bothering you?" Scully took a deep breath. "He masturbates," she said softly. "Most men do," Larkin pointed out. "Has he masturbated in front of you?" "God, no!" Scully exploded. "How could you _ask_ such a thing?" "Er...it's not an uncommon safe-sex alternative," she said. "I'm aware of that, Doctor. But no, he has not...masturbated in front of me." "So how do you know he does?" Larkin asked reasonably. "We have had long discussions on the topic," Scully explained slowly. "Let me be clear: The fact that he masturbates is not abhorrent to me. The fact of what he uses as fuel for his fantasies is what's giving me problems." "You?" Larkin asked. Scully nodded. "I guess I don't have to point out the obvious point that some women would find that flattering." Scully shrugged. She went on to tell Larkin about the movies and the attempt in Portland to show her his favorite film, and how she had reacted. Larkin listened and nodded, asking questions from time to time, and making notes on her pad. When Scully had finished, Dr. Larkin leaned back and sighed. "You do have a problem, Dr. Scully." Scully nodded. "I know." "What you two need is time apart." Seeing the look on Scully's face, Larkin held up a hand. "Not a transfer, not a reassignment. Just some time apart. A few days, maybe a week. Not much more than that." "What will that accomplish?" Scully wanted to know. "Perspective," Larkin answered. "I think you need time to process all the things he's told you without the constant pressure of his presence or your partnership." Scully considered this. "I'm not sure I agree with you, but I'll see what I can do." Larkin hesitated before asking, "Do you want me to talk to Assistant Director Skinner?" Scully shook her head. "No. I'm on my way up there right now, as a matter of fact." But I have no intention of talking to him about this, she thought. If Skinner finds out what I just told you, he'll skin Mulder alive, no pun intended. "Very well. Please, let me know what happens." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Office of AD Walter S. Skinner "Scully, come in," Skinner said, offering one of his rare grimace- smiles. "How are things over at ISU?" "Another solve, sir, although not as quickly as we would have liked, I'm afraid." "Yes," Skinner said, nodding. "I heard. I heard you did the Bureau proud in that meatlocker." Scully ignored the praise and took one of the two seats in front of Skinner's desk without asking. If ever asked privately, Scully would admit that she felt much more comfortable with Skinner than Mulder ever could. She also had the sneaking suspicion that if Skinner were asked, he would grudgingly admit that she was his favorite of the two agents. When Mulder wasn't around, the tension that was usually brewing between them vanished. "Sir, I was wondering about the status of Agent Mulder and I returning to the X-Files division." Skinner nodded, retaking his seat. "I was wondering when you were going to get around to that." He paused. "How's agent Mulder holding up?" "Mulder is...experiencing some problems, sir. The concerns that he expressed when you originally proposed the transfer have borne fruit. As Agent Mulder suspected, we were moved from cold cases to the Response Team. He's having to actively profile again. This is his fourth case in less than three weeks, and although they've all turned out well overall, I'm..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. "Concerned?" Skinner prompted. Scully shrugged. "I don't want to cause Agent Mulder any problems, sir." "Scully...Dana...right now, we're two old friends having a discussion about a third. For the time being, Agent Mulder doesn't report to me, so any concerns you voice about him will remain in confidence." Old friends? Scully thought. "Well, sir...the pressure is starting to get to him, I think. I also think that it would be a good idea if he and I spent some time apart for a few days." Skinner frowned. "Is there something I should know about?" Scully debated how much to tell her old boss, a man she hoped would be both her boss and Mulder's boss sometime soon. The exact extent and nature of the problem with Mulder was, of course, out of the question. So then, how much to tell? "Mulder tends to lash out at the people closest to him when he's in this state," Scully started slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I'm aware that he's the only partner I've ever had, and so for me to say that he's the best partner I've ever had would by hyperbole, but the fact remains that I can't imagine having a better partner, sir. And I would like to keep that partnership viable. And to do that, sir, I think I need to spend some time apart from Agent Mulder, just as he needs time away from me." "Does Mulder feel the same way you do?" Skinner asked. "I have no idea, sir," Scully answered honestly. "But I implore you to give this-" "Scully," Skinner gently reminded her. "Don't you think you should be bringing this up with Tony Littleton?" "Yes, sir," Scully said. "But I was hoping that if it came to it, I could indicate to Special Agent-in-Charge Littleton that you thought my suggestion was a good idea." Skinner tried to hide another smile. Mulder had once mentioned to him that, despite her appearance, Scully was a consummate political operator. Mulder's observation had just been proven correct. In spades. "Of course, Agent Scully. By all means. If your SAC gives you trouble, please have him contact me. I'll be more than happy to give him my...input." Which means if Littleton gives you any shit, Scully thought, you'll break a foot off in his ass. "Thank you, sir." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Office of The Chief of Detectives New York Police Department One Police Plaza 11:30am "Captain Cahill to see the Chief," Alex said. The administrative Lieutenant nodded at her, hooking a thumb towards the inner door. "Go right in," he said. Alex entered the office and closed the doors behind her, leaning on them for a moment. Chief Zolinski glared at her from his desk. "What the hell is going on?" "From what I can gather, sir, the New York Times received an email from someone calling themselves MrKnife. In the email, he provided details about the crime scene that only the police, the ME's office or the killer would be aware of." "Such as?" "He referred to the contents in the note, and the fact that the victim had his eyes removed by straight razor." Zolinski nodded. "God help me," he moaned. "Email! What the hell is police work coming to?" "I've got the DA's office working on a subpoena for the Internet Service Provider. We'll have the account information within the hour, I think." "Where are they?" "Eugene, Oregon." "So how the hell-" "Fourteenth Amendment, sir. Good faith clause. I have a buddy in the Sheriff's office out there who has agreed to serve the warrant. The local DA has said that he'll encourage the ISP to honor the warrant." "Good," Zolinski nodded. "So we'll have the bastard by end of business?" "No," Alex said, moving to sit down. She indicated the chair with a hand and a pair of raised eyebrows. "Sit," Zolinski said, reaching into a massive humidor on his desk. "I'd offer you one but--," he said. Alex waved her hand. "Well, sir, to answer your question, I don't think we'll be effecting an arrest any time soon. The ISP already forwarded us the credit card number. I had Intel reach out to the credit card company. They gave us the name of the cardholder. Hicks and Cross just finished the interview with him. He's a travelling salesman who has airtight alibis for all three murders, plus the fact that he couldn't produce the card. It was stolen, sir." "Any tracks on the card?" Alex shook her head. "We ran the account. The last charge was for the account; before that, a dinner that the salesmen produced the receipt for, six days before the first murder. He's clean." "Shit!" Zolinski said. "Accomplice?" "Doubtful," Alex admitted, "But Cross and Hicks are following it up just to be sure. We don't like this guy for much more than being a poor dupe, sir." "Do you like anyone?" Zolinski asked. "Not right now, sir. No suspects. Investigation continues." Zolinski pounded his desk. "What the fuck am I supposed to tell the press? The DPC for Public Affairs is crawling down my throat!" The Deputy Police Commissioner for Public Affairs, an ex-television reporter that had been hand-picked by the current mayor to massage the press, loved to see his own name in print and on television. Due to the odd nature of the NYPD, the DPC was also a sworn officer, complete with a shield and pistol, and without a single day's training at the police academy, was known to show up at big jobs, like multi-location drug hits, waving his pistol and demanding that the on-scene commanders listen to him. Only the fact that the public's perception and opinion of the NYPD was at an all-time high saved the man from being thrown out on his ass. "Sir," Alex said, "I do have a suggestion. I think we need to get the FBI ISU involved." Zolinski glowered at his MCS commanding officer. "Alex, for someone that's bucking for Deputy Inspector, that's an incredibly stupid thing to say." "Sir," Alex said, not in the least offended, "please let me explain." "Proceed." "Sir, I don't want the job to end up with egg on it's face. We have psychologists on staff, but it's just not the same as ISU. Those people deal with this shit on an almost daily basis. If the shit hits the fan around here, I'd like to be able to stand up at a press conference and say that the NYPD has secured the help of the world- famous ISU, the FBI division that is consulted by police agencies the world over in the identification, tracking and apprehension of violent serial criminals...and even they couldn't help." Zolinski rubbed his chin considering. "You'd burn yourself with the Bureau for all time," he observe dryly. "If you hung them out to dry like that." "I know," Alex nodded. "But..." "You want Deputy Inspector that bad?" "No," Alex said, shaking her head. "Not at all. I mean, sure, I want the promotion, but that's not what this is about. This asshole is making the job look bad. When it starts to leak that we're chasing our dicks here..." Zolinski nodded again, accepting her logic. "Well, how bad do you want that promotion, Alex?" She shrugged. "I don't know. How bad is bad?" "Let me ask you what you think of the DPC for Public Affairs?" Alex shrugged. "He's doing his job the best way he knows how." "Interesting that you would give such a politically correct answer, Captain. Because that same DPC suggested to the mayor this morning that a ranking officer be given temporary command of the Special Violent Homicide Task Force." "The...what?" Alex asked, dreading the answer. "The SVHTF," Zolsinki replied dryly. "Doesn't make for a very good acronym, does it? DPC Brooks wanted to create the Task Force and have it commanded by an Assistant Chief, or at the very least, by a full Inspector." Alex felt her stomach flip-flop. "However," Zolinski continued, "the mayor expressed his continued belief that the Citywide Major Cases Squad could handle the investigation, and even went so far as to indicate that he would rather the investigation be handled by street-level cops, rather than the brass." Alex saw a ray of hope and reached for it. "So that means...?" "DPC Brooks insisted that a lowly Captain was not enough to satisfy the public's need to make sure that the job was paying adequate attention to this case. So...the mayor and the DPC settled on the fact that a Deputy Inspector would command the Major Cases Squad." Alex sat back, deflated. "Who's taking command, sir?" Maybe, Alex hoped, she would be allowed to stay on, maybe become the squad's whip. Zolinski frowned. "I don't understand, Alex. Did I say anything about a new commanding officer?" "But you just said-" Alex began, and then stopped, her eyes widening. "You mean...?" "Congratulations, Deputy Inspector Cahill," Zolinski said. He reached into a desk drawer and found a small black leather folder. He tossed it across the desk at her. Alex reached over and took it, opening it in her lap. The blue and gold-enameled shield of a NYPD Deputy Inspector stared back at her. "Go down to Human Resources and have your ID card updated. If they give you shit, let me know. I'll take care of it." "Yes...sir," Alex said. "Thank you, sir." "Don't get too excited, Inspector," Zolinski said. "Remember, the mayor can bust that pretty little ass of your back to a Captaincy in a matter of seconds. I really don't think you'd like to spend the rest of your career commanding the tow trucks in Traffic or a precient in Staten Island, would you?" "Sir?" "The rank is permanent, Alex. This isn't some press stunt. But the mayor asked me to communicate to you the importance of getting this fucker, and getting him fast. I know that goes without saying, but the fact of the matter is -- if you don't get him soon, there will be sacrifices to be made. And the first neck on the block will be the CO of the unit that failed to catch him." "Sir...about that FBI matter." "Consider it done, Inspector." "Sir, there's more. I'd like you to call and request a specific team." Zolinski made a come-on gesture with his hand. "I would ask that you request Special Agent Dana Scully and her partner. I went to the FBI Academy with her. I know her. I trust her." Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, Alex thought to herself. "Very well," Zolinski said. "Dismissed, Inspector. Go get this bastard." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Office of Special Agent in Charge Tony Littleton Investigative Support Unit Marine Barracks Quantico Quantico, Virginia Tony Littleton was poring over personnel reports. He hated this part of the job more than anything in the world. It was common knowledge in the unit that the reason he had aspired to command it was that he had no talent for the work they did. So how, he wondered, was he expected to evaluate the work of those that did what he could not? The ringing phone saved him from this delimma. "ISU, Littleton," he said. "Mr. Littleton, this is Chief of Detectives Zolinski, New York Police Department. I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time." Tony frowned. "How did you get this number?" "Your predecessor gave it to me many years ago, sir." "I see. What can the FBI do for the NYPD?" "I need your Agent Scully and her partner in New York as soon as possible, sir. We have a bit of a mess up here." Quickly, but omitting no details, Zolinski brought Littleton up to date. "I agree you need ISU assistance," Littleton said excitedly, realizing that if Mulder and Scully pulled this one off, that would be five cases in less than four weeks. The press would be ecstatic. So would the Hoover building. And Congress. "I'll get them up there just as soon as I can, sir," Littleton promised. "Oh, before I forget...if you don't mind my asking, how did you hear about my two favorite agents?" Zolinski, seated behind his desk at One Police Plaza, had a built- in, time-honed bullshit detector. One did not become the Chief of Detectives of the NYPD without being able to spot a weasel at two hundred yards. Without being able to explain exactly why, Chief Zolinski was aware that he did not like the ISU SAC. "One of my unit commanders went through the FBI Academy, sir. She comes highly recommended." "I see. They'll be up shortly. I'll have Agent Scully contact your commander with the arrival information." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully's phone chirped just as she was twisting the key in her front door. Reaching into her pocket, she found the phone and lifted it to her ear. "Scully." "Tony, Scully. Know where your partner is?" "Not my turn to watch him," Scully said, hoping her teasing tone belied her sudden uneasiness. The last time Littleton had sounded this chipper, they'd ended up in Chicago. A lifetime ago, it seemed. "Listen, I know this is short notice, but I need you to get up to New York City. A Deputy Inspector Cahill needs yours and Mulder's help with a serial job." Scully sighed. "I guess that arguing with you over the fact that we just finished a case, a case where I ended up shooting and killing the suspect would be a waste of breath?" "Scully, the shooting board has already cleared you, and a commendation letter from the Portland Police Department and the director of Portland's Emergent Medical Services is sitting on my fax machine. Are you telling me that my two star profilers need a day off?" "I'm not a profiler, Tony. I'm a pathologist." "Whatever. Listen, the travel office already has your tickets. You're leaving in four hours. Pack a bag. I'll find Mulder." Scully sighed and hung up. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= LaGuardia Airport Five hours later Scully strode up the jetway, already feeling tired. If this is... what, Wednesday? This must be New York. Emerging onto the concourse, she spotted Alex Cahill immediately. Amazingly, it looked as if the woman hadn't changed a bit in the last seven years. "Alex!" Scully said happily. "Dana!" The two women embraced, and then Scully stepped back. "Deputy Inspector?" she asked. Alex nodded happily. "As of about noon this morning." "Is that some kind of record?" "For a woman, yeah. Youngest ever. Also shortest-in-service ever, male or female." Scully nodded, impressed. "Where's your partner?" Scully shrugged. Apparently, Tony had been unable to locate Mulder before the scheduled flight had departed. "I don't know. I haven't been able to get a hold of him all day." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alexandria, Virginia Miserable, Mulder sat on the couch, the phone unplugged and the battery from his cell disconnected. The VCR and TV were on, but muted. On the screen, two people made love at high speed as Mulder fast- forwarded through the tape. Connections, he thought. I have to find a connection to this...habit. He'd watched eleven movies this way, not having the patience to watch them at regular speed. He wanted to know, so he could explain to Scully, exactly what he saw in these movies. He wanted to know, so he could cut that portion of his personality away, so he could excise it and go to Scully whole again. She deserved better, but he wanted her. Disgusted, Mulder shut the TV off and stood up, pacing his small apartment, not wanting to mentally consider the image of caged animal, but unable to escape it just the same. Stopping mid-pace, Mulder turned and made a beeline for the spare room. There had once been a bed in there, but he had gotten rid of it a long time ago. What was in there now were filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. Boxes of files, information, newspaper clippings and magazines. Tons and tons of magazines. Five years of Omni. Five years of Time and Newsweek and US News & World Report. He wasn't interested in any of that. He moved to the last cabinet, and then stooped to open the bottom drawer. Two of his spare guns stared back at him, a holstered Charter Arms .38 Undercover he had never used, and next to that a small .380 automatic in a ballistic nylon ankle holster. He moved them aside, reaching for the 5x7 manila envelope. Standing, he unwound the red string from the two cardboard discs and lifted the flap. Frohicke's other gifts slid into his palm when he upended the envelope. Pictures. At least a dozen of them, all of Scully. He'd wanted to put one of them in his wallet, but had refrained because he worried that Scully might someday have cause to go through his wallet, which was exactly what had happened. Of course, at the time, he'd thought she would have to go through it as part of a murder investigation. A picture of the two of them seemed safer to carry around. And until this moment, he'd forgotten about the pictures altogether. Frohicke had started providing them years ago, all without Mulder ever having asked. One by one they'd shown up in his mailbox, each envelope bearing only Mulder's address and the sufficient postage. No return address. Part of him, at first, was creeped out by the idea of Frohicke following Scully, but then...then he realized that if anything ever happened to her...all he would have would be these pictures and the constantly shifting mental torture of images. So he'd kept them. And now, he was glad. Returning to the living room, he sat on the couch and slowly went through them. He smiled as he saw Scully changing. Her hairstyle was different now, and she was thinner, almost taller, it seemed. He stared at her face, in one image looking serious and professional in an official FBI raid windbreaker, in another looking playful in jeans and a sweater off-duty, coming out of a mall with bags in her arms. Mulder had a thought. He sighed. If I... No. Think it, he demanded of himself. Think it out. Think the damn words, Mulder. If I could just...stare at her, he thought. If I could just look at her gorgeous, beautiful face twenty-four hours a day, I'd be a happy man. Sometimes, all I want to do is just...stare at her, drink her in, wallow in her beauty. He snorted. Obscene, he thought. How totally perverted. Pictures were good, but they were no substitute for the real thing. He missed her. Did she have any idea? he wondered. Did she have any concept of what it did to him just to see her face? How he would wait in his office for her every morning, wondering what she was going to be wearing that day? How the sight of her coming in through the door, the movement of her hair as she walked, just the simple, elegant, efficient way she carried herself made him crazy? How could he communicate that emotion to her? At that moment, Mulder understood why artists, sculptors and photographers existed. Why man had from the beginning of time sought to preserve for all time the simple human beauty of a woman like Scully. Since photographs hadn't been invented yet, Mulder had no way to be sure, but part of him thought that if Scully had been alive during ancient Greek times, she would have given Helen of Troy a run for her money. A pounding at his door startled Mulder, and he almost dropped the handful of glossy photographs. "Mulder!" a voice called. "You in there?" Littleton. Suddenly guilty, as if his father had caught him sneaking a peek at a Playboy, Mulder stuffed the pictures under a couch cushion and stood to open the door. "Mulder, what the fuck? I've been calling for hours!" Mulder dry-washed his face with a hand. "I took the phone off the hook," he explained. "Wanted to get some quiet." "Well, sorry to interrupt, but you have to leave-" Littleton glanced at his watch. "Shit. You'll have to leave in the morning. Scully's already there, and the last shuttle leaves in ten minutes. Dammit!" "Tony, I'm off-duty." "As an ISU RT, you're on call 24/7," Littleton pointed out. "I never asked for that-" "Yes, well, tough noogies. Tomorrow morning, be on the first shuttle for New York. The NYPD has an interesting case for you. As I said, Scully is already up there. She's asshole buddies with some bigwig in the Department." Mulder nodded. "Case file?" Littleton shook his head. "We've got dick. I imagine that Scully will fill you in when you get there." With that, ISU SAC Tony Littleton turned on his heel and left. Wonderful, Mulder thought. Just wonderful. Now Scully probably thinks that I ditched her. Closing the door, Mulder wandered back into the apartment and found his phone. He quickly reconnected it and dialed Scully's cell. It rang four times. "Scully." "Scully, it's me." A long pause. "Hi, Mulder. Where are you?" "Still in DC. I'll be up in the morning." "Great." "Listen..." "Mulder, I really can't talk now," Scully said. "I'm heading into a-" And then she was gone. Tunnel, Mulder thought. Yeah, that's it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Grand Central Parkway New York City Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill glanced at her old friend, concern written all over her face. "Why did you hang up on him?" she asked. "Long story," Scully said. Chapter 13 +=+=+=+=+= New York City Officer Patrick Donnely exited the bodega, two cups of coffee carefully balanced in one hand, one on top of the other. Out of habit he glanced around, his practiced gaze taking in the street scenes. A homeless man stood on the corner, a bottle of what appeared to be Windex held in one hand, a tattered-looking squeegee in the other. As cars stopped for the red light at the intersection, the man would hobble into traffic and offer to wash the windows for whatever spare change the drivers felt like offering. A dog with three legs, probably the homeless man's pet, tethered to a lamppost by a withered span of clothesline, shot Donnely a forlorn glance. Down the block, a newsstand operator was cutting the twine from a bundle of magazines that a passing flatbed truck had just tossed to the sidewalk. Pedestrians walked up and down the street, going to or coming from whatever business they had. Nothing looked amiss. All was right in the world, Donnely thought, crossing to his REP. As an officer in the NYPD's Emergency Services Unit, Officer Donnely didn't ride around the city in what civilians called a squad car and what the NYPD called an RMP (Radio Motor Patrol) car. An REP was a heavily modified ambulance chassis that held the tools of Donnely's trade. ESU is unique in American municipal law enforcement. The only such unit in the country charged with both Rescue and SWAT, both dignitary protection and counterterrorism as well as antiterrorism, assignment to ESU is a coveted slot. There was a waiting list of over two thousand officers just waiting to be interviewed for ESU. ESU was, with the possible exception of pilots assigned to the Aviation Unit, the single most elite unit in the NYPD. Donnely carefully opened the passenger-side door of his REP and handed the top cup across the seat to his partner, Mary Lou Swanson. Gratefully accepting the cup, she nodded to Pat as he closed the door. "Regular, right?" "Right. Light and sweet, just the way you like it," he smiled. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their coffee and wondering what excitement the day would bring. In a police force of 38,000 sworn officers, covering a city with over ten million citizens, a day in the ESU was never, ever boring. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Uptown, near East Harlem, A-Adam One sat and waited for something to happen. A-Adam One, an unmarked red Chevy Caprice Classic that had seen better days sat parked on the corner, the two Anti-Crime officers inside sipping almost identical cups of coffee as their ESU counterparts. Anti-Crime was another semi-elite division within the NYPD. Staffed by officers in plainclothes driving unmarked cars, Anti-Crime was charged with bringing the low-level street crime (muggings, push-in robberies, that sort of thing,) not covered by other divisions such as Narcotics and Public Morals (Vice) under control. For an officer bucking to make Detective, Anti-Crime was a feather in one's cap. A-Adam One's senior officer, Sergeant Clayton Allen, was wondering if he should bother to take the upcoming Lieutenant's test. It meant more money, but with all the overtime that Anti-Crime officers racked up making court appearances, it wasn't that much more. It also meant transferring out of Anti-Crime and into a Patrol slot. Probably as a Shift Commander at a precinct, or some other assignment that would put him `back in the bag.' "Sarge...lookit." Clayton's head snapped up at the voice of his partner, Jesus Cruz. Following Cruz's pointed finger, Clayton watched as a man ambled down the street, his hands in his pockets, looking to anyone that cared to watch or notice that he didn't have a worry in the world. Trying just a bit too hard to look that way, Clayton thought. "Something's wrong about him," Cruz muttered. Clayton nodded. No judge or jury in their right mind would ever accept a hunch as probable cause, but when push came to shove, there were ways to 'generate' probable cause when needed. The only problem was that they were parked on the opposite side of the street. To get out now would probably spook the man, and neither Cruz nor Clayton were in the mood for a foot chase this early in the morning. Both cops feigned indifference as the man passed them. After a moment, Cruz twisted in his seat to watch as Clayton adjusted his rearview mirror for a better view. As if on cue, the man stopped, glanced around, reached into his pocket and came out with a clear glassine envelope. Stopping quickly, he dropped it in a sewer grate, straightened and continued his walk. A moment later, Cruz and Clayton were out of their car, reaching for their shields as they started to cross the street. A truck honked imperiously, momentarily blocking their view. When the truck passed, the man was gone. "What the fuck?" Cruz asked, crossing the street. Clayton's longer strides took him past his partner in a few steps and he turned the corner and groaned. The stairway leading down to the Number 2 IRT was right there, and Clayton was sure the suspect had vanished into the bowels of the NYC subway system. "Shit!" Clayton backed around the corner and found his partner standing over the sewer grate, twisting his head from side to side as he tried to make out what the man had thrown away. "ESU?" Clayton asked needlessly. Cruz nodded. Trudging through the sewers was ESU's job. "Evidence recovery," it was called. Gross is what Cruz called it. Clayton lifted his portable to his mouth and keyed the transmit button. "A-Adam One to Central, K." "A-Adam One." "Central...ah...we need an ESU REP at..." Craning his neck, Clayton read off the cross streets. "...evidence recovery," he finished. "Stand by, A-Adam One," Central radioed back. A moment later, he heard the same voice. "Central to E-Boy One. Emergency Boy One?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Pat Donnely groaned. If Anti-Crime was asking for ESU for an evidence recovery, more than likely it was a sewer or a crack house or some other disgusting, unfriendly place. But, that was what he got paid to do, and Pat Donnely wouldn't change his assignment for anything in the world. "E-Boy One," he radioed back. "In the confines of the two six, A-Adam One requesting ESU backup for an evidence recovery at..." Mary Lou was already pulling into traffic, her siren and electronic airhorn bip-bipping the traffic clear. "E-Boy One, show us eighty-six on that job. ETA, about four minutes." "Ten-Four, E-Boy One." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The ESU REP pulled to the curb on the cross street. Pat Donnely got out and opened a side compartment, reaching for a pair of Grabbers. Designed by an ESU officer sick and tired of mucking through disgusting sewers, the Grabbers were basically nothing more than a pair of surgeon's Kelly clamps, only on a scale that Gulliver would have appreciated. They stood almost four feet tall, but by an ingenuous design, had a feather-light touch and the grip of Superman. "Whatdaya got?" Donnely asked. "Skel threw something down there," Cruz said, pointing. I knew it, Donnely thought. "Any idea what?" he asked. Cruz shrugged. "Bag of some kind. Coke, crack, something." Donnely looked over and saw that, true to form, Mary Lou was on the stick. She had a powerful flashlight in one hand and a toolbox in the other. If whatever it was turned out to be too big to bring up through the grate, they would have to pop it off. But, Donnely reasoned, if the skel had just tossed it down there, should come up easy enough. He took the light from her and squatted, shining it down into the sewer. He spotted the bag immediately. "Piece of cake," he said, carefully threading the Grabbers through the grate. Maneuvering them gently, he latched onto the edge of the bag, closed the jaws and lifted it out, twisting the Grabbers at the last minute so the bag would slide through the grate. "Here ya go," he said, offering the bag to Cruz. "What is it?" Mary Lou asked. Turning the back over in his hands, Cruz examined the contents. "Credit card," he said disgustedly. "All cut up." "Stolen," Clayton pronounced. Well, Duh, Donnely thought, but didn't say. "Call fraud and have them run the number," Clayton ordered Cruz. Turning to the two ESU officers, who were already repacking the REP, he held out his hand. "Appreciate it, guys." "You take a look at her recently?" Donnely asked, hooking a thumb at his partner. "Figure of speech," Clayton assured them. "Nice job, officers," he corrected himself. Mary Lou rolled her eyes. "Sarge, don't worry about Pat. He's a little overprotective." The way she smiled at her partner made Sergeant Allen wonder if they had something going on the side. Wouldn't be the first time that happened, he thought. "Well, whatever. Fine job." Donnely touched the bill of his ESU baseball cap and got back in the REP. "You let your lady drive?" Clayton teased. "Kick Mario Andretti's ass," Donnely muttered as the REP pulled back into traffic and back onto patrol. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Investigative Support Unit Marine Barracks, Quantico Quantico, Virginia Tony Littleton was just biting into the juicy center of a powdered jelly donut when his phone rang. "Shit!" he said, watching as a large glob of raspberry jelly landed squarely in the middle of his tie. "Littleton," he barked into the phone. "Mr. Littleton. Detective Jarvis, Seattle Police Department, Homicide." "What can I do for you, Detective?" Littleton asked, more than a little nastily. "One of your profilers helped us on a case recently, and we need him to come out and testify at a pretrial hearing." "Let me guess," Littleton groaned. "Special Agent Mulder." "How'd you know?" Because he's the only one of these fucking morons that's solved a goddamn case in the last two months, that's why. "Nevermind. When do you need him?" "Tomorrow, Agent Littleton." "SAC Littleton," Littleton corrected automatically. "Special Agent in Charge, then," Jarvis said. It was obvious by his tone that the Seattle detective was trying mightily to keep his temper under control. "I'm afraid that's impossible, Detective. Special Agent Mulder is away on assignment in New York City on another case." There was a short pause. "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist," Jarvis finally said. "Excuse me? Insist?" "Perhaps you didn't hear my name, Special Agent In Charge Littleton. That's Jarvis, with a `J.'" Littleton wracked his brain for a match. Of course, he thought with a silent groan. Deputy Assistant Director Karen Jarvis. "Sister?" "Correct." "I'll see what I can do. He might have already left for New York." "Thank you for your assistance," Jarvis said, and hung up. Fuck! +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alexandria, Virginia Mulder's pager went off just as he was getting ready to leave his apartment for the airport. Checking it, he saw Littleton's number with the "911" after it. Tempted to ignore it, Mulder finally sighed and gave in, dialing his cell with one finger as he imagined Scully's chastising voice in his head. "He is your boss, Mulder," Mulder said, making a passable imitation of Scully's nagging tone. "Littleton." "Mulder." "Change of plans. Seattle, not New York. Name Jarvis ring a bell?" "Karen?" "No, the other one. Her brother, the big-shot Seattle Homicide dick. And I emphasize the word dick, Mulder." Musta pulled rank on him, Mulder thought. "Fine. Is Scully joining me?" A moment's pause. "No. She'll remain in New York. They need you at a pretrial hearing. Day or two, no more. Then you'll fly from Seattle to New York to join Scully on that case. Questions?" Mulder admitted to himself that he didn't like the idea of Scully working the New York case by herself, and the fact that there was precious little he could do about it. "I guess not. I'll call you when I'm done in Seattle." Mulder hung up and dialed Scully's cell number. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City At that moment, Special Agent Dana Scully and Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill were ascending in the elevator at One Police Plaza towards the Major Cases Squad office. Scully heard the shrill chirp of her phone and reached for it at the same exact time Cahill and the other four cops in the elevator did the same. "Mine," Scully said, smiling. "Scully." "Hey, it's me," Mulder said. "Where are you, Mulder?" "Home, on my way to the airport." Scully nodded. "When should I pick you up?" "Well, unless you can teleport yourself to Seattle, I'd say in about three, four days, Scully." "Seattle?" "Jarvis called back. Pretrial." "So quickly?" "Must not have a lot of murders up there. Either that, or they fast-tracked him. Anyway, you're on your own up there for a while, Scully." Dana chewed her lip, considering this. Turning slightly away from Alex, she asked, "Anything I should be aware of?" "Give them the basic line. Adult male, twenty-five to thirty- five, etcetera. Run the autopsy data. Stretch it as long as you can until I get there. If I can get ahold of a fax, you can send me everything you've got, and I'll work on it while I'm waiting to testify." Scully smiled. Three thousand miles apart and they were still partners. And after all I've put him through, she thought. And on the heels of that: I've put him through? "Ok, Mulder. I'll tell Alex. Nice flight." "Take care. I'll call you when I land." "Bye." Alex smiled. "He's not coming?" "Not right away," Scully admitted. "He has a pretrial in Seattle for another case. As soon as that's done, he'll join us here." Alex frowned. "Are you a profiler, Scully?" Caught, Scully thought. "No. You know that. I'm just along for the ride. But, I will take a look at your autopsy data and anything else. I can fax most of it to Mulder and he can get started while he's waiting to testify." Alex nodded, satisfied. The doors dinged! open and they exited. Alex ushered Dana into the MCS squadroom and spread her arms. "Someday, honey, all this can be yours!" Detective First Grade Sam Cross came up behind his boss, and overhearing her comment said, "Something you wanna tell me, boss?" Alex spun on him, a grin on her face. "No, Sam, I like men." "Something we have in common, then," he whispered, leaning over. Straightening, he held out his hand. "Sam Cross." "Dana Scully, FBI," she said, hating the way it sounded. "Oh, we're gonna be all official and stuff?" Cross said, teasing. "Well, then...let me do that over. Detective First Grade Sam Cross, NYPD Citywide Major Cases Squad." Dana took his challenge. "Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully, MD," she grinned back. "Oooh, a doctor." Sam cupped his chin, studying Scully's diminutive form. "Let me guess....dermatologist?" Scully shook her head. "Nope. Try again." "OB-GYN is out...Trauma Surgeon? No...you don't have that arrogance. Not a cutter. Internist? No...too pale." Too pale? Scully thought. "Pathologist," he finally proclaimed, nodding. "Undergraduate degree in Physics, board-certified in Pathology, criminal forensic pathology and...oh...emergency medicine." Scully's eyebrows shot up her face. "That's...a-amazing!" He grinned. "Don't let him fool you," Alex said, wagging a finger at her favorite detective. "As soon as Detective Cross found out that we were getting the FBI's number one profiling team I'm sure he called in a favor somewhere." "Caught," Sam admitted. He glanced at Scully. "Nothing personal, Agent Scully. Really." She nodded. Mulder was going to like Cross. They had the same level of paranoia. "Well, let's get coffeed up and get to work," Alex said, turning and leading Scully to her office. A workman was hunched over the door, busily replacing the word "Captain" with "Deputy Inspector." "I didn't order..." Alex started. She spun and pointed at Cross. "I owe you one!" she called across the squadroom. "Owe? Shit!" Scully heard. She turned to see another detective standing by the water cooler, a paper cup in his hand. A droplet of water hung off his goatee. "Detective First Grade Daryl Hicks," Hicks said, offering his hand. "Dana Scully," Scully replied. She glanced at him again. It was uncanny. He looked like someone she knew...and knew well. Snapping her fingers, she pointed one at Hicks. "Anyone ever tell you-" "I look like Garth Brooks? All the damn time. Just don't ask me to sing or wear a big hat. I'm from Atlanta, not Oklahoma. We don't wear cowboy hats in Atlanta." "What were you babbling about?" Alex asked Hicks. "You don't owe Cross anything, boss. Pam called." Pam, as Alex knew, was Daryl's ex-girlfriend. She also happened to be an administrative assistant downstairs in Personnel. "Ok, I owe you one then," she smiled. "Whatever," Hicks grinned, wandering back to his desk. "He may not look it," Alex whispered to Scully, "but he's one of the two best investigators I've ever seen." Wait'll you meet Mulder, Scully thought. Alex ushered Scully into her office and then frowned at the workman. "You don't work for the department," she accused. The man straightened. "No, Ma'am, I don't. A Detective Hicks called me and said you had a rush job." Cahill sighed. "How much?" The painter shrugged. "Two-fifty." Alex gaped. "Two hundred and fifty dollars?" "Yes ma'am." "HICKS!" she roared. A moment later Daryl appeared. "Yes, Inspector?" "You paid two hundred and...never mind," she said, digging in her pocket. She returned with a handful of bills. "Here," she said, peeling some off the top. "No, ma'am," Hicks said, holding up his hands. "We took a collection. Day and night tours. Each man paid about eight bucks. Consider it a promotion present." He turned and left. "Shit," Alex muttered, jamming her hand back into her pocket. She grinned at Scully. "I'll fix his ass." "What are you going to do?" "Call personnel and tell them that he has exactly two hundred and fifty bucks in unpaid overtime coming to him. He can't return it. The paperwork alone would kill him." As Alex moved to her desk and reached for the phone, it rang. "Cahill," she said. A moment later, "What?!" She cupped the phone in her hand. "Get Cross and Hicks." Scully ducked her head back into the squadroom and caught Cross's attention and pointed. He nodded, touched Hicks on the arm and started walking over. Scully re-entered Alex's office to hear her barking orders into the phone. "I want A-Adam One to meet me at the scene," she said. She listened. "Fine, I'll do it," she snapped, hanging up the phone. A portable radio sat in a charger on the credenza and she snapped it up, bringing it to her lips. "M-Mike Six...ah...M-Mike Eight," she said again. "M-Mike...Eight?" a voice called back. "Eight" was the radio designation for Deputy Inspector. And the last time Citywide radio checked, there was no "M-Mike Eight." "Yeah, Central, congratulate me. M-Mike Eight needs A-Adam One to join me on SOD." "Stand by..." Alex twisted the frequency control on the portable to change to the Special Operations Division frequency. ESU, Aviation, Harbor, and the NYPD Scuba Unit shared the frequency. "E-Boy One, M-Mike Eight," she called. A moment later, a harried voice came back. "E-Boy One, what?" "E-Boy One, I need you and your partner to meet me and A-Adam One at the scene of the Evidence Recovery job in East Harlem. Copy that?" A long, long pause. "Ah....M-Mike Eight, that's gonna have to wait a bit. We're on a pin job on the Major Deegan." "Ten-Four, E-Boy One. Please make that forthwith after sixty- eighting from that job. We'll wait for you. M-Mike Eight to A-Adam One." A moment later. "A-Adam One, K." "A-Adam One, meet M-Mike Eight and M-Mike Two at the location of that evidence recovery job in East Harlem, K?" "Ten-Four, M-Mike One." "Let's roll," Alex said, handing a piece of paper to Cross with the address on it. She came out from behind her desk, already moving at high speed. "Scully, you wanna come?" "What happened?" she asked. "Anticrime and ESU recovered a bag from a sewer that had a cut-up credit card in it," Alex explained. "Hot SHIT!" Cross said, clapping his hands. "Daryl and I will meet you there!" He sprinted for the stairs, his partner close on his heels. Scully's brow furrowed. "Let me get this straight," she said, following Alex to the elevator. "Your two best detectives, in the middle of a serial murder investigation, plus the commanding officer, a Deputy Inspector no less, is dropping everything to respond to a credit card call?" The doors slid open and Alex almost pulled Scully inside. Jabbing the "L" button repeatedly, Alex nodded. "What Sam knew the moment I said it was that the credit card that was recovered was used by the suspect yesterday to create an account with an Internet provider in order to send mail to the New York Times bragging about his crime." "How did he know that?" Scully asked. Alex regarded her coolly. "First, because that's the only credit card call that would get me to risk the ire not only of the ESU Commanding Officer, the Anti-Crime Precinct Commander and the entire Detective Bureau, but to get my ass out of the office. He...just knew without me having to explain it to him. He's that good." Oh, Scully thought, you are just going to love watching Mulder and I operate. "I see," Scully said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill's car screeched to a stop. A-Adam One was already there, waiting, the two cops sitting on the hood and scoping out the passers-by. "Cahill, Major Cases," Alex said, offering her shield. Scully noticed that both men got up off the car in a hurry once they saw Alex's Deputy Inspector's shield. "What can we do for you, Inspector?" the older one asked. "I'm Sergeant Allen. This is Officer Cruz." "Talk to me about the skel that dumped the credit card," Alex said. "We already talked to your detectives," Allen said, tipping his head towards the street. Scully craned her neck and saw that Detectives Cross and Hicks were on their hands and knees, peering into a sewer grate. "Tell me," Alex insisted, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Sighing, Sergeant Allen repeated his story. "What's this all about?" he asked when finished. "Not now," Alex said, moving to her two detectives. Allen looked at Scully, the question obvious on his face. "Dana Scully," she said, offering her hand. "FBI," she added. Allen looked at his hand as if it had something gross and slimy on it. "I see," he said coolly. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why Major Cases and the FBI are so interested in a credit card?" Scully shrugged. Cahill stooped down to whisper in Cross' ear. "Anything?" "Nada. Just the normal sewer shit." Cahill straightened, reaching for her radio. "E-Boy One, on the air?" "E-Boy One, Go." "E-Boy One, this is M-Mike Eight. ETA?" "...Ah...we just left the house, ETA about six or seven." "Forthwith, E-Boy One!" Alex ordered. When E-Boy One transmitted again, Scully could hear the sound of a siren in the background. "Ten-Four, M-Mike Eight. About five minutes now." Alex laughed. "Ten-Four." Twisting the frequency control again, she retransmitted. "M-Mike Eight to all M-Mike units on the air." She waited a moment. "All M-Mike Units on the air, in the confines of the two-six, we need immediate backup for a canvass." Almost immediately, voices started responding. "Central, show M-Mike Four in on that." "Central, M-Mike Five is eighty-six to the two-six." "Central..." "Central..." And then, a stronger voice. "D-David One to M-Mike Eight." "Oh, shit," Alex muttered. Scully glanced at Allen. "Chief of Detectives," he said quietly. "M-Mike Eight," Alex answered. "Do you need any D-David units on that?" "Ah...negative at this time, D-David One. But if you could have the two-six D-David squad stand by on that..." "Ten-Four. D-David One to D-David-Two Six." "Two-Six," a very annoyed-sounding voice came back. "Two-Six, please stand by for a ten-sixteen with M-Mike Eight." "Ten-Four, D-David One. D-David Two-Six, Out." Just about that time, the first MCS car pulled up. Two detectives Scully had never seen got out and approached Cross. "Mike, Bill...take the south side of the street. Door to door. We're looking for anyone that saw a skel dump a bag down this sewer at about seven this morning. Any hits, call me or Daryl or Alex." The two detectives nodded and moved off to begin working. ESU E-Boy One pulled up, lights and sirens flashing. Scully moved to the curb and just watched as Alex orchestrated the entire affair. "E-Boy One, stand by in case we need an entry. I don't think we will, but we might." Without another word, Pat Donnely and Mary Lou Swanson moved to the back of their REP and started opening compartments, pulling out huge ballistic body-armor vests with "POLICE" writ large across the front and back. They withdrew shotguns and loaded them, waiting further orders. Pat Donnely grabbed a radio. "You want One-Truck?" he asked Alex. She shook her head. "Not until we have a confirmed barricade, which I don't think we're gonna get. But stand by. You might have them get a little closer to the truck, if you know what I mean." Donnely nodded. He did. He had no idea what the fuck was going on, but with a Deputy Inspector, half the Major Cases Squad and Anti- Crime all standing around and looking grim, he was beginning to suspect that he'd pulled more than a credit card from that sewer drain. "E-Boy One to One-Truck, K. 10-42 in the confines of the two- six." An instant later: "One-Truck, Ten-Four." "They're on standby, Inspector," Donnely said. "Ok...Sam, Daryl...go down and interview the token clerk. Grab commuters, see if anyone saw anything." Turning to the Anti-Crime cops, she pointed. "You two. One PP, now. Go to forensics and give as good a description as possible. Then head over to BCI and start going over mugbooks. I want you to find this asshole." "What did he do?" Allen asked. "Seems a bit..." he cast his arms around, taking in the seven cars and REP truck, "...much for a credit card." Alex glanced left, then right, and then stepped close. "He killed three people, Allen. And I want his ass nailed to my office wall! Get moving!" "Yes, ma'am," Allen said sullenly. He nodded at Cruz and they quickly got in their car and departed the scene. "Anything I can do?" Scully asked. "If we get a hit, you can stand up at the press conference and tell them how you solved the case ten minutes after arriving in town. If not..we'll see," Alex said, smiling. Scully smiled back. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle, Washington Six hours later Mulder entered the District Attorney's office and flashed his credentials. "Special Agent Mulder, FBI," he said. "I believe the DA is expecting me." "Of course, Mr. Mulder. Please go right in," the receptionist said. She was chewing a wad of gum that looked big enough to choke a horse. Mulder wound his way through the offices, noting again how much the cube-farm reminded him of every municipal and federal law enforcement agency he'd ever seen. The guy who invented the cubicle better be goddamn rich, Mulder thought, considering all the misery he's caused. Spotting the office he needed, Mulder knocked. "Come!" "Special Agent Mulder," he said, stepping inside. "Oh, good of you to come, Agent Mulder." "I didn't have much of a choice," Mulder said crossly. "Well, sir, we do need your testimony tomorrow at the pretrial. Our suspect is wanting to have your profile excluded on... get this ... the basis that you didn't have probable cause to invade his privacy." Mulder blinked. "Excuse me?" "That's right. The defense has moved to have your profile excluded as evidence because it was too good. They claim that you already had a suspect in mind when you wrote it, and therefore it's invalid and should be suppressed." Mulder took a seat without asking and slumped down. "So I have to... what? Defend our profiling again? Sir, I...it was a two-year old case! I did in the basement of the ISU building! I never saw a suspect list!" "You know that and I know that. Now the judge would like to know that. He's never dealt with the FBI before, and frankly, I think he was very impressed when I told him that you'd be flying out to help." Mulder nodded. Politics again. "Well, that shouldn't take long. What's my order?" "Third. Arresting officer, primary detective, who will set the stage for you, and then you. Should be done by noon." "Good," Mulder said, reaching for his phone. "I have a... case in New York that needs my attention." He dialed Scully and waited. "Scully." "It's me. I'm in with the DA. Get this. The defense wants my profile excluded because it was too good. They claim that I already had a suspect in mind when I wrote it." Scully snorted. "Great. Do you need me to come there and testify that you were zombied out in the basement when you wrote the profile?" Mulder smiled. "No, Scully. I can zombie out on the stand as an example." He paused. "What's going on?" "We had an actual lead today. A clue, if you will." "A clue? What? Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick?" "Are you speaking in some kind of code?" the DA asked. Annoyed, Mulder flashed him a grimace that tried to be a smile and failed. "No, Mulder. A credit card that was used to create an Internet account that was in turn used by the UNSUB to send an email to the local newspaper was recovered from a sewer drain." Mulder felt his pulse quicken. "Where is it now?" "It was all cut up. It's been inventoried into evidence, I believe." "Ok, get it out and Fed-Ex it to the FBI lab. Tools and Dyes. I want to know what was used to cut that card up. I want the order it was cut." "The order?" "Yeah, Scully. Like...did he cut it in half lengthwise first? Or did he slice the name first? How many pieces? What kind of instrument did he use? Did he bend the pieces back and forth? Tear them? Bite them? Full forensics on the card." "I'll get on it. When do you-" "I'll probably be there late tomorrow night, Scully." He wanted to say something more, ached to say it, but with the DA sitting right there... "Ok, Mulder. I'll talk to you later." He hung up. "Your partner?" the DA asked. Mulder nodded. "Mr. Scully, right? How good a partner is he?" "Dr. Scully, actually," Mulder said, paused, and then added, "and Dr. Scully is a wonderful partner." "Of what?" "Excuse me?" "What kind of doctor is he? Psychologist?" "No, I'm a psychologist." Mulder paused again and then added, "She's a forensic pathologist." "Oh. Will she be joining us?" "I'm afraid not. Dr. Scully is working a case in New York. The same case I need to get back to." The DA nodded and reached into his desk, returning with a thick file. "Here's the case. Study it. I'm sure that the defense attorney is going to ask all sorts of stupid questions. He's straight out of a Phillip Margolin novel." Mulder grunted. That didn't sound promising. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree sat at his desk, the squawk of the Radio Shack police scanner filling his ears. To say that Mark Dupree was angry would be like saying the Pacific Ocean was "damp." He was livid. At himself. The radio was still filled with reports of the Major Case Squad as they conducted the door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood where he'd dropped the credit card. Some undercover cop had noticed him, had retrieved the card and reported it to the Fraud Squad, which had gotten the hit off the teletype, which had reported it to Major Cases and that bitch Alex Cahill, and then...then...Detective Cross, AKA M-Mike Two had shown up and started knocking on doors. They had a partial description. White male, six-foot one inch, about one hundred seventy pounds. Short blonde hair. Dupree glanced over at the box of hair dye perched on one corner of his desk. Well, we can fix that pretty damn quickly. Some shoe lifts would add another two, three inches to his height. Some tan-in-a-tube and he could pass for someone darker skinned. Darken the hair and the skin, grow a mustache, and he would look Hispanic. And that was the first step. Sitting next to the hair dye box were other boxes. Six of them, in fact. The largest held a Polaroid instant camera; the other five were film cartridges, ten pictures each. The stakes were about to get higher. Dupree forced his attention back to the matter at hand. From what he'd overheard on the radio, the two Anti-Crime cops, Allen and Cruz, had gone downtown to Forensics and started with the sketch artist. That wouldn't produce much; Dupree knew he had "one of those faces," the kind that just fade into the woodwork. And since Cahill was doing this one by the numbers, the next stop would be BCI and the mug books. Dupree's face didn't appear in any of them. He had taken care of that. At great cost and expense, but it was taken care of. Which left only one thing. The hunt. Turning to the file in front of him, Mark Dupree began reading about the next Chosen. Danielle Clarence Jones, black female, age 32. Arrested seventeen times for a variety of offenses related to the practice of prostitution, including another half-dozen misdemeanor drug arrests, all from Las Vegas. She was a typical court queen, he thought. She probably has a reserved parking space at the Clark County Detention Center. Contrary to popular belief, prostitution was not legal in Las Vegas. Oh, it was practiced. It occurred. But it was not legal, not in Clark County. The nearest county where it was legal was Nye county, about an hour north of the city of Lost Wages. But Danielle Jones had liked the bright lights and big city, and taking after the mother that had abandoned her when Danielle was six, the woman had entered the world's oldest profession as a way to survive. And she had been sharing the bed of a reputed mob boss when he'd been waxed by some people that were angry with some of the things that he'd been doing. And unbeknownst to them, Danielle Jones had been in the bathroom fixing her makeup, and managed to get a very good look at the shooter. And the shooter had gotten a very good look at her, too, just before he put six .22 rounds into her body. None of them had been fatal though, (too bad, Dupree thought,) and she'd managed to crawl to a phone and summon help. The US Attorney's Office had been gracious and solicitous. Protection in exchange for testimony. They'll never find you, she was assured. You'll be moved to New York City. No offense, Miss Jones, but being a black female, you'll blend right in that city. You won't stand out as much as you do in Las Vegas. And judging by the records Dupree was reading, the US Government was being a little generous, paying Danielle just over two thousand dollars a month, in cash, tax-free, for the rest of her natural life. Which, if Dupree had anything to do with it, would be exactly seventy-two more hours. He glanced at the camera again, the plot unfolding in his mind. Find her, stalk her, do the job, take pictures. Return here. Scan the pictures into the computer. Another fake account with another stolen credit card. Post the pictures to the Internet. Alt.binaries.tasteless, or something like that. And send a carbon copy to the NYPD and the New York Times via email, and the pressure would be ratcheted up another notch. Things were progressing nicely. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Major Cases Squad Scully stuck her head in Alex's office. "Anything?" she asked. "Nada, zip, zero, zilch," Cahill muttered. "The Anti-Crime guys got the best look at him, and that was from across the street. The sketch goes out tonight at the midnight roll call, but it looks generic. It's not a "special attention" call yet, so at least the uniforms on patrol won't be rousting every single average-looking white male over six feet in five boroughs tonight. But at least we know he's not black, or Hispanic or Asian or something like that." Scully shrugged. "They very rarely are," she pointed out. "Yeah, I know. Mass killers, we get in all shapes, colors and sizes. Serial killers...that's something the white man has perfected." Scully didn't say anything; she could tell that Alex was tired and frustrated. "Canvass turned up dick, no one saw nothing. The clerk in the token booth had his face buried in a physics textbook. He saw less. We've got cops posted on the platform tonight, waiting for the commuters to come hope so we can run the sketch by them. But you know what?" "What?" "I doubt the fucker even took the train." "Why?" "Because that's just the sort of sick, twisted little trick this fuck would pull. Go down into the station, take the internal crossover and exit the platform on the other side. Costs him a buck and a quarter, and we chase our tails all week." Alex Cahill was one-hundred-percent on the mark, but she had no way of knowing this. "You really think he's that clever?" Cahill nodded. "Aren't they always?" Scully thought about it. She had to admit that Cahill had a point. Cahill's phone rang. "Cahill. What? Oh, hi, Tanya. What? No... not tonight. No, I know I promised, but I'm working...yes, I'm working a hot case. No. Maybe some other time. Right. Well, you guys have fun." She hung up. Scully cocked an eyebrow. "Girlfriends," she said. "Want me to go with them to Chippendales." Scully felt herself blushing and turned to go. "God, I wish I wasn't so tired," Cahill muttered. "I could use some of that right about now." Scully stopped in her tracks. Slowly turning back to face her old friend, Scully closed the door and quietly took a seat in front of Alex's desk. "You'd go?" she asked. Alex, her head leaning back against the headrest of her chair, nodded. "Sure. Been before. It's nice and mindless. Relaxing, in a strange way." "A room full of screaming women stuffing dollar bills down the pants of men in G-strings who are dancing to rap music is relaxing?" Alex nodded. "If you have the right attitude." Scully bit her lip. "What attitude is that?" Alex straightened. "Wait a minute. You've never been?" "Been where?" Scully asked, knowing what she meant but hoping to avoid it. "To a strip club. A male revue." Scully shook her head. "Nope." "Never had a male stripper at a bachelorette party?" Again, Scully shook her head. Alex leaned forward, making a "stop" gesture with her hand. "Wait...never? Nothing?" "Sorry." "Wow," Alex said. "Can I ask you a question?" Scully said slowly, carefully. "Sure." "What...what's the attraction?" Alex blinked, and then sat back, a wide smile on her face. "You just said it, Dana. A room full of scantily-clad men dancing in their G-strings to loud music. What's not to like?" "Stuffing dollar bills down their..." "So what? They're gay!" Scully's head snapped back. "What?" Alex laughed. "You didn't know that?" Scully shook her head. "They'd have to be," Alex explained. "Oh, sure, I'm sure a couple of them are straight, but the good ones, the ones that last a while and make a living from it, they're all gay, Dana. Look at it this way: You have a room full of screaming women shoving money in your drawers. Some of those women, if I do say so myself, aren't that unattractive. If a gorgeous woman was stuffing money in your pants, you'd find it hard not to...react. Unless you didn't find women sexually appealing. Plus, add to that the fact that...well, most of those guys are into their bodies a lot more than sex with anyone." "But it's degrading!" Scully protested. "To whom?" Alex asked. "Me? I don't feel degraded. It's nice clean, dirty fun. I get to cut loose, look at a gorgeous body, have a few drinks and play around a bit. It's all fantasy, Dana." Scully thought about it for a second. "Would you want one of those men as a boyfriend? A lover?" Alex shook her head. "In real life or in a fantasy?" "Don't you fantasize about what you really want?" Alex leaned forward again. "You're serious! You're actually serious!" "What?" Alex let out a sigh. "Ok, let me lay it out, at least the way I see it. Would I want to make love with one of those dancers? Well, if I was...alone, you know...with the shower massage?" Scully blushed and nodded. "Well..sure, as a fantasy lover. Perfect body, and in my fantasy, a perfect lover. Kind, gentle, sensitive, but aggressive and hungry when I need it. But the truth? Dana, like I said, nothing against `em, God love `em, but most of those guys are either so into themselves that when they have an orgasm they call their own name out, or they're gay. So in real life, no. In real life, I want someone normal." She laughed. "Or, what passes for normal in New York City." Dana thought about it. "Do you think female strippers are gay, too?" It was Alex's turn to blush. "Well, I'll tell you a little secret. A long time ago, when I got out of the Academy-" "FBI or NYPD?" "NYPD. Anyway...I got yanked over for a six-week detail in Public Morals. One of the topless clubs was moving crystal meth. Or we thought they were. Most of the dancers that work those places have bikers or the like for boyfriends. Or pimps, depending on how you look at it. They wanted someone to go in-" "No!" Scully said, gasping, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Yeah, but only for a bit. Two nights. Just enough to get the evidence we needed. But I had to infiltrate, you know. Go there with my partner, posing as boyfriend and girlfriend, let everyone get used to us. My partner was a longtime narco surveillance guy. Never did any undercover, so there was no chance of him being made by the bikers. Those guys have an intelligence network that rivals the CIA's. Anyway, my partner buys some crystal, but it was from a boyfriend. We wanted to get an employee or a manager or the bartender or someone with their hand in it so we could close the place down on the RICO statutes." "Why?" Alex waved her hand. "Political. City councilman didn't want the place in his district anymore. He calls the Borough president, calls the mayor, calls the CofD, etcetera. Anyway -- to answer your original question, most of the dancers were bi. I had a couple hit on me. Some are out-and-out gay. But I found out that a lot of porno actresses are gay, too." That brought Scully up short. "What?" "Yeah. Or at least, on the bisexual scale, they prefer women for sex and men for the movies. Better money." Most porno actresses are gay, Scully thought. Mulder would love to hear that. "So you danced topless?" Alex nodded. "Two nights. Sounds like a really bad HBO movie on at three in the morning, huh? I was young and stupid. I didn't know any better. When Public Morals reached out to me, they made a lot promises about making Detective early and shit like that. Hell, I wanted to be the youngest female Detective in the Bureau, so I went for it." "What was it like?" "Not as bad as you think. In New York, the blue laws are such that the men can't get real close, and there's absolutely no touching. So, you close your eyes, and imagine you're home alone, dancing to the stereo." I've never danced like that, Scully thought. "So...made some good money, which the job let me keep, and we busted the owners. Closed the place down. End of story. But I got a much better understanding off that for the difference between reality and fantasy. Almost every single veteran dancer that I knew used a pseudonym. I was `Haley,' like the comet." Dr. George F. Hale, Scully thought, and wondered why. "So it wasn't me up there dancing, it was Haley. And I... I don't know, Dana...can I talk to you about this?" "We've been doing fine so far," Scully said, spreading her arms. "Well, this is...more. Deeper." "Sure," Scully said after a minute. A part of her wanted to know what Alex was going to say. Wanted to know very badly. "I got off on it, a little. On the power." "Power?" "The men...they looked at you. Sure, there were some crazies there, but the security was good, my partner was there, so I knew I was safe. The power...the normal men, the guys that come just to look, give a tip now and then, they were nice. They were gentle. They made me laugh. They...how can I say this? They were...glad that I let them look. That's what I'm trying to say. They seemed as if...they were honored that I'd let them see my naked body. And in a way, that gave me control over them, because I could control how much they saw. I could leave my top on for the whole dance, or I could take off at the start. Power. Control. It was a rush." Scully absorbed all this, realizing that she didn't know Alex Cahill half as well as she thought she had. "But...doesn't it demean you? Women in general? Having those men leer at you like that?" Cahill shrugged. "Two points," she said, ticking them off on her fingers. "First, there are always going to be men leering at women. Nothing will change that. At least, not in my lifetime. And I'd rather have them leering at women who are willing participants than at some kid on a playground, or some college student or a waitress or something. At least in there, everyone knows the rules. The dancers know they're there to be seen, and the men know they're there to look. No harm, no foul. Second, not many of them leered. Just the crazies, like I said." "But...you weren't a person to them, Alex. You were a gyrating body! An object." "Sure...as much as Fabio is an object. People tend to objectify most things in their life, Dana. Look at it this way. You see a bum -- excuse me, homeless person, on the street, right? You want to say to yourself, being the good human being that you are, that you don't objectify that person. He's not an object, he's a person. But, since you don't go up to him and ask his name and get to know him, he is an object to you; he's a homeless person. Now, if you have to deal with him personally, or professionally, and you continue to objectify him, that's bad. If, once you have to involve yourself with him in any significant way, you still see him as a `homeless person,' rather than Bill Smith, then you have a point. "The same goes for the dancers. When they're up on that stage, they know they're objects. Just like the male dancers. I know they're objects. They are an image of perfection, beauty in motion. But if I had to deal with him as a human being, either personally or professionally, then I'd care about him, I'd want to get to know him, and he'd stop being an object and start being someone that danced for a living." Scully took all this in, nodding her head slowly. "You seem awfully interested in this topic," Alex observed dryly. "Knowing you as I do, I'd have to say that you're not considering becoming a topless dancer, nor are you that interested in going to Chippendales with my girlfriends and I. So what gives, Dana?" "Case," Scully said quickly. "Sexualized violence. The basis of all serial murderers." Alex nodded. "Wanna tell me how this fucker gets off on slicing people open like a Christmas turkey?" Scully shrugged. "Mulder's better at understanding that side of it. I can identify rage when I see it, I can take a look at a body and classify injuries as being rage-based or anger-based. But as for understanding what goes on inside their minds...that's Mulder's thing." Alex smiled thinly. "I bet Mulder knows more about dancers than you do." "I'm sure," Scully said, trying to hide her expression. A sudden thought occurred to her: Am I that naive? Is my life that sheltered? "Maybe I should go to Chippendales," Scully said slowly. "Nuh-uh," Alex said, shaking her head. "No freaking way, my friend. Not until you assimilate the information I just gave you. You can't go in there with the attitude of a scientific field trip. No observing the natives. You have to want to go for your own reasons totally unrelated to `research.' Trust me; you'll enjoy it more and take more away with you." "You sure know a lot about...this stuff," Scully observed. Cahill shrugged. "In New York? It's hard not to. You see it everywhere. Times Square, Hunts Point, the Bowery. Hookers all up and down Twelfth Avenue. I'll be the first to admit that my bimonthly trips to watch half-naked men gyrate for dollars is probably an escapist therapy session for me. A way to reconnect with my humanity in a way that's totally safe." Scully was confused again. "How does going to see that reconnect you with your humanity?" Alex shrugged. "Just me, Dana. I can't say that it'd work for you. But for me, it's a way of remembering that sex can be fun. It's not always about hookers and pimps and child prostitutes and domestic disturbances and about eleven year old girls in the projects getting pregnant by their mother's boyfriends. Sex is serious, when it's really me getting involved. If I was in a relationship, obviously, I wouldn't go. But I'm not, and when I need to find that place inside me that reminds me that I'm a vital, warm human being, I want it to be fun and safe. And I hate going to bars to meet men that only want one thing, to coin a phrase. So that's safe for me. It's fun, in a way. I get to cut lose, raise a little hell and just have some goddamn fun." Scully chewed her lip again. So much information to comprehend. "I'm exhausted," she announced. "I need to get some sleep." "I second that emotion," Alex said. "Want me to drop you at the hotel?" "I rented a car," Scully said absently. "I'll drive." "Suit yourself," Alex said, standing. "I'm gonna blast. See you bright and early. Let me know if you hear from that partner of yours." Scully nodded, standing and following Alex out of her office, utterly lost in thought. They rode down in the elevator in total silence, Scully's thoughts a million miles away. Ok, maybe not a million, she thought. More like three thousand. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Motel 6 Seattle, Washington Mulder stared at the silent TV for close to ten minutes. He could see the traveling salesman's best friend sitting on top of the console: a folded card that promised untold carnal delights at the flick of a switch, all discretely charged to the room so that the wife wouldn't have a conniption when she paid the Visa bill. He wanted to. He had to admit it. He wanted to turn on the TV, turn to one of those adult movie channels and lose himself in the void for a while. The case file, reread twice already, sat on the small circular table by the door. @ The tongues. Mulder could close his eyes and see the forensic photographs of the women with their tongues cut out. According to the forensic data, some of the victims were not as lucky as the others; their tongues had been removed with a pair of pliers as opposed to a cutting instrument. In one specific case, the wound had been pre- mortum. # His phone rang. "Mulder." "Hey, Mulder, it's me." Scully. Mulder smiled. "Whatcha doing, Scully?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+= Broadway & 42nd Street (Times Square) New York City "Sittin' and thinking," Scully said as she navigated the narrow road as it neared the tip of Broadway. It was night in New York, and the blanket of darkness had descended on Gotham. Hookers plied their trade openly, some of them wearing clothes that Scully had never imagined, let alone seen with her own two eyes. Some of them looked barely old enough to menstruate. To Scully's utter astonishment, the police looked the other way. A Midtown South RMP sat at the corner, the cops inside sharing jokes with two hookers who were leaning over the driver's door. Amazing. "Thinking about what?" Mulder asked. "Nothing really," Scully said, not wanting to share this with Mulder quite yet, but knowing that she would at some time in the near future. "What are you doing?" she asked. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle Mulder glanced at the TV and then back at the bed. "Nothing," he said. "Just finished rereading the case file for the third time. Getting ready to put on the monkey suit tomorrow morning and go make the FBI and Skinner proud." "Littleton," Scully reminded him. "Yeah, whatever." "How you holding up?" "It was a cold case, Scully. Straightforward profile. I didn't get too deep in this one. No bad dreams, I promise." "Ok, Mulder. Just wanted to check in. I'd better go. It's three hours later here. I'm beat." Mulder heard a car horn, loud, in his ear. "Scully?" "What?" "Where are you?" "In the car..." she said, trailing off. "Heading back to the hotel." "Hmmm...room service, hot bath, TV?" "Hot bath, bed, sleep. In that order. Goodnight, Mulder." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Special Agent Dana Scully drove for another hour and a half, looking at the triple-X rated movie theatres, the barkers standing on the street corners hawking topless and all-nude bars, and the hookers. Walls of them, she thought. A virtual sea of prostitutes. Mulder would love it here, she thought, and was immediately ashamed. She wasn't ready to buy into Alex Cahill's philosophy whole hog quite yet... But you have to admit, she thought, that you probably understand Mulder's...issues a little better now. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle Mulder was watching HBO, a direct-to-video masterpiece about a female cop that goes undercover in a strip bar to track a serial killer. Lots of scenes set in the strip bar. It wasn't quite the same, but Mulder was fairly sure that Scully, if she knew, would cut him some slack. Compromise, he thought. The key to any good relationship. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City On the hunt, hungry, feeling the blood, the heat pounding in his veins. A night kill would be perfect. Two days after Tommy Two Chins. Perfect. And Danielle was perfect. She loved to walk at night. He'd read the case file from the Marshal's service. Danielle Jones had given the WITSEC folks fits because she liked to slip her cover and take long walks. Walks through Central Park. Standing at Central Park West and 86th Street, Mark Dupree watched as Danielle Clarence Jones entered the park for her nightly stroll. The thin, incredibly sharp boning knife was taped securely to his left wrist. The Polaroid was in his pocket, complete with the automatic pop- up flash attachment. Licking his lips, taking a deep, cleansing breath, Mark Dupree slipped behind Danielle Jones, following her into the park. Chapter 14 +=+=+=+=+= Seattle 0241 PST (0541 EST) Mulder was awake, his thoughts filled with Scully. Not the kinds of thoughts that would get him in trouble if she found out, but dangerous thoughts just the same. How to explain it? he wondered. Sometimes, at this time of the morning, this odd, dark, cold time when so very few possibilities seemed outrageous or unbelievable, Mulder wished he could take his partner on a tour of his mind. Wished she could share his thoughts and the feelings behind them; wished she could have the sum total of all his memories and knowledge so that she could finally, utterly know him. That level of emotional intimacy didn't scare him -- not when it came to Scully. He knew that if somehow he could manage to accomplish that feat that it would be all right, that she would know what to do with it, that she would see how sometimes he felt as fragile as a baby bird, as delicate as a still-wet spider web in the dawn's early light. How else could you explain to a woman that you wanted to stare at her face for hours on end, just to re-memorize every plane and curve and line? How do you explain to a woman, any woman, but especially a woman like Dana Scully that...seeing her smile was magical, but not nearly as magical as watching the transformation of her face from her usual cool, professional mask that smile. Watching the way her eyebrows lifted, the way the skin of her cheek slackened and then shifted, watching the corners of her mouth slowly tugging upward and then spreading, and finally, watching the true essence of the smile, that inner light reaching her eyes. Mulder was the only man that he knew that understood that a smile was more in the eyes than in the mouth. He was also the only person he knew that could be content with just watching Scully. There were times, days, when he ached to touch her, when he wanted to draw her into his arms and never let her go. As romantic and mushy as that sounded, that's where it stopped. Mulder washed a hand over his face, groaning into the still night air. Showing Scully that damn movie was the single biggest mistake he'd ever made. If she'd only let him finish explaining... Yes, he thought to her, having the conversation in his mind, I touch myself when I watch this movie. And when I touch myself as I watch this movie, I do think of you. But I don't think of making love with you. I don't think of you naked and panting and wanting me like the faux Scully on the damn screen. I think of walking with you, of talking with you, of laughing and living and loving with you. I think of your smile, Dana Scully. I think of the sweet, innocent sound of your laughter and I wonder at the fact that you can make that free, easy sound after all we've seen and done. When I see that movie and touch myself and think of you, I think of spending the rest of my life with you as the only woman in my life, the only woman I've ever truly wanted to spend my life with. And even then, we're not married, we have no children, and we're not even sleeping together. How on Earth could he explain to her that the fact of her constancy is what he craved. The bedrock knowledge that she would always be there, that she wouldn't leave him, either physically or emotionally. Shamed, Mulder closed his eyes, feeling the next tides of emotion welling up inside him, familiar and comfortable. Always at this time of the morning, always in the motel room scattered across the country, and always the same thoughts. If only she knew. If only she knew why I do some of the things I do. How I want her to be impressed with me, to be proud of me, to look at me with respect and wonder and love and devotion. How do you explain to a woman that you ached to be able to overhear her talking about you to someone she trusts so that you might truly know how she feels about you? How do you tell a woman you've obliquely flirted with for almost five years that it's a defense mechanism? That if she were to take you up on it, turn and face you, grab your tie and drag your head down to hers for that first perfect, electric kiss that you'd more than likely turn and run away as fast as you could? That you weren't afraid of the reality shattering the fantasy but exceeding it, being so much better than it that you shudder at the thought of having to live up to that new reality? I can talk about things that would make most people toss their lunch. I've seen things that most people cannot even begin to comprehend. I've done things that no sane person should even have to contemplate. And I can't find a way to tell the most incredible person, the most incredible woman I've ever known that I worship the ground she walks on. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree was hard at work. He had ten Polaroid photographs spread out on the desk in front of him. Each was a picture of Danielle Jones. She wasn't smiling in any of them. Mark Dupree was in the middle of an emotional battle. All ten pictures had already been scanned into the computer. They were all awaiting dispatch to the NYPD and the New York Times. What had to be done now was clear: the originals had to be destroyed. Possession of them would prove fatal if the police ever executed a search warrant. Not fatal to his case, Dupree knew. Fatal. New York State had just recently reinstated the death penalty for capital crimes. Killing four people certainly qualified. Dupree had a mission, and part of that mission was making those that had created the reason for that mission understand exactly what they had done. And in order to make them understand, he had to show them what had to be done and why. Only through instruction would they gain knowledge. And only through that new knowledge could they truly begin to comprehend. Knowing a thing was easy; only when you could explain it to another could you claim comprehension. The pull of the photographs had proven stronger than he'd anticipated. A pair of very sharp scissors in one hand, Dupree picked up the first of the series and looked at it. @ Beautiful, he thought, and smiled. Look at her face, bloodied and beaten, the beautiful, perfect crimson line tracing from ear to ear. Her eyes were open, staring at the camera, such an image of beauty on her face. Dupree felt himself harden, and he shuddered. The scissors cut cleanly through the photograph, decapitating the image of Danielle Jones. He placed the halves to the side and picked up the second picture. This one showed the second cut. Starting just below her sternum and stopping just above her pubis, the skin gently peeled back to reveal the pink and white and red meat underneath. Snip. Picture three was a masterpiece, Dupree had to admit. The sight of it caused the tightness, the throbbing, to intensify just a little more. The picture was of his own hand, inserted into her abdominal cavity. The edge of his latex exam glove could be seen as he held Jones' liver in his hand. Snip. Four, five, six all went by, each image causing Dupree's breathing to deepen. So beautiful, he thought. So perfect. Snip. Seven, eight and nine. The ninth was perfection itself. He hated to cut it. The Jones woman, one eye carefully removed and left on her chest, pointing directly up at the camera. She had beautiful eyes, he thought. They look like they would taste delicious. # Snip. Dupree finished the ninth and tenth picture and sat back, looking at the twenty pieces on the desk. They called out to be disposed, but to do that would be a crime, a crime worse than murder. Inspiration struck. Dupree racked his brain, thinking. After a moment, he was sure. He had never touched the pictures without wearing gloves. There were no fingerprints. Nothing to trace the pictures to him except the scissors. He could mail the pictures to the cops; they would become evidence. And when, and if, he was arrested, his defense attorney would be forced to look at them, be forced to deal with him. And since he had a Constitutional right to participate in his own defense, he would be able to see them again. Perfect. Dupree quickly gathered them together into a clear plastic bag and then found an envelope. He quickly created the label on the computer, craning his neck and peering at the printer's out tray as the HP DeskJet slowly spit it out: Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill Citywide Major Cases Squad, Commanding One Police Plaza New York, NY 10010 Personal and Confidential. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully heard the annoying buzz of the travel alarm and burrowed deeper into the pillows, hoping to escape the noise. Years spent on the road with Mulder had taught her to put the alarm on the dresser, not the bedside table, forcing her to get up out of bed to turn it off. It was too easy to hit the snooze button and grab another thirty minutes of comfortable dozing. I got in late, she rationalized, and then felt the moorings slip from that particular attempt. The reason I got in late was because I spent two hours cruising the red-light district of Manhattan, looking at hookers and pimps and dealers like I was on some kind of weird socioeconomic safari. Her sleep-addled mind took over from there. She remembered driving through Times Square, and she heard the voice of a "Mutual of Omaha" narrator: "On the left we see the Americanus Prostitutus in her natural habitat. Notice the shocking plumage, which she uses to attract a mate. The Americanus Prostitutus is not a monogamous creature, and often looks to find the most able mate, that being one that can afford her drug habit." God, Dana, she thought, you really need to think about a vacation. Her phone rang. Digging for it, she hit SND and dragged it back under the covers. "Scully," she rasped. "Hey." Mulder. "Mulder...what time is it?" "Oh, about three my time." "That means it's six here, Mulder." Silence. Then: "Did I wake you?" Sigh. "No, Mulder. The alarm went off two minutes ago." "Good." A silence feel between them. "Mulder...what do you want?" "I just wanted you to...know...um...that I...uh..." He stopped talking. Just say it, Mulder, she thought. "Never mind, Scully. Sorry I woke you. I'll call you when I'm done here." Click. Scully sighed, lowering the phone to the bed. It was always so hard with him! The term `walking on eggshells' took on a whole new meaning with Mulder; with him, the eggshells were filled with nitroglycerin. She dialed his cell. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me." Silence. "Listen," she said slowly, "...I've been doing some thinking, and...I know." He hesitated. "Know what?" "Why you do it." "Do what?" "It." Longer pause. "Oh," he finally said. "It's not really even me, is it?" Pause. "I guess not." Longer pause. "How are you with it?" "Better," she admitted. "I'm sorry." "I know. Me too." "You're sorry?" "For not letting you explain. For flying off the handle. For making you feel bad over something you shouldn't." For doubting you, she thought. Mulder didn't answer. "Mulder -- I don't know if I can give you what you need. But I think that we have to wait until this entire ISU assignment is over before we can even think about talking about it." Surprising them both, Mulder replied, "I agree." Scully felt the need to say something more, something else, and gave into the impulse. "Mulder...you know that I wouldn't change a thing, don't you?" "Not even Flukeman?" She snorted. "Not even him, Mulder." Pause. "Me, either." "Mulder...I want you to know something, and I want you to hear what I'm going to say and what I mean." She could hear his nervousness. "I'm listening." She spoke slowly, clearly enunciating every word. "You are the most important person in my life, Mulder. Nothing will ever change that." She paused, and then dove in. "I want to be with you, Mulder." She heard him gasp. "And for right now, we're just going to have to leave it right there," she finished. Mulder was silent for a short while. "I should go," he said softly. "I should try and get some sleep." "It's OK, Mulder. Go to sleep. Call me when you're done with the case." "Bye, Scully. I..." He trailed off, and as much as Scully wanted to hear him say the words, she knew they had a long, hard road ahead. "Me, too," she said simply. He was gone. God, she thought, so much left to say, and no way to say it. As beneficial as last night had been, she still had so much to...work through. To...explain, both to Mulder and herself. She missed him, missed him horribly. The only comforting thought was that if he got through his testimony today, he could be here as early as tonight. And them Scully remember Dr. Larkin's words about time apart. Scully swung her legs out of bed and went to find her briefcase. She dug through it and found the business card she was looking for. Work, pager, cell and home numbers. She dialed the last. The voice was fresh, chipper awake. Scully hated her instantly. "Larkin." "Doctor Larkin, this is Dana Scully. I apologize for calling you at-" "Nonsense, Dana. What can I do for you?" "I'm in New York on assignment, Doctor. My partner is in Seattle testifying on another case. We're going to end up having about two days apart. I was wondering if you think that will be enough." Larkin didn't answer right away. When she spoke again, her voice was using that carefully modulated therapy-tone that Scully despised. Talk to me like a person! she thought. "What's important is what you think, Dana." She's my therapist, Scully thought. Honesty. "I can't stop thinking about him. About how much I hurt him. About how much he means to me. About how much I want to be with him." "I see," Larkin said. "I went driving last night," Scully began, sitting down on the bed. In ten minutes Scully covered her discussion with Alex Cahill and her foray into New York's underbelly. "...and I think I'm beginning to understand a little better." Larkin waited a few moments for Scully's comments to settle before speaking. "Dana, may I ask you a very personal question?" You can ask, Scully thought. "Of course." "Do you masturbate?" "Not very often," Scully said after a very long pause. "I see. If I can ask a follow-up question?" "Sure," Scully said, sighing. "When was the last time you had relations?" "With a man?" "Or a woman," Larkin said, keeping her tone even, noncommittal. Scully grinned. Maybe I'm latently gay. The image of the mailroom clerk flew across her mind again. "The last time I had sex, you mean?" "Yes." Scully calculated. "Six years." If Larkin was shocked by Scully's admission, she hid it well. "I see. Have you had any opportunities for contact, aside from your partner?" "A few," Scully hedged, thinking: Ed Jerse. "I'm going to ask you another question, and I want you to hang up and think about that question before answering. Take as much time as you'd like. Are you ready?" "Lay it on me," Scully said. "Do you think your feelings for your partner in any way interfered with your ability to...accept any of those other offers? I want you to differentiate between your partner and the other man, or men, in your life. I want you to think about what it is about your partner that you find attractive, and then see if those same qualities were in the men that...approached you." Propositioned me, Scully thought. "I understand. Thank you, Doctor Larkin." "Have a nice day, Dana." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle Kings County Superior Court Section 131 Honorable Walter X. Kelly Presiding "Please state your name and occupation for the record," the DA said. "Fox William Mulder. I am a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am currently assigned to the Investigative Support Unit of the Violent Crimes Division." "Please give us a brief recap of your education and other professional qualifications, Agent Mulder." Mulder nodded. It was a speech he had perfected over the years. "I have a doctorate in Psychology from Oxford University, Oxford, England. I am board-certified in the United States in Clinical Psychology and Abnormal Criminal Psychology. I am a certified National Violent Criminal Profiler, one of only six people in the country so certified." "What does that certification mean, Agent Mulder?" "It means that, in addition to my doctorate in Psychology and my APA board certifications, I have completed several post-graduate educational courses sponsored by the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center and the FBI. I am certified to act as a profiler even when not directly assigned to the ISU or working on ISU matters. It means that I am automatically qualified as an expert witness in any federal court." "I see. How many violent serial criminals have you profiled, Agent Mulder?" "I would have no way of knowing an exact number, sir." "Could you approximate for the court?" "Several hundred." "And how many of those profiles have resulted in an arrest?" Mulder shrugged. "Again, I'd have no way-" "An educated approximation, sir?" "Perhaps two hundred." "I see. How many trials have you testified at?" "About forty or so." "And of those, how many have resulted in a conviction?" Mulder frowned. "All of them." "Your honor," the DA said, turning to face the judge, "if there are no objections, I ask that Special Agent Mulder be admitted to this hearing as an expert witness." "Counselor?" the judge asked, glancing at the defense attorney. "No objection, your honor." "Thank you, your honor," the DA said. "Would you please take us through the process you underwent as you constructed the profile that resulted in the arrest of the accused?" Quickly, but competently, Mulder did just that. The DA interjected a few times to ask questions, clarifying some points, illuminating others. The entire process took less than twenty minutes. "The prosecution has no further questions," the DA finally said. "Counselor?" the judge said, peering at the defense attorney. The defense attorney rose and walked to the podium. "Special Agent Mulder, does the name Bill Patterson ring a bell?" "It does." "In what way?" "Bill Patterson was my mentor at ISU. He wrote the book, literally, on profiling serial criminals." "I see. So the man that invented profiling, for lack of a better term, taught you everything you know? About serial criminal profiling, that is?" "That would be correct, to a point." "Very well. Agent Mulder....did he teach you everything he knew?" Mulder shrugged. "I have no way of knowing that, sir." "I see. Agent Mulder, do you still work for Bill Patterson?" Mulder squirmed. "No, sir." "And why is that?" "Agent Patterson is no longer with the FBI." "And why is that?" Mulder sighed. "He was medically retired." "For what reason?" "I'm not privy to his medical records, sir." "Agent Mulder, you are ducking the question. Is it not true that Mr. Patterson was only medically retired from the FBI after being arrested?" Mulder nodded. "Yes." "And after being arrested for murder? Several murders, as a matter of fact?" Mulder nodded again. "Yes, that's true." "So, then, the man that thought you everything you know about this investigatory process not only went insane, but committed murders as well and was arrested, tried and convicted." "Insane is a legal term, counselor," Mulder pointed out. "He was never found legally insane." "Yes, that's true. But wouldn't you say that it calls into doubt your so-called expertise in these matters?" "I don't see how," Mulder said. "Let me put it another way. Would you go to a doctor that you knew had been trained by Josef Mengale?" "OBJECTION!" the DA said, standing. "To compare Patterson to-" "Sustained," the judge said, waving the DA back to his seat. "Counselor," he said, addressing the defense attorney, "this is not a trial. There is no jury to impress. There is no need for grandstanding. The witness has already been qualified as an expert. Please confine your questions to the matter at hand." "No more questions, your honor. Special Agent Mulder, please be aware that I will be calling you as a witness at trial." Wonderful, Mulder thought. "Understood." The judge opened a folder on the bench. "In the matter of the Defense's motion that Agent Mulder's profile be excluded on the grounds that it is not relevant, the defense motion is denied. The profile can be admitted as evidence. Agent Mulder, you are excused with the court's thanks." Mulder stood and stepped down from the witness box, moving quickly towards the exit. He was dialing his cell as he left the courtroom. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree signed on to the Internet Service Provider and quickly created a bogus account. He chose the screen name MrKnife4u and quickly composed the message. Instead of sending it twice, he sent the original to the New York _Times_, and carbon copies to the NYPD, the New York _Daily News_ and the _Post._ He attached the .ZIP file that held the images to the letter and clicked SEND. Twenty seconds later, he was in the newsgroups. He found the one he was looking for and quickly posted the ten images. A minute after that he disconnected from the service after canceling the account. Getting up from his desk, still wearing latex exam gloves, Dupree grabbed the envelope addressed to Cahill and left to find a mailbox. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza Sixty-seven minutes later Cross, Hicks and Scully were in Cahill's office, going over the results of the canvass. "Night tour hit all the buildings with a line of sight to the scene last night. Not a hit. No one saw anything." "Any vibes?" Alex asked. Cross shrugged. "None that I know of." Scully's phone rang. "Scully." "Agent Scully, this is Agent Gates. SciCrime Tools and Marks lab. I have your results on that credit card. I'm faxing the report to the number you gave me, but I thought you'd appreciate a verbal report as well." "Please," Scully said. "The cutting instrument was a pair of heavy-duty office scissors, almost brand new. We found some microscopic metal shavings in the grooves of the cut. Also, the card was cut exactly seven times, resulting in eleven pieces. The order of the cuts is outlined on the report. The only significant thing that I can mention is that the portion of the card that contained the name was cut more times than any other portion. That was cut five times." He hesitated. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" "If I recover a pair of scissors?" "If they have not been used for anything else since then, we can give you a 90 to 95-percent chance of a match. Otherwise, the probability drops. We can say in a court of law that a similar pair of scissors were used. Same brand, model, same basic metallurgic content. But we cannot say with one hundred percent certainty." "Thank you, Agent Gates." "No problem, Agent Scully." Scully hung up. "That was our lab. We have the details back on that credit card." Cahill nodded. "Great. For whatever good it'll do." Scully shrugged. "Mulder asked for it." "So when do we get to meet this mysterious Mulder?" Cross asked. Scully spread her hands. "I don't know. He's due to-" At that moment, her phone rang again. "Scully." "It's me." "We were just talking about you," Scully said. "Uh-oh. Good things, I hope." "Always," she said. "Anyway, I'm done here. I've got a noon flight. Due in at LaGuardia at nine-thirty tonight, your time." "See you then," Scully said. She hung up. "Agent Mulder will be here at nine-thirty tonight." Alex rubbed her hands together. "Good. That means that we can-" Cahill's phone rang. "I need an AA. Cross...get on it." He smiled and nodded. It was Alex's most common complaint. Now, as a Deputy Inspector, she was due an Administrative Assistant. "Cahill," she answered the phone. A moment later she said, "Yes, Deputy Inspector. Thank you. Listen, I'm in the middle of..." Her voice trailed off. She sat back, rubbing the palm of one hand across her face. "What? When? Where?" She listened again. Grabbing a radio with one hand she stood, still talking into the phone. "Ok, you know the drill. Crime Scene Unit, ESU, ME's office. Have the Central Park guys keep everyone away. We're rolling now." She hung up the phone. "Son of a bitch did it again!" she said loudly. "Central Park and about 90th. Black female." Raising the radio to her lips, she transmitted. "All M-Mike units on the air. 10-61 at Central Park and nine zero. Respond forthwith. Again, all M-Mike Units on the air, 10-61 at Central Park and nine zero. Respond forthwith." "Central is gonna have kittens," Cross warned. A moment later, Cross' prediction was proved correct. "Central to M-Mike transmitting unit. Please identify." And a moment after that, "C-Charlie Six, I want the ID of that voice, NOW!" Cross winced. C-Charlie Six was Captain Tanner, the Commanding Officer of Citywide Communications. He was a stickler for proper radio communication. What Alex should have done, of course, was radioed and asked central to dispatch her units for her. That was the proper way, the accepted way. "C-Charlie Six, this is M-Mike...Eight," Cahill radioed back. "Ah...M-Mike Eight?" "Ten-Four, C-Charlie Six." "Disregard," C-Charlie Six radioed a moment later, the disgust evident in his voice. "Asshole," Alex muttered. Cross, Hicks and Scully all stood up. And Cahill's phone rang again. "Shit, what now?" she muttered, grabbing it. "Cahill." Alex Cahill paled and sat down. She took two deep breaths. "I understand. I'll have...someone come down there right away. We just found the...body." Cross and Scully exchanged a glance. Cahill hung up. "Sam, Dana...Daryl and I are going to Central Park. I want the both of you to go down to Information Systems and ask for a Lieutenant Hamel. He has something for you. You're also going to meet an officer from Public Information, who is probably going to be bouncing off the walls." "What happened?" Sam asked. "Our...suspect...emailed ten graphic images of the body. Both to us and to several newspapers. I imagine that our days of being able to contain this case are just about over." Scully bit her lip. Cross nodded. "Daryl, you're with me. Sam, Dana, after you finish downstairs in IS, come to the scene or get me on the radio and we'll decide what to do from there." Standing, she regarded her team. "Questions?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York Police Department, Information Systems Division One Police Plaza Cross and Scully entered the IS offices and were met by Lieutenants Barrington and Hamel, both in uniform. "Sam Cross," Sam said, offering his hand. "Dana Scully," Scully said, repeating the gesture. "Well," Hamel grunted, "let's show you what we have." He led them back to his office, a Spartan affair that was jammed with technology. Scully counted four monitors and keyboards, as well as two laptop computers. They were all on, and judging by the snake's nest of wires and cables behind the desk, were connected to the pulse of the NYPD's computer system. "We received an email with ten image files attached," Hamel started. "The name of the sender is MrKnife4U. Lieutenant Barrington has indicated to me that the previous email was signed by a MrKnife, and since the services won't allow you to reuse screen names for up to two years, we assume that this is the same person." Good assumption, Cross thought. Moron. "Can I get a copy of the entire email, images included, on a diskette?" Scully asked. Hamel shook his head. "Won't fit on a diskette. Over 3 megs." Scully nodded, reaching for her phone. Speed Dial "6" was a very special number. "Lone Gunmen," a voice answered. Byers. "Do you recognize my voice?" Scully asked. "Of course." "If I needed to send you something to examine, a computer file, and it was larger than could fit on a diskette, how would you want it?" "ZIP Disk?" Scully covered the mouthpiece with her palm. "Do you have ZIP drives?" she asked. Hamel nodded. "Done," she said into the phone. "I'm going to send you an email that was sent to the NYPD." She paused. "You know what I want." "Absolutely. I'll get...Frohicke on it right away." Scully turned to Cross. "I need a runner." Sam reached down and grabbed the phone on Hamel's desk and dialed the Administrative Services Bureau. "I need an officer with a FedEx envelope in IS forthwith," he said and hung up. As Cross had been speaking, Lieutenant Hamel had located a blank ZIP disk and had inserted it into one of the PC's. "Blank?" he asked Scully. She nodded. "This is going off-site to Washington. Anything you don't want seen by outsiders, take off the disk." "I'll just format it," Hamel said. Scully laughed. "Perhaps I should be more clear. Do you have a US Government-approved disk wiper?" Hamel nodded. "Use it. The people that are going to look at this disk will be able to recover anything. And they'd do it, just to prove they can." Hamel nodded again, wondering who this woman was, and who she was sending the email to. He thought about questioning her...and after a moment dismissed that thought with a shrug. He handed her the ZIP disk four minutes later. "Let's look at the images," Cross said. Hamel manipulated the software, and a few seconds later the first JPEG appeared. "Oh, God," Gloria Barrington said, turning away. Scully moved past her to get a better look. "I'm going to need to see all the scene photographs," she said to Cross. "Do you guys do video?" she asked. "We can," Cross said. "Do it." Sam grabbed his portable. "M-Mike Two to M-Mike Eight," he called. A moment later, Alex's voice came back, the sound of a siren in the background. "M-Mike Eight, go, Two." Cross paused. He didn't want to put out on the air that the FBI was requesting video from CSU. There were at least a million scanners in New York City, and at least a third of them belonged to the media. "M- Mike Eight, M-Mike Eight Alpha requests CSU do a video on that scene, K?" There was a short pause. "M-Mike Eight, Understood. Ten-Four." Cross nodded at Scully. "Lieutenant, if I may?" Scully asked, indicating computer with a gentle lift of her chin. Hamel's expression clouded, making it clear that he didn't much like the idea of being usurped in his own office, but one glance at Detective Cross was all it took. Hamel stood, graciously offering his chair. "Please," he said. Scully sat down just as a runner from Administrative Services showed up out of breath, clutching a FedEx envelope. "You have something for me?" he asked. Scully tossed the ZIP disk to Cross, who handed it to the runner. "Don't drop this in the box," Cross instructed. "Take it down to the FedEx office yourself. Bring the receipt back to me. If I'm not here, get Central to find me, and then you come to me and hand it to me." Cross held the man's gaze. "I can't overestimate how important this is. Find me. Understand?" The officer nodded, paling. "Sir, what's in here?" Cross and Scully exchanged a glance. She shook her head very slightly, returning her gaze to the monitor. "Evidence," Cross finally said. "Critical evidence." The officer nodded and turned to leave. "Son," Cross called. The cop stopped and turned back, a question on his face. "Don't you think it'd be a good idea to get the address first?" "I know where the FedEx office is, sir," the cop said, a cocky smile on his face. "You psychic too?" Scully said. "Shit!" he said. "What's the address?" Cross asked. Scully opened her mouth to answer and then closed it softly. She had no idea. She had never gone there without Mulder, and he always drove. It was in Baltimore. Somewhere in Baltimore. She reached for her phone and dialed again. "Lone Gunmen," Byers answered. "It's me. I need your address for the envelope." Byers read it off to her, and Scully gave it to the AS cop, who wrote it down and then verified it, line by line. "Go," Cross said, patting him on the shoulder and pointing at Hamel's office door. "Forthwith." Central Park West The crime scene had already been taped off by the time Alex got there. Four Central Park Precinct cops stood guard, keeping the gawkers and press at bay. Damn press, Alex thought. Scanners should be illegal. "Captain! Captain Cahill!" one of them called, rushing at her with a microphone clutched in one crimson-taloned paw, a cameraman trailing in her wake. Alex hated the woman with a passion; she had a knack of asking the most annoying questions in such a way that any answer was bound to be wrong. What Alex privately called the "Have you stopped beating your wife?" questions. "Captain Cahill, is this poor woman another one of the Knife's victims?" "First off," Alex said, "I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation, Sheila. You should know that. Secondly, I just got here. I don't know what we have yet. Thirdly, it's Deputy Inspector Cahill. Have a good day." Cahill turned to duck under the tape. "Inspector!" Sheila called. "The people have a-" Alex stopped dead in her tracks and spun on the reporter, ducking under the tape to face her. "Don't," she said, holding up a hand. "Don't you dare say it. The people do not have a right to know. Not yet. When we have completed our investigation, we will hold a press conference at the House. You, as well as all the other stations, newspapers, magazines and any other credentialled media are more than welcome to attend. But we are conducting a murder investigation here, not a media feeding frenzy. We don't even know the victim's name! We'd like the chance to inform her family before they hear about it on the six o'clock news, if that's all right with you!" Angrily, Alex spun again and ducked under the tape. "I got it," the cameraman said out of the corner of his mouth. "Good," Sheila said. "We'll lead with that tonight, I know it." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza Scully glanced at Cross and then flicked her eyes at Hamel and Barrington. Cross nodded, getting it. "Lieutenants, sir...ma'am, if you don't mind, I think Special Agent Scully and myself would like a few moments to discuss this new evidence in private." Barrington nodded and ducked out, glad to be away. "Call me when you have a statement for the press," she said over her shoulder as she left. "I don't think-" Hamel started to say. "Sir," Cross said, "I think if you have any questions about my request, you need to direct them to Deputy Inspector Cahill or-" "DI? Cahill made DI?" Cross nodded. "...or, if she's not available, Chief Zolinski." Hamel grunted, finally understanding what he was up against. "Very well. Please let me know when I can use my office again." Cross guided Hamel by the elbow to the door, speaking in soft, soothing tones. "Of course, Lieutenant. And thanks again for bringing this to our attention. Oh...one more thing. Who noticed this first?" "I did," Hamel said smugly. "You often cruise the inbound mailboxes?" Cross asked. "That message was addressed to Zolinski." Hamel paled. "Uh..." "Don't worry about it, Lieutenant. I think, in the greater scheme of things, Chief Zolinski has better things to worry about than who's reading his private email." Hamel swallowed and made a quick exit. Scully grinned. "You realize that as long as he's the CO of this unit, you have him in the palm of your hand." "Something like that," Cross replied, locking the door. He walked back around Hamel's desk and leaned down, peering over Scully's shoulder at the monitor. "Look at that," he said, pointing at the screen. "Different knife." "So, what were the weapons again?" "Gun on the first one, knife on the other three," Cross replied. "The first victim, Leon King, was shot at close to point-blank range. Emptied a .22 magazine into him." Scully spun. "A .22?" "Yeah, why?" "Assassin's weapon," she mused, "but usually only for close-in work. Back of the ear, back of the head, that kind of stuff. No one shoots from the front with a .22. To much chance of hitting a rib and deflecting." Cross shook his head. "Well, I guess our guy figured that, because he emptied the magazine into the guy's head. One stray shot caught him in the throat. Not one in the chest or torso." Scully bit her lip. "He can shoot," she finally said, turning back to the monitor. "So why isn't he shooting?" "Knife is a more..." "Personal weapon," Scully finished. "You have to get in close to use it." Cross nodded again. "Yeah." Scully clicked to the next picture. "Look at this," she said again, pointing. "He eviscerated her." "If it's the same victim," Cross said. Scully glanced over her shoulder. She hadn't thought of that. Cross raised the radio to his lips. "M-Mike Eight, M-Mike Two, K?" "Eight." "Eight, are you eighty-five yet?" "That's affirmative, Two. What's up?" "Uh...I'm gonna call you," Cross said, holding out his hand. Scully handed him her cell and watched as he dialed. "Alex, we need to make sure the pictures we're looking at are the same vic. Can you get close? OK..." Cross leaned over Scully's shoulder again, much closer this time. So close, in fact, that Scully could smell his cologne. Spicy, she thought. "Ok, we have a black female, looks to be about 30 to 35. She's wearing a gold bracelet around her left wrist, looks to be...yeah, ok, that's her. Thanks, Alex." Cross hung up. "Well, it's the same victim. At least the bastard didn't do two in one night." Scully shook her head. "This bastard is going to be tough to catch." "Why?" Cross asked. "I looked at the files yesterday. Leon King, black male. John Wagner/Nelson, WASP male. Tony Montoya/Conners, Italian male. And now this one, black female. He's crossing racial boundaries. They don't normally do that, or gender boundaries. Blacks kill blacks and whites kill whites." "Why will that-" "Because it's harder to profile. Mulder's going to want to figure out what's driving this guy. Why he's picking these victims. Normally, a serial killer sticks with a single type of victim. He's basically killing the same thing over and over again. Usually, anyway. This guy...I have no idea why he's killing them." "You're not the profiler," Cross gently reminded her. Scully nodded. "Yeah, but right now, I'm all you've got." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alex approached the body from an oblique angle, not wanting to contaminate the scene any more than she had to. She glanced at the grass, and at the ground surrounding the body. No drag marks. No footprints. She made a mental note to recheck what the weather conditions were like last night. Daryl Hicks, already snapping on latex gloves, performed the same ritual from the other side, moving slowly, letting his eyes take in everything. Alex stood back, giving the man room to work. Her cardinal rule about running a detective squad was to let the people best suited to run the investigation do so with at little interference as possible. She'd attracted two of the best detectives in the entire Detective Bureau that way. The victim's left eye was still open. Her right eye was missing placed delicately, almost reverently, on her chest. Daryl reached as if he was going to close it, and Alex almost said something about disturbing prints on the body. But he didn't touch the woman's eye. His fingers gently prodded her temple, testing the rigidity in her neck muscles. He stooped lower, twisting his neck under and down. "Pooling," he said softly, noticing the dark marks on the woman's buttocks and back. Alex made notes as Daryl talked, planning to give them to him later. Dependent lividity was another sign that confirmed the woman had been killed here, not elsewhere and then dumped. After death, with the heart no longer pumping the blood through the circulatory system, gravity pulled blood to the lowest point in the body. If the lividity pattern matched the body's outline on the ground, that was absolute proof that Alex and Daryl were looking at the murder scene. "Hematoma," Daryl called again, "throat and neck area. Looks to be a good sized hand." "Print?" Daryl shook his head. "I doubt it. This guy has been way too careful for this. Ask Cross if he can see any hands in the pictures." Alex nodded. Good idea, she thought. "M-Mike Eight to M-Mike Two." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza "Two." "Landline," Alex radioed. Borrowing Scully's cellphone again, Cross dialed. "They don't give you guys cells?" Scully teased. "In my locker," Cross said with a soft smile. "Hey, boss. What's up?" "Sam, can you see the doer's hands in any of those shots?" "Yeah, in two of them. Gloves in both shots." "Shit. Thanks. Anything else I should be aware of?" Cross nodded, even though he knew Alex couldn't see him. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Might want to have the ME confirm this, but it looks like he took a trophy." "Like what?" "Piece of something inside her. We have a shot of him reaching inside the abdominal cavity just after opening her up, judging by the blood flow, and the next shot shows that wound being widened a lot. Dr. Scully thinks it might be part of the liver or something." "Wonderful. A liver-eating serial killer," Alex said. "Alex thinks the guy may be eating the livers," Cross said to Scully. She turned to face him, a wry smile twitching on her lips. Surely, he couldn't know about the Tooms case? "I kind of doubt that," Scully said slowly. "Me, too," Cross mouthed. "No forensics. But this is the first time it looks like he's...well, done something besides just slice them open or shoot them in the face. Alex? Talk to you soon." He hung up. Scully shrugged. "Yes, and the wounds are getting more complex. >From the autopsy photos that I saw of the Wagner and Montoya murders, he's getting... better at it. He's getting a taste for it." "Enjoys it, huh?" Scully shrugged again. "Mulder's the better person to ask that question of, but...no, I don't think so. From seeing the autopsy photos and these, I get a sense of deep rage, but...controlled rage. Look..." Scully clicked back to one of the early pictures. "The original abdominal incision is perfect. From the tracheal notch right down to the pubic arch. It took me years to perfect that cut as a pathologist." Cross grunted. The thought of this beautiful, delicate woman gutting a corpse open was...disturbing. Alarming. "And the second cut, the one just below the ribcage. Not a surgical cut -- I don't think he has any medical training..." "Other than what he picks up as he goes along?" Cross muttered. Scully grinned, glad for the small injection of levity. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. But...again, there's a purpose to the cut. No rage, no wild stabbing, no gouging...no tears. He's not thrusting the knife in and pulling like we'd see in a rage-based murder. It's almost as if..." She stopped, not sure she wanted to offer any more of her opinions. "What?" Scully felt she could trust this man. "I'm not offering the FBI's opinion on this," she said by way of disclaimer, "but...it looks as if he's trying to...let something out. Like he believes that they all have... at least, the last three...that they all have something inside them that he's trying to get out, or set free, something like that." Cross nodded. "It's consistent with the cuts, I agree. But... like you said, neither one of us is really qualified to offer an opinion on that." Scully grunted. She clicked on the last picture. It was a close-up of the note. 613:4091 USMS 5920509540 "Three men in a boat on a lake. Two fathers and two sons. How can this be?" Scully frowned. "He's taunting us?" she asked. "The last one had a puzzle, too. Uh...how many birthdays does the average man have?" "One," Scully answered immediately. Impressed, Cross nodded. "Ok...how about this one?" Scully scratched her chin, her eyes squinting in concentration. "Grandfather, father, son," she said after a minute. "The father is both a father and a son. Two fathers, two sons. Actually, the puzzle should be, three sons and two fathers." "Nah," Cross said, "that'd be too easy. Any idea on what the other shit is about?" "This," Scully said, pointing to the second line, "is a US Marshal's service booking number. I have no idea what the first line is." "Neither do we," Cross admitted. "I have a feeling that it's important." "Obviously a code of some kind," Scully said, reaching for the phone. She dialed the offices of the Lone Gunmen for the third time that day. "Gunmen," Langly answered. "It's Dana Scully," Scully said. "That disk I just sent ... photograph number ten is a close-up of a note left at the scene. Take a crack at the first line, ok? It's a code of some kind." "Ok, Scully. Mulder there?" "Why do you ask?" Scully said, immediately regretting the question. "Well, we were all gonna go to an "Earth:Final Conflict" party tonight, and if he was going to be in Washington, he could come dressed as his favorite Companion-" "He's in Seattle," Scully quickly interjected. "Oh, well," Langly said. "Say, you're not-" "No. Thanks, really. I appreciate it." "Take care." Scully hung up and returned her attention to the monitor. "If you don't mind my asking, who were you talking to?" "Why do you want to know?" "Well, it's obviously not an FBI facility. I was just curious as to whom you're sharing all this sensitive evidence with." "How do you know it's not an FBI facility?" Scully asked, one eyebrow arched. "Because you didn't identify yourself as Special Agent Scully, just as Dana Scully, number one. And the person obviously knows who your partner is, but not where he is." Scully nodded. "You're good, Detective Cross." "That didn't answer my question," he pointed out. "No," Scully said, clicking on one of the earlier images, "It didn't." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 4:58pm Mark Dupree sat down in front of the television in his living room. Just like the computers in the basement, all the equipment in here was top of the line. The TV was a thirty-seven inch Sony XBR flat screen. All four VCRs were humming, each tuned to a different station. He was watching Eyewitness News on Channel 7, waiting for Ernie Anastos to come on. He'd caught a fifteen-second station-break feed while surfing for a movie to watch on HBO or Showtime, and it had sounded like the NYPD had finally decided to come clean. The electronic-syntho-crap that passed for theme music filled Dupree's SurroundSound speakers, and a moment later Ernie appeared, wearing the Professional Frowny Face that all news anchors wore to communicate to their viewers that Bad News was on the way. "Police are at the scene of a murder in Central Park," Ernie announced, "in what highly placed sources inside the Police Department are calling the fourth in a series of similar murders. We now go live to One Police Plaza, where Chris Borgen is attending a press conference. Chris?" The screen flashed to reveal the faces of one of New York's oldest living monument: Chris Borgen, a reporter that had covered the crime beat for thirty years and all six New York TV stations. "Ernie, Lieutenant Barrington has just confirmed that the victim discovered today in Central Park is, in fact, the fourth victim in what appears to be a series of similar killings." "Chris, do the police think we have a serial killer on our hands?" Here it comes, Dupree thought, rubbing his hands together. Once Borgen said those magic words, it would start for real. "No, Ernie," Borgen said, visibly surprising Ernie and flooring Dupree. "As a matter of fact, the FBI Spokesperson went out of her way to point out the inconsistencies in these cases. I think we have that on tape....Bill?" A moment later the screen flashed again, and a gorgeous, petite redhead was shown standing behind the lectern in the NYPD Press Room. A moment after that, a graphic flashed up. "Special Agent Dana Scully, MD," the graphic read. "The FBI at this time is not classifying this as a serial killing," the woman said, "for a few reasons. First, the four victims are atypical to each other. Serial murderers, as I'm sure you're all aware, tend to pick a specific type of victim, and this does not appear to be the case at this time." "Agent Scully!" a voice called. "Yes?" she asked, pointing. "If there is not a serial murderer preying on the people of New York, then...why are you here?" Dana Scully smiled. "Well, as a matter of fact, as I'm also sure you've discovered by now, I am on the Response Team for the Investigative Support Unit, but I'm not in New York in an official capacity. I'm a medical doctor, a pathologist, not a criminal profiler. My partner is the profiler, and he's in Seattle, testifying on a case as we speak. It just so happens that Deputy Inspector Cahill and I went through the FBI Academy together, and I was in New York to help her celebrate her recent promotion." "BULLSHIT!" Dupree screamed at the television. He launched himself out of the chair, pacing back and forth in front of the television. Impossible. They couldn't be that stupid. Sure, the NYPD. But not the FBI! "Dr. Scully, what do you make of the notes?" Scully shook her head. "I'm sorry, but that I cannot comment on. That's material evidence in an ongoing homicide investigation. I'm sure you understand." She paused. "Now, if there aren't any other questions, I'm off to the airport to pick up my partner, and then we're flying to DC." There were other questions, shouted, yelled, screamed questions, but Dr. Dana Scully, MD ignored them all as she stepped down off the podium and made her way out of the Press Room. Borgen's face reappeared on the screen. "So there you have it, Ernie. The NYPD and FBI both proclaiming that there is no serial killer stalking New York, just four incredibly coincidental homicides. This is Chris Borgen at One Police Plaza...Channel 7...EYEWitness News." "In other news," Ernie said, segueing without a break, "the mayor announced today spending cuts aimed at-" Dupree jabbed the remote at the TV, furious. Livid. Calm down, he told himself. Listen to what they meant, not what they said. They admitted the existence of the notes, which was a huge mistake. Especially when the notes would be published in the newspaper. And as soon as some Internet surfer figured out what the nine postings were, it would become a story coast-to-coast, and then all around the world. Patience, Dupree thought. Give them what they want, and what I need. Another body. Chapter 15 +=+=+=+=+= New York City Scully and Cross finished with the images on Hamel's computer, contacted Zolinski and informed him that he wouldn't be receiving that particular email, and then impounded the user and router-table logs from the NYPD's email server as evidence. Lieutenant Hamel was none to pleased with any of it, and made his displeasure known with indignant frowns and subtle comments made under his breath. "Ready?" Cross finally asked. Scully thought a moment and nodded, sure that she had remembered everything. "Off to the scene?" she asked. Cross nodded, leading her out of the IS department to the motor pool. Major Cases had its own section, complete with a fleet of Chevy Caprice Classics. They checked one out and climbed inside. Reaching under the seat, Cross found a magnetic red bubble light and jammed it on the roof, plugging it into the cigarette lighter with a smooth, practiced motion. As they emerged from the underground garage, he tapped the siren with his hand, sending cars scattering as he pulled into traffic. "How far away?" Scully asked. "Ten, fifteen minutes," he said, taking the onramp to the West Side Highway. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Central Park West Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill realized that there was no putting it off: She had to talk to the press. The brass, wise beyond their years and ranks, had decided that to appear at the scene of what the newsbreaks were already calling the `fourth' in a series of serial killings would expose them to unwanted levels of press attention. Better to let the woman who had all but begged for the job to talk to the press. Even Lieutenant Barrington had decided that her presence was needed elsewhere, and was nowhere to be found. She hadn't answered any of Alex's six or seven urgent "911" pages. Damnable woman, Alex thought, approaching the yellow crime scene tape. All six New York stations were present, along with a healthy representation of the print media. A few microphones belonging to the New York radio market were also thrust into her face. "Captain!" they all called, trying to out-shout each other. As was her policy with the press, Alex waited for them to scream themselves hoarse before speaking. Those that knew her, that had dealt with her in the past waited patiently, while the newer, greener reporters, or those that had never dealt with her before continued to scream. Finally, understanding, they fell silent. "I have a statement," Alex said slowly. "I will not be taking questions. Today, a passing jogger located the body of an as-yet- unidentified black female. It is the judgment of the medical examiner that this woman is a victim of a homicide. Since that homicide fits the pattern of an ongoing investigation being conducted by the citywide Major Cases Squad, myself and my detectives will be taking over the investigation of this homicide. At this time, we have no leads and no suspects." Alex paused. "That's all I have for you." She turned to leave. "CAPTAIN!" Sheila called. Alex turned back, obviously irritated. "I said-" she started. "Captain, the people have a-" Alex held up her hand, stopping the woman in mid-sentence. "Listen to me, Sheila," she said softly. "You and I have had this discussion before. There is nothing more to tell you that will not compromise our investigation. I cannot comment on the details of an ongoing investigation. Every single time we meet up at a scene, you ask the same questions, and I give you the same answers. When the Medical Examiner completes his autopsy, he will make a statement. If Major Cases has anything to say, we will make a statement through the Public Information Office. Why is this so hard to understand? I have never let something slip in one of these... circuses you people seem to love so much. So what makes you think I'm going to start today?" "Captain," Sheila started, her tone reproachful. "No, Sheila," Alex said, "I'm not going to listen to you. I told you I had a statement and that I wasn't going to be taking questions. What part of that don't you understand? What is so _difficult_ for you to grasp?" "Captain, this city is gripped by fear-" the reporter started. "Sheila, dammit! If the city, as you say, is `gripped by fear' then you have no one to blame but yourselves. The police department has not issued any official statements regarding any danger to the general public. Any information that you have obtained is through unofficial channels, and thus suspect. If you report on rumors, again, you have only yourselves to blame. I'm sick of you people taking my words and the words of my detectives and twisting them to fit your own ends, to make sensationalistic reports that do nothing but garner higher ratings. This woman's death is a tragedy, and I will not have you using me or my detectives as fodder for your little feeding frenzy. Is that clear?" Sheila nodded, knowing that this was going to make great tape. Her news director was going to shit when he saw this. Alex turned and walked back to the scene, shaking her head. Reaching for her cell phone, she quickly dialed. "Zolinski," the NYPD Chief of Detectives answered. "Chief, Alex Cahill," she said. "I may have just stepped in it with the press. If they call you, give them the `full faith' speech, ok?" Zolinski was silent for a moment, obviously gathering his thoughts. "Maybe you'd better tell me what happened before I express my undying faith and gratitude in you, Inspector." Quickly, Alex gave him the specifics. "Wonderful," he moaned. "Fine, Alex...do me a favor? Don't antagonize them anymore? I'd hate to have to suspend you." Alex laughed. "Well, then, we can get the case solved that much quicker. Don't you go to the movies, Chief? The only time the heroine can solve the case is when the Big Bad Boss suspends her!" "That's heroes, Alex, not heroines. Heroines are supposed to wear scanty clothing and fix the boo-boos of the heroes after they get into a fight." "Scanty clothing?" Alex teased. "Maybe for your next birthday, chief." She heard a siren approaching and turned to see the unmarked unit piloted by Cross pull up. "Gotta go, the cavalry is here." She hung up on him, knowing that he would understand; Zolinski had been a street cop longer than Alex had been alive. Cross and Scully approached her. Just as they prepared to duck under the tape, the press launched themselves at Scully. "Agent Scully! Agent Scully!" "No comment," Scully said, bypassing them. "Agent Scully, is the FBI involved in this investigation?" Sheila shouted. "Is this case beyond the NYPD's ability to handle?" Scully stopped in her tracks and sighed, turning to face the press pool. "No. Comment." she said again. "I think," Sheila said condescendingly, "that the people of New York have a right to know if the police department their taxes pay for are outclassed by a serial murderer, outclassed to the point where they need to call in federal authorities to help catch this madman." "What madman?" Scully asked, instantly regretting her question. "Why, Agent Scully, surely you must know that a serial murderer is stalking the people of New York!" Scully laughed. "Do you ever _listen_ to yourself?" she asked. "You sound like a bad Jerry Springer episode!" "Agent Scully, are you investigating this case? Is the FBI involved?" "Yes, we are assisting the Major Cases Squad with certain psychological profiles, but we are in no way taking this investigation over. There is no need to. The NYPD is doing everything that can be done to track and arrest the guilty party. For any other information, you'll have to call the NYPD PIO, or the Public Affairs office of the FBI in Washington. Thank you." Scully turned and followed Sam Cross, who had waited for her, over to where Alex stood. "Shit!" Alex said. "I'm sorry, Dana." Scully shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Dealing with the New York press is like..." Scully trailed off, looking for a colorful phrase. "Swimming in a shark tank wearing a steak suit?" Cross helpfully supplied. "Something like that," Scully smiled, nodding her agreement. "So, what do we have?" "Take a look," Alex said, sweeping her hand to indicate the body. The Crime Scene Unit had arrived and was working the scene. The Deputy Medical Examiner was crouched over the body, slowly inserting a long, evil-looking temperature probe into the victim's liver. Cross reached into his jacket pocket and returned with two pairs of latex gloves. Without looking, he offered a pair to Scully, who quickly took and donned them. She moved towards the body, taking a similarly oblique angle as Alex had previously. "Can I help you?" the DME asked snippily. "Special Agent Dana Scully," Scully said. "I'm a forensic pathologist." "Oh," he said, nodding. "Time of death?" she asked. "Sometime last night. I'll have to get the weather reports to make sure, but...about nine or ten last night, I guess." Scully nodded. There was blood. A lot of blood. She saw the one eye sitting on the victim's chest and shuddered. That was interesting. Scully idly wondered what Mulder would make of that. "Where's the note?" she asked. One of the CSU detectives handed her an evidence bag with the note inside. Scully removed a printout from the email and matched it. Exact. The Gunmen wouldn't get the ZIP disk until tomorrow, she thought. And it might take them forever to figure out what the damn code was, or even what kind of code he was using. "Anyone run the booking number?" she called. Alex walked up, dusting lint off of her navy blue blazer. "Yeah, I called it in, but I haven't heard back yet." Scully reached for her cell and dialed. "Bernstein," a voice answered. "Dana Scully," Scully said. "How are you?" "Fine, Agent Scully. What can I do for you?" "Grab a Marshals terminal session and run a booking number." "Hold one." Scully heard the muted tones of Q-Lite 92, Washington DC's `adult listening station.' A moment later, Danny was back. "Lay it on me," he said. Scully read him the number. "Classified, Agent Scully. Looks like WITSEC." Scully grunted, covering the mouthpiece, she nodded at the victim with her chin. "Protected witness," she said softly. "Anything you can do?" she said to Danny. "Hold one...there's a Clark County RTA on the original request for information -- I'm linking through NCIC right now...ah, here it is." He read her Danielle Jones' rap sheet, whistling at the number of arrests and the relatively small amount of time served. "That's it," he finally said. "Last thing I have is four years ago. Questioned and released at the scene of a murder." "Fax all of it to the following number," Scully said, reading off the MCS fax number. "ASAP, Danny. Appreciate it." "Anytime, Agent Scully. Say hello to Mulder for me." Scully had a sudden thought. "Danny, do you have any friends over at NSA?" "Excuse me?" "I have a code here...actually, four codes. No one here has an idea on them. Wondered if you'd want to take a look, or if you knew anyone that might be able to take a crack at it." Danny hesitated. "Officially?" "No," Scully said. "Doesn't have to be." "Sure, I can take a look at it. My...I have a friend over at DIA who has a friend at NSA that might want to take a look at it. As a favor, you understand." "What kind of favor?" Scully asked. "Date?" "Me or you?" she teased. "Er...you, Agent Scully. He met you at the Antiterrorism Conference last year. Paul?" Scully wracked her brain. A dim mental image of an Army officer came to her. "About thirty, six-two, Infantry?" "That's him." Scully sighed. What the hell. "Sure, one date if he cracks the code." Danny laughed. "Ok, I'll tell him." He paused. "Who knows? With the proper motivation...?" "Talk to you later, Danny." Scully hung up, laughing. "What's so funny?" Cross asked. Scully explained that she had just bartered her personal life for federal assistance in cracking the code. Cross nodded. "Whatever works. Hell...if he's cute-" "Sam!" Alex snapped. Cross grinned. "Sorry." Scully's cell rang. "That was fast," she cracked. "Scully." "Hi, it's me." "Hiya, Mulder. What's up?" "Listen, do me a favor? Have someone makes copies of everything? Bring it to the airport when you pick me up, ok? I want to get a jump on this stuff." Scully nodded, even though she knew Mulder couldn't see it. "Done. Nine-thirty right?" +=+=+=+=+==+=+= LaGuardia Airport 9:29PM EST Scully stood, her hands in the pockets of her trench coat, watching as the Boeing 737-300 pulled up to the jetway. After a few moments, the security door yawned open and passengers started streaming off. Mulder was the next to last to deplane. "Hi," he said, smiling tiredly. "Waiting long?" Scully shrugged. "Not long." "Anything new?" "Another victim," Scully said. "You got me at a crime scene." "Match?" She nodded. "Note, plus he emailed pictures he took during the murder to the NYPD and the papers. Plus the forensics match, and it looks like the victim was a protected witness." "Marshals have anything to say?" Scully shook her head. "Nothing yet." They turned and made their way down to the taxi stand. Scully had parked her rental there. A NYPD parking plate was displayed on her dashboard, courtesy of Alex Cahill. It stated that the car was on official NYPD business and was not subjected to ticketing or towing. A handy little device, Scully thought. The FBI should have those as well. "Trunk is full," Scully said. Mulder just grunted, tossing his carryon into the backseat and then collapsing into the passenger seat. Scully got in and started the car. Checking the rearview, she slid the car into the heavy airport traffic and headed back towards Manhattan. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 42nd Street & Broadway (Times Square) 55 minutes later Light. Bright, liquid, neon, it slid up the windshield and over the car, washing Scully with it. Mulder was going over the most recent case file, using the small map light to study the crime scene photographs. At a stoplight, Scully watched as a hooker approached a car with dark, tinted windows. The curbside window slid down slowly, quietly on oiled tracks. The driver leaned over, exchanged a few words with the prostitute. After a moment of haggling, the hooker got in the car. "Amazing there's not more of them," Scully muttered. "What?" Mulder asked. "Nothing," Scully replied. "What?" he asked, looking up. "Nothing, Mulder. Forget it." "More of what, Scully?" "Serial killers," she answered, realizing that he had heard her after all. "Why?" The light turned green. Scully drove south, towards the hotel. "Look at this place, Mulder. It's a cesspool." Mulder glanced up, realized where he was and closed the file. "Yeah," he said softly, staring out the window. He turned his gaze towards his partner, watching as the patterns of light lit her face in a diffuse glow. Her face was set, jaw tight. "Bothers you, doesn't it?" he asked. "A little," she admitted. "It's just that...it's accepted here. I mean, I know they call it the world's oldest profession...but other departments in other cities at least make an effort at stopping it. Here....here it seems like they've given up. Confine them to a specific area in each Borough, and let it go." She sliced the air with the flat of her hand, disgusted. "Some guys..." Mulder said quietly, "...a hooker is all they can get." "Or all they want," Scully replied softly. Mulder shrugged. "Sure, that, too." "It's...dangerous, Mulder. Spreads disease. HIV. AIDS. Most of these women are feeding habits. None of them are in the life because they want to be." "Some women do have hooker fantasies," Mulder pointed out and then immediately regretted it. Scully's jaw tightened even more, if that were possible. "I'm not arguing that with you, Mulder. But...c'mon...there isn't a woman alive that would fantasize about...this." She waved a hand at the world outside the car. "Sure, maybe in a weird, romance-novel way, some women might like the idea of a man paying her for sex...but not this. This isn't even about sex, Mulder. If it is...only in the most distant, remote way possible." Mulder nodded. She was right. "You're right," he said softly. "I don't know why I said that." Scully did. "Because you can identify with the kind of man that needs a hooker," she said, not unkindly. Mulder turned to face her again. She was right, of course. "Some men...I'll admit that not many of them...but some, look to... ladies of the night for comfort and companionship. Some of the guys don't even want sex. They pay these women to just hold them, to just listen to them." Scully shrugged. "Companionship? Get a dog, Mulder." "I wasn't talking about me!" he protested. "So," Scully said, and Mulder knew what her question was going to be before she even asked it. "Have you ever been to a hooker?" "No," he finally said. Scully sighed. Her relief was short-lived, however. "But I've thought about it," Mulder finished. Scully chewed her lip, slowing down to turn a corner, heading cross-town. "Why?" she asked. "Why did I think about it, or why didn't I go?" "Both," she shrugged. "I didn't go because of the reasons you mentioned. Not healthy. Why think about it? It's easy." "Easy to think about?" "Easy to deal with. If you're a man, lonely, looking for sex, for comfort, it's a pretty straightforward transaction. Cash for the use of her body. I know how cold that sounds...but there have been times that it seemed like a...I don't know...logical? A logical choice?" Scully mulled this. "Did Phoebe hurt you that much?" she asked. Mulder frowned, not sure where she was going. "I'm not sure I-" "I mean...Mulder, I've seen the way women look at you." I've seen the way look at you, she thought. "You'd have no problems finding willing...mates." Mulder laughed. "No, not the way you mean. It'd be hard, Scully. Trust me. I'm...strange." No shit, she thought, but didn't say. Seeing her expression, Mulder smiled. "But then, you already know that, don't you? I guess...what I mean is that...to me, there's two extremes. A woman, a nice woman, one that would want a relationship, I just can't handle that. Not because of Phoebe..." Or you, he thought. "...or anyone else, but because of the work we do. There's an inherent danger, a chance that anyone I get close to-" "Will be used against you. I know." Believe me, Scully thought, remembering her sister, "I know." "So...when the need to touch another human being gets strong, the idea of going to someone and not putting them in danger is attractive." "But she'd be putting you in danger," Scully observed. "Which is why I haven't." He thought about it and then added, "Among other reasons, of course." Scully fell silent, thinking about the lonely life her partner led. He had no real family to speak of. His sister, father, both gone, a distant, cool mother, and no real love in his life. Except for me, she thought. And those damn movies. "So...the movies. One way to deal with the loneliness without having to put yourself or anyone else in danger?" Mulder shrugged. "Sure, if you want to look at it that way." "If I look at it that way, it makes sense," Scully said. They came to another stoplight, and Scully gently brought the car to a halt. A young couple, arm in arm, crossed the street, staring into each other's eyes. "Is that why you touch me?" Scully asked softly. Mulder rolled down the window; the car was suddenly warm. "Yes," he said, just as softly. There was a long pause. The light turned green, but Scully didn't move. "I'm glad," she finally said, and stepped on the accelerator. Me, too, Mulder thought. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Brown Derby Hotel 12th Avenue & Avenue A New York City They rode up in silence. When the doors dinged open, Mulder moved to step out. He felt something on his sleeve and looked down to see Scully's fingers on his arm. "Wait," she said softly. The doors slid closed, but the car didn't move. "What I said...in Portland, about not coming into my room anymore? Forget I said that." Mulder nodded, remaining silent, knowing that Scully wanted to finish without interruption. "And...keep my apartment key, OK?" "If you want," he said softly. She nodded. "I do." Scully reached out and hit the OPEN button; the doors slid apart on greased tracks. "Let's get some sleep," she said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Room 620 Mulder had set up on the small circular table by the door. His laptop was open, and he was making furious notes when Scully entered through the connecting door. She had showered and changed into a pair of FBI sweatpants and an old Knicks T-shirt. Mulder glanced up, and then back at his computer, and then back up again. Women, he thought. What kind of signal is she trying to send by wearing my shirt? That everything is fine? That she wants me? "It's just a shirt, Mulder," Scully said, reading his mind. He nodded and returned to his laptop. "Progress?" she asked. He shook his head. "Still in the early stages. This is one..." He trailed off, looking for a good phrase. "Sick puppy," he finally finished. Scully sat on the bed, palms flat on the comforter. "Yeah, I kinda got the impression from the eyes. What do you think...that means?" "I am blind, now can see?" Mulder asked rhetorically. Scully snorted. Mulder leaned back, hands at the small of his back, waiting for the satisfying crunch! as his vertebrae snapped. "Well...classic profiling says that the UNSUB doesn't want the victim to see him do the deed, but both of the eye jobs were post-mortum, so that's out. Part of the problem is figuring out what is significant and what isn't. This guy gets off on playing games. He gets off on...taunting us. It could be just something to throw us off track. We have to look at what was the same between all the cases." "Evolving?" she asked. He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Evolution takes place over a longer time. No killer I've ever profiled has evolved this quickly. So, anything that's not the same between the cases should be discarded, or at least looked at much harder than normal." "So, what's the same?" He shrugged. "Knife or cutting instrument on three of four, and the fact that they're all protected witnesses. That's the only common thread that I can find. This is going to be hard." She nodded. Mulder started rotating his neck, listening to his neck pop. Scully got up and walked over to where he sat, gently laying her palms on his shoulders, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles on his back. Mulder closed his eyes, drowning in the sensation of her touching him. She leaned close, bending down to whisper in his ear. "I'm glad you're here," she intoned softly. Me, too, he thought. Scully turned her head and kissed him softly on the cheek. "I'm going to bed," she said, rising to go. Mulder twisted in his seat, grabbing Scully around the waist as she passed. Startled, she stopped, waiting. He turned her with his fingers until she faced him. Tugging gently, he pulled her into his lap. Scully settled slowly, her body tense. Seated this way, she could see the profile of Mulder's face as he stared at the computer. He reached a hand around her waist and typed a few keys on the laptop, saving his file. "Mulder?" she asked. "Shh," he said, his arm coming up to stroke her back. Scully waited. "Sometimes," he said softly, "the...want inside me to touch you, to hold you, is so strong that I can't begin to imagine how I resist it." "Mulder-" "Shhh...let me finish." Scully nodded, acquiescing. "...sometimes, I just want to sit and stare at you, Scully. I want to just look at your face, your eyes, for hours on end. When I look at you, when I sneak peeks at the office, or on the road, on the airplanes, when you're sleeping...I..." He sighed. "I...you are so beautiful. I hope you know that. I wish I could manage to make you feel what I feel when I look at you." Scully waited, wondering where he was going with this. "I understand if...what I told you makes it harder for you to feel close to me. Remember when I told you that I wasn't exactly what any rational woman would consider a catch? Well...this is what I mean. My demons. My problems. The way I live my life." Scully had a sudden insight, a disquieting one. Mulder wouldn't be Mulder, and he wouldn't be nearly as interesting a man, without his demons. And on the heels of that, another thought struck her. "I..." she said. Mulder moved as if to silence her. Scully placed two fingers across his lips, quieting him. "Me, now," she said. He nodded, waiting. "I...you're so a part of my life, Mulder...it's... your demons, your problems...it's like they're...part of me, too. I've tried to help you with them for so long that it's almost as if I don't know who am unless I am who I am when I'm with you and you're... the way you are." "We have a term for that," Mulder observed. "Co-dependent," Scully said, nodding. "Maybe we're just in synch," Mulder said. She smiled, chortling softly. "It'd be nice, Mulder." "It's who we are," he pointed out. "Is it who we want to be?" she asked. "I can't slay all my demons, Scully." "And I can't do it for you." As much as I'd like to, she thought. "Yeah," he sighed. He loosened his grip on her, but Scully remained where she was. "When we're...like this...I think that there isn't anything we can't overcome, Mulder. When we sit. And talk. And...communicate. When we're like this, it's like I know you better than I know myself." His head bobbed, accepting her logic. "So, we need to cuddle more?" She smiled. "What's wrong with cuddling?" "Nothing." "So...?" "I want to..." "But on your terms? When you need it?" He nodded. That was the truth. "And that-" "Hookers," she finished, not angry, just...frustrated. "Another on-demand service, huh?" He shrugged. "Or the..." "Videos." He shrugged again. "What about what I need?" she asked. He sighed. "Look at me," she requested. Mulder glanced up and then away. Her hand found his chin. "Look at me, Mulder. As long as you want. As much as you want. Look at me." He did. She looked so...sad, he thought. As sad as I feel. He continued to stare at her, letting his gaze skip from her eyes to her nose to her mouth to her ears back to her eyes and then over and over again, drinking in the sight of her, wallowing in her beauty. He could see the tiny, fine hairs on her upper lip, the small, tiny patch of moisture on her bottom lip, the way one perfect, gossamer eyelash was bent just slightly, the way she'd tucked her hair behind her ears. Mulder noticed when Scully's eyes dropped to his mouth. He watched her watch him. She moved slightly, a fraction of an inch towards him. He mirrored the motion, asking. She moved again, granting permission and asking a question at the same time. Slowly, they inched closer. He felt her arm snake around his neck, bringing him closer still. She tilted her head, her eyes slowly closing, reaching for him with her mouth. And he was there, waiting, eager for her, sighing as he felt her lips pressing against his, a tease, nothing more, a feather- light brush of skin against skin. Her lips were so soft, so red, so perfect, so utterly Scully that Mulder gasped, stiffening. Scully knew what it was this time, knew that he was reacting to her, not away from her and deepened the kiss, sliding closer to him. After an eternity that lasted a fraction of a second, she pulled away, touching her forehead to his. "Do you know what this means?" she asked. You forgive me? he wanted to ask. "We're in this together," he said softly. Scully nodded, her lips pressed together. "We may not be perfect, Mulder. We may not be the best thing for each other -- but we're all we've got." How romantic, Scully thought, grinning wryly. "I think you're good for me," he whispered. Scully nodded, accepting this. "But you may not be for me," she said softly, almost sadly. "I'll try," he promised. "I know you will. And I'll help you." It's what I do, she thought. I. Help. You. She kissed him again and got up. "Don't stay up too late," she admonished, vanishing into her room. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York Police Department One Police Plaza New York City The Next Morning Mulder locked himself in the conference room that Alex had provided for most of the morning. Cross and Hicks, as well as the rest of the squad was busy in the park, canvassing. The ME had set the time of death closer to midnight than before, and they had spent the previous night in the park, looking for people that frequented the park at the time of night. It was boring, exhausting work, and judging by the faces of the detectives in the squad before they had left for the morning, no progress had been made. Scully was seated at an empty desk, wondering what she could contribute to the case. Mulder had gently insisted that he be left alone so that he could "zone" into the case. Shaking her head, Scully wondered how he managed. So soon after the Portland case, and then Jarvis in Seattle, and now this. Scully decided to call down to Baltimore. She dialed on the cell, not wanting the number to appear on any of the NYPD billing statements. Someone like Sam Cross would be smart enough to go through the billing records detail looking for interesting numbers. "Lone Gunmen," Frohicke answered. "Scully," she said. "Hello, Agent Scully," the troll-like software genius answered. "I suppose you're calling about the disk you sent?" "Yes, as a matter of fact." "Well, we have come up with some ideas. Is Agent Mulder there?" "He's...busy," Scully said. "I see. Well, you were right -- the numbers are some kind of code. We ran them against several programs we designed looking for some kind of patterns between the notes. We found none. Langly has some ideas, as does Byers. We're looking at them now." "Like what?" "Byers thought it might be an ELS." Scully perked up. If it had an acronym, that meant that somewhere, there was an expert. "What's an ELS?" "Equidistant Letter Sequence." Scully frowned. "Ok...what's that?" "It's rather complicated to explain..." He sighed, realizing that he'd just said the wrong thing. "Ok, here's how it works. Do you know what a book cipher is?" "No. Explain it to me." "Ok, assume you're a secret agent, and you want to send a message to your handlers, but you need a simple, easy to use code that's hard to break. A book cipher requires that the sender and receiver each have a copy of the same exact book. Instead of sending words and phrases, you send numbers, usually page, line and word numbers. Then you can assemble words from that code and send secure messages. The problem is that, like I said, each party to the message has to have the same _exact_ book, otherwise the code fails. The problem in trying to break that kind of code is, unless you have the book, you'll never be able to crack it. There's just too many books, and too many different versions of given books. Even paperback books you buy at the drugstore are sometimes reformatted between printings, and that would screw it up." "So what is an ELS?" Scully asked. "A variation, I guess, on that concept. Basically, it deals with the spaces between letters, rather than pages, lines and words. Your favorite novel is...what?" "Moby Dick," Scully replied. "An excellent choice," Frohicke observed. "Now, imagine if you were able to load the entire text into a computer. Only, remove all the spaces and punctuation. Imagine having the entire text of the novel as just one long string of characters. Now imagine being able to have a computer screen wide enough to see the entire string at once." "That's impossible!" Scully objected. "In a computer's memory, it isn't. But work with me, Agent Scully. Now, if you wanted to send a code using the ELS method, you'd pick a random starting position. Say, four thousand, six hundred and nine characters from the first. Then, you could send a message by using numbers forward from that position. Your message might be 4021, 10, 430, 9143, and so forth. You use the computer to count forward each subsequent number of characters, and you have a message. Again, incredibly hard to break." "You said `equidistant,'" Scully pointed out. "Yes, and that's where this comes in. There is a school of thought that there are messages imbedded in certain texts. But imbedded in a very specific way. Remember I asked you to think about the text of Moby Dick as a long string of characters? A single string?" "Sure," Scully nodded. "Ok, now imagine taking a given number, say four thousand even. At the four thousandth and first character, start a new line. And then, on the four thousandth and first character of the second line, you start a new line again. Slowly, you begin to have a series of lines, each four thousand characters long. With me so far?" "Yeah, like a matrix," Scully observed. "Exactly!" Frohicke exclaimed. "A series of lines. Now, ELS theory states that you can find words buried in the text, crossword-puzzle style. So, if you had a powerful enough computer, you could tell it to try all possible combinations of the text, using varying line lengths to shift the matrix in either direction, and when it finds the word you're looking for, you have your ELS code." "But you need to know the text...and what exact version you're using." "That's correct," Frohicke said. "Well, keep working on it," Scully said. "Call me if you figure anything else out." Frohicke agreed that he would and rang off. Scully sat, toying with the idea that Frohicke had planted in her head. She took a pen and wrote: NOWISTHETIMEFORALLGOODMENTOCOMETOTHEAIDOFTHEIRCOUNTRY. Then she broke it into four-character segments: NOWI STHE TIME FORA LLGO ODME NTOC OMET OTHE AIDO FTHE IRCO UNTR Y After a moment's study, she saw the world "OLD" appear. Fourth line, second character, moving down two more lines. She repeated the process, using six-character spaces: NOWIST HETIME FORALL GOODME NTOCOM ETOTHE AIDOFT HEIRCO UNTRY. The word vanished. So, if it _was_ an ELS, Scully thought, then the killer was trying to send us a message. But what message? What text? "Hey." Scully glanced up and saw Mulder standing over her. He was reading what she wrote. His gaze clouded. "Holy shit..." "What?" she asked. He leaned down, grabbed her head and kissed her on the forehead. "Scully! You're a genius! I never would have thought of an ELS!" He turned and ran back to the interrogation room. Scully almost didn't have the heart to tell him. Gathering her stuff together, she stood and made her way through the desks to the room, knocking on the door. "Come in," he called. Scully entered a madhouse. Mulder had pinned crime scene photographs to every flat surface in the room: The walls, the table, even a wooden blackboard that someone had pushed in there. He was sitting at the table, arms crossed, staring at the far wall. Xerox copies of the notes had been taped there. "Mulder," she said softly. "I didn't know cryptography was a hobby of yours," he joked. "It's not. The guys cracked it. I was on the phone with Frohicke before you came up." He nodded, obviously distracted. "What text?" he said aloud. Scully didn't know. "Moby Dick?" she offered. He shrugged. "Could be the Kama Sutra, for all we know." "Bible?" He shrugged again. "Possible, but too many possible variations, too many versions. I don't know where we can get any computer time to try them all. And none of the murders had a religious overtone." Scully accepted this with a curt nod. "Is the message key to solving this?" Mulder shook his head. "Nope. Neither are the puzzles." "So...how many birthdays does the average man have?" Scully asked. "One." "Unless he's a clone," Scully said. Mulder laughed, appreciating the joke. He snapped his fingers. "Maybe...maybe we might just be able to... reverse engineer it." "What?" Mulder turned to her. "What if we could figure out what he's trying to tell us, and then from there, look for occurrences of that message?" Scully shrugged. "I'm not sure I-" "Look at it this way. These victims have been picked. The only thing in common they have is that they're federally protected witnesses, right?" She nodded. "I think..." Mulder stood, walking to where the notes were taped to the wall. "I...think that the names of the victims are what he's encoding. That...and something else. Maybe his own name. Maybe a keyword of choice." "Keyword?" "Sure, like "Liar" or "criminal" or something like that. He runs a program against a known text, looking for the victim's names and a cross reference to his base word. If he finds a match, he knows that his choice is just. That they are chosen." "So how do we crack it?" Scully asked, and then got it. "We tell someone with a really big computer and lots of text available to look for all occurrences of the victim's names using the ELS sequence he gave us. When we find two matches, we have our text." Mulder nodded. "But...there's no way we can get computer time. Not on something this big." "And we don't know for sure that it's their names," Scully pointed out. "Sure," Mulder said, nodding. "Could be their crimes. Or their birthdates. Or something about them that he's looking for. Scully, he doesn't need much. He's moving so quickly that he'll accept the most tenuous connection to justify his actions. All we need to do is get one match, at most maybe two, and we'll have broken the code. And that we can use against him." "How?" "Pride," Mulder said simply. "When we break the damn code, we go on TV and tell this asshole that we broke it and we know what he's using as a source document and how he picks them. We'll say that it's just a matter of time before we catch him. That we already know who we're looking for. That'll put the pressure on. He'll make a mistake, and then we'll get him." Mulder turned back to face the notes. "I just hope it's in time," he muttered. Chapter 16 +=+=+=+=+= New York Police Department One Police Plaza Major Cases Squad Mulder returned to the table and sat, crossing his arms and staring at the pictures taped to the wall. "Mulder," Scully protested, "I'm no math expert, but it's going to be nearly impossible to narrow down what text he's using. And without knowing the text, there's no way we could ever generate a...program, I guess, to randomly seek connections between the victims." Mulder nodded. "I know." He frowned, and Scully sighed. She knew that expression. He was going deep inside himself, so deep that it might be hours before he re-emerged. "I'll be outside," she said gently, hoping that her message got through. "Sure," Mulder nodded, and the odd, distant tone in his voice told Scully that message had been received, but probably not processed. She let herself out of the interrogation room and made her way back to the spare desk she'd been using when Frohike had explained the concept of the ELS to her. Well, one major clue obtained, Scully mused. A totally useless, absolutely frustrating clue, but a clue obtained. A clue obtained, she reminded herself, is one less unknown thing. And when the totality of what was known exceeded what was unknown, a solution was close at hand. Scully chuckled. That was true with a normal investigation, and true with a normal partner. From experience, Scully knew that Mulder could take the tiniest clues and build a working theory in a matter of minutes, a theory that more often than not led to the guilty party, although if Skinner's reactions to Mulder's investigative technique were any example, what Mulder did was not exactly "accepted" practice. But I knew that, Scully reminded herself. Ok, Scully thought, what do I think, what do I know, and what can I prove? We know that he's selecting federally protected witnesses. Which means that he has some kind of access, or has in the past, and that's how he generated his victim list. There's no other explanation for that; it's not like there was a Federally Protected Witness Annoymous meeting that these people had attended in the past. The entire point of the program was to make these people vanish into the woodwork. And due to the fact that the witnesses that were located in New York had all originated from other destinations ruled out that this man had come into contact with them randomly here in New York. The odds were so high they were beyond comprehension. So, since he was obviously picking his victims from some kind of list, what they needed was obvious. The master list of all protected witnesses from the US Marshals Service. There was no way around it. The killings would continue, barring any major mistake by the killer, until the NYPD, FBI and USMS were able to remove the victim pool from the killer's grasp. And the only way to do that was to warn them individually, because to go public with this information would do incalculable damage to the entire WITSEC program. Scully got up and wandered into Alex's office. "Meet Mulder yet?" she asked. Cahill looked up and shook her head. "No, I've been doing manpower reports and all other kinds of paperwork for the brass. I haven't had time." She sat back, cracking her knuckles. "So, has he solved it yet?" Scully shrugged. "We've figured one thing out," she said, a little proudly. "We kind of broke the code." Alex blinked. "Excuse me?" Quickly, Scully explained what an ELS was, and how it related to the code. "So," Alex said, getting it immediately, "If we find the text, we can crack the true meaning of the code." Scully nodded. "But..." "Right. Randomly choosing the correct text would be next to impossible." "Shit. I was hoping to catch a break on that." "We did," Scully pointed out. "We know now at least what he's doing, if not exactly then at least generally." "Is there any way we can use this information to...slow this asshole down?" Scully sat and considered this. "Maybe," she said. "We might be able to show the killer that we broke the general concept of the code without actually giving the fact away that we don't know the source text. It might buy us a few days, maybe a week." "I'm listening," Alex said, making a come-on gesture with her hand and leaning forward. "If we place an ad in the paper with a fake ELS code, it might make the killer spend days searching for the meaning." Alex sat back. "But when he figures out that we're...playing him, it might set him off." Scully shook her head. "Serial killers don't work that way. At least, the normal ones don't. The urge to kill will be growing inside him even as you and I speak. If we can divert attention from that urge for a few days, we will have gained something." "What?" "Assume he's on a schedule of some kind," Scully said, thinking aloud. "If we can divert him from that schedule, and assuming that we will catch him no matter what happens, we might save a life or two because of the time he spends trying to break our code. It's a small satisfaction, but it's possible." Alex took a breath. "That's a hard sell, Dana." Scully nodded. "I'm aware of that." "Or..." Alex said, trailing off. Her eyes slid to the window, a faraway look on her face. "Or...we could create our own code. Pick a text of our own and challenge this bastard to solve it." Scully thought about this. "I think we should ask Mulder. He's the expert," she hedged. Alex stood up. "Well, looks like it's time to meet the master." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Alex pushed the door open to find Fox Mulder an inch away from the wall, staring at one of the notes with the intensity of a laser cutting through steel. He didn't notice her entrance. Alex cleared her throat. Mulder didn't move. Scully made a small noise in her throat, and Mulder's head snapped around. Alex glanced at her friend and then back at Mulder. Interesting, she thought. "Scully?" Mulder asked, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Mulder, this is Captain...excuse me, Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill, our....host." Alex held out her hand. "Just wanted to thank you for your help." Mulder stared at her hand as if it were covered in mucus, and then blinked, reaching out to shake it. "Sorry," he said. "I'm kind of concentrating here." "We won't bother you for very long," Alex said, "But your partner and I had an idea about this ELS thing." Mulder glanced back at the note and then shook his head, clearing it. Taking a few steps back from the wall, he rotated his head a few times, cracking his neck. "OK, I'm listening." Alex explained her idea. Mulder nodded. "Sounds good. Only problem is, what text to select, and more importantly, what message to send? The killer will read a lot into what we decide, so we have to be extremely careful. And we can't make it too easy...or too hard." "It's like a...dance," Alex said. Mulder nodded. "Very much so, Inspector-" "Alex, please." Mulder nodded. "OK, Alex, then." Alex circled the room, arms crossed. "Should be a historical text, without being religious. Bible is out, Koran, Torah, all that. Classic literature?" She paused. "Fox, what do you think about-" Alex turned to find the two FBI agents sharing a secret, amused glance. "What?" Alex asked. Mulder coughed and managed to have the good grace to look embarrassed. "Uh...No one calls me Fox," he said. "Not even your mother?" "Uh...yeah. But-" "And my mother," Scully interjected. Mulder shot her a glance. "Yes, your mother and my mother. But that's it." "Skinner-" "Scully!" "Sorry." "Whatever," Alex said. "You want to be called Mulder, I'll understand. Can we continue please?" "Sure. What was your idea?" "A novel. Moby Dick or something-" Alex noticed the shared grin again. "Ok, I give up. What the hell is so funny?" "Moby Dick was Scully's father's favorite book," Mulder explained, "and my partner on occassion has intimated that I bear a striking resemblence to Ahab, in that I tend to get obsessed with my quests, to the point where the quest takes control over my life." Alex bit the inside of her lip. She'd seen partners that were close before, but this was amazing. "I see. Well, then, perhaps Moby Dick is a good choice, then?" Mulder shook his head. "No. I think this guy is using a computer, a very powerful computer, to do his...codes. Moby Dick is available online, so it would be a simple matter for him to download it and run his software against it. We need something classic, but obscure." "I've got it," Scully said, snapping her fingers. Cahill and Mulder turned to face her. "The Man in the Iron Mask," Scully said, grinning. Mulder gaped at her. "Perfect, Scully." "I don't get it-" Cahill started. "Think about it," Scully said, and then realized that Cahill didn't know Mulder half as well as she did. Hell, not a third as well. A tenth. Thousandth? "The basic story is about twins, right? One twin is King, the other is kept in the catacombs or whatever, away from public site, shunned. Like the killer. But they're blood relatives, right? Two halves of the same whole." Scully paused, not wanting to hurt her partner's feelings. "Mulder...do you mind if I-?" He nodded. "She has a right to know." Scully took a deep breath. "My partner," she said slowly, gently, "had a rather...interesting childhood. When he originally joined ISU about ten years ago, it was remarked that he was the FBI's pet sociopath. He has a lot of the same traits that serial killers do, only without the violent fantasies that are a precursor to...acting out." Alex's eyes widened at this admission. "That's why he's so good at this," Scully explained, begging with her eyes for Alex to understand. "I see," Cahill remarked, studying Mulder with new eyes. "So," Mulder said, "the point Scully was trying to make is that if the killer does solve the code, it will send a very specific message." "And what message would that be?" Alex asked. Mulder turned and walked to the blackboard, tracing a finger over one of the crime-scene photographs. "That I'm gunning for him, and I'm going to get his ass." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Back in Alex's office, she turned to face her friend. "You have a very...interesting partner," she remarked dryly. Scully bit her lip. "Yes. Yes, he is." "But he's stable, right?" "He's an effective agent," Scully hedged. "You didn't answer my question," Alex pointed out. Scully shrugged. "You were in the Bureau, Alex. You know what these ISU types are like." "How did you get partnered with him, anyway? I figured you for White Collar Crimes or something like that. Never ISU." Scully sighed. "Alex, we're only on temporary assignment with ISU. Our normal duties are...on hold." Alex waited, her expression questioning. "Our normal duty assignment is...classified," Scully finally said. "What did you mean when you said that your partner has a lot of the same traits as serial killers?" Scully took a seat, thinking about her answer. "He doesn't see people as objects, and he doesn't have the typical sociopathic triad that we see again and again, the bedwetting, arson and animal torture. But he understands the rage, the damaged soul within these monsters, because his soul is similarly...wounded." "Rough childhood?" Scully nodded. "That's one way to put it." "But he's stable?" "He can be...volatile at times. Focused. Single-minded. But he's also brilliant and dedicated and probably the best damn agent I've ever seen." Alex nodded, accepting this. "Fine. You are in charge of keeping him in line." Scully grinned. Mulder entered the office. "Scully," he said, ignoring Alex. "Is there such a thing as a largest number?" Scully started. "What?" "Remember grammar school? Think of the largest number you can and add one to it, and that's the new largest number, and it goes on for infinity, right?" Scully nodded. "But what if..." Mulder scratched his head. "What if that's not true?" Alex sat back, fascinated, watching this little drama unfold before her. "What do you mean, Mulder? Infinity is infinity." "Yeah...I mean, I know about infinity. .9999 out to infinity is equal to one, I know all that." "Excuse me?" Alex asked. "Did you just say what I thought you just said?" Mulder nodded. "Yes...they are equal." "That's impossible!" Alex objected. Mulder sighed, frustrated at having to explain something so obvious. To him, anyway. "Ok...you have to accept the true meaning of infinity for the equation to work. Take one point zero zero zero out to infinity, right? Now take point nine nine nine out to infinity and subtract them. You start borrowing right away, and the result will be zero zero zero out to infinity, and since subtraction is the mathematical representation of the difference between two numbers, the difference between point nine nine nine out to infinity and one will be zero out to infinity, the difference between them is zero, and thus they are equal." Alex frowned, trying to wrap her brain around it. Mulder groaned and walked to a white greaseboard mounted on the wall of Alex's office. He grabbed an eraser and pointed at the board. "May I?" he asked. "Sure," Alex nodded, folding her hands in her lap. Mulder erased the bottom half of the board, grabbed a marker and began writing: 1.000000000~ - .999999999~ ---------------- "Got it so far?" he asked. Alex nodded. "Ok," he said. "Watch:" 0.999999999~ xxxxxxxxxxx~ - .999999999~ ---------------- 0.0000000000~ "I get it," Alex said. "But what does that have to do with your largest number question?" "Ok..." Mulder said, erasing the board. "Let's first define our terms. I'm not talking about a largest , because you can use one times infinity squared or something like that. But numbers... what do we use numbers for?" "To count," Alex suggested. "Right!" Mulder said, pointing at her. "To quantify. So, if we could count the one thing that there is the most of in the Universe..." "Mulder," Scully said, "the universe is infinite." "We think," Mulder said. "We don't know, and we can't prove. Everything has physical limits, Scully. The Earth is only so large, the oceans only have so many gallons of water, right? So, assume that the universe has a physical limit. It just...stops at some point. That means that the contents of the Universe are finite, right?" "If...sure." "Ok...so if we could somehow count the most prolific thing in the Universe...say protons or hydrogen atoms or whatever...whatever the totality of that existence is would be the largest number, right?" Scully nodded. "Right." "So...anything larger than that would be...irrational." Scully rubbed her chin. "I suppose so." "Ok, now, let's assume that the universe is infinite," he said. "But...there's absolute infinity, like this point nine zero thing, and relative infinity." "Relative infinity?" "Ok, since we don't have the ability to explore the entire span of the universe, the actual, physical universe, assume we somehow were able to calculate how long until mankind dies out. Say, two billion years, to pick a round number, right? If we could send a spaceship out in every possible direction, which is a finite number, for two billion years, to map the universe, and at the end of that two billion years, they had sensors that could look, oh, two light years away, that totality of information, of mapping, would be the universe to us, right?" "Sure, the limits of experience," Scully said. "Ok...then whatever the most prolific thing in that subset of the universe was would be the highest number possible to us." Scully nodded. "This is all very fascinating, Mulder, but what does it have to do with-" "There's only eleven million people in the City," Mulder explained. "Of those, we can eliminate a ton of people as potential victims. In other words, for the purposes of this investigation, those eleven million people are his universe. And our universe, as far as this investigation goes. We can eliminate the 38,000 officers of the NYPD right off the bat; none of them are protected witnesses. Anyone with more than ten years of credit history, or a verifiable paper trail, we can eliminate them, too. We keep cutting away until we have a manageable subset. A...mini-universe!" Alex shook her head. "Mulder, the manpower required to do that would be...astronomical. It would take all 38,000 of those officers ten thousand years to eliminate eleven million people!" "Really?" Mulder asked. "Or is it just that the numbers seem so daunting on the surface that we're afraid to try?" "Drake's equation," Scully said. "Right!" Mulder replied, snapping his fingers at her. "Perfect analogy!" "Drake's what?" Alex asked. Scully blushed. "It's an equation that seeks to prove that there has to be intelligent life in the stars...somewhere." "How?" "Ok...since there are an infinite number of stars in the Universe, there is an equally infinite number of planets orbiting those stars; of those infinite number of planets, an equally infinite number are capable of sustaining life as we know it, which means by logical assumption, that there is some kind of life on an infinite number of planets, and therefore, an infinite number of planets where life has evolved." "But you just said that the universe is...relatively finite, right?" "Exactly!" Mulder said. "Which means that the victim pool for our killer is also finite. We just have to define his universe." "Never thought I'd use theoretical astrophysics and exobiology in a murder investigation," Scully muttered. "Whatever works," Mulder said. "Wouldn't it just be easier to get the Marshals to give us a list of the witnesses in New York?" Alex asked. Mulder nodded. "But the chances of that happening are pretty slim." "What about...?" Scully asked, letting her voice trail off. Mulder got it instantly. "We can't offer...protection," he said cryptically, glancing at Alex. "If...anything happens, we'd be unable to do anything about it." "Not if Skinner approved it," Scully pointed out. Mulder thought about it. "Skinner's technically not our boss." "But Littleton will do anything he says," Scully replied. "That's true," Mulder said, granting the point. "What the hell, the worst he can say is no." He glanced at Alex and then at Scully, asking a question with his eyes. Scully smiled at her partner. "I think if it helps solve this case, we can trust her." If Alex Cahill took offense at Scully's words, she didn't show it. "Trust me with what?" she asked. Mulder sighed. "We have some friends," he started. "We'll need some...money to get them up here, and a secure location for them to operate out of." "What kind of friends?" "Unofficial ones," Mulder said slowly. "They aren't FBI employees, but they have certain...skills." Alex glanced at Scully, an almost-bored expression on her face. "The ones in Baltimore?" Scully flinched. She'd forgotten. Either Cross or the officer who had taken the envelope to Federal Express must have talked. "FedEx," she said softly, nodding. "Very good." "Not much happens around here that I'm not made aware of," Alex said nonchalantly. "But...no matter. What are you going to have them-" She stopped. "No. No fucking way! The WITSEC Database?!" Mulder nodded. "If anyone can get into it, it's them." "It's a secure database!" Alex protested. "The machines are linked by dedicated, leased, concrete-hardened lines! There's no way to..." Scully and Mulder were grinning at each other. "Care to put your money where your mouth is?" Mulder asked. "Sure," Alex said. "I'll even pry...what two?...plane tickets from Zolinski." "Three," Dana corrected. "Ok, three. We have a suite at the-" "No, private house. Townhouse or apartment or something. Nothing in a hotel. These guys are going to need room to spread out. And..." He glanced at his partner. "They're slobs," Scully said. "Well," Alex said, lifting the phone, "they are men." She dialed and waited. "Inspector Cahill. I need about ten minutes with the boss. Right." Pause. "On my way." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Chief of Detectives Office "You want WHAT?" "Three plane tickets and a townhouse for a week," Alex repeated. "So three...non-police officers, non-FBI agents, three...CIVILIANS can hack into the WITSEC computer?" Alex nodded, an amused grin teasing the corner of her mouth. "Are you insane? Are you ON DRUGS?!" "Not to my knowledge," Alex said. "Explain this to me again," Zolinski replied, standing and pacing behind his desk. "Again, best of both worlds, boss. This is how it works. The FBI calls these folks in, and offers them protection against prosecution if the Marshals get wind of this. We get the list, and get to be heroes if we solve this thing, but if it blows up in our face, we point the finger at the FBI and walk away clean. All we need to do is come up with three plane tickets and a townhouse for a week, maybe two." "TWO?" Zolinski roared. "OK, a month," Alex conceded. "But think of it this way, boss. If this does get out, and we all come up smelling like roses, you'll be the CofD that managed to beat the feds at their own game!" "What's the downside again?" he moaned. "None. If this goes to shit, can you really see the FBI standing in front of the press and pointing fingers? Remember their PR machine: The FBI doesn't make mistakes." Zolinski nodded. It was true. The FBI never made mistakes. They miscalculated. They overestimated. But they never made mistakes. Hoover was alive and well and living in the fourth-floor offices of the FBI Public Information Office. "Fine. I'll call accounting. We'll hide this in the AntiCrime funds." "Hide is such an ugly word, Chief," Alex said, grinning as she stood. "But thanks." "Don't make me look like an asshole, Alex." "I won't." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Office of Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill "He went for it," Alex announced as she re-entered the office. "Great," Mulder said, grimacing. "All we have to do now is talk our three friends into this little...project." Alex stood, one hand on the doorknob, regarding the lanky FBI agent with storm-colored eyes. "Excuse me?" "Oh, did I forget to mention that they have a problem with authority?" "Yes. Yes, you did." "Mulder," Scully said, smiling, "just tell them you're going to swear them in as junior G-men, and they'll come running." "Yeah," Mulder nodded. "You're right. I'll call them now and see how much I'm going to have to give up to get them to come." He reached for his cell and hit SPD 02. "Lone Gunmen." Byers. Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. Byers was the most rational of the three. "John, it's Mulder." Pause. "Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like the next words to come out of your mouth? Oh, wait! I know...because you called me John. What's up, Mulder?" Mulder swore silently. He's on to me, he thought. "Need a little help." "We are at your disposal, as always-" "Here." Pause. "In New York?" "That's correct." "What _kind_ of help?" "We need you to...take a look at something." "Anything in particular?" "A database. A very, very secure database," Mulder said. "I assume that you don't want to go into this on an open line?" "You assume correctly." "How long?" "As long as it takes. We have a safehouse-" "No. You know you're the only fed we trust." "NYPD, John. They're giving us the safehouse. Scully and I are the only two feds involved." Pause. "All three of us?" "Yes." Another pause and then a deep sigh. "I'll call you back. I have to discuss this with my two...associates." "You do that, John. Oh...we've got the place for a month. All expenses paid." Alex made a cutting motion across her throat. Mulder waved her away. "I'll see what I can do. I'm not promising...a month?" "That's right." "ALL expenses paid?" "Yeah, and the chance to pull off the hack of the century." "I'll call you back." Mulder hit END and turned to Cahill. "What?!" "I said nothing about expenses!" Alex flared. Mulder frowned and dialed again without looking. "Skinner." "Sir, it's Mulder. I have some...outside consultants coming in on this New York case. The NYPD has arranged transportation and a safehouse." "What do you need from me?" "Expense money for three people for a month. Food, laundry, the basics." "Done," Skinner said without pause. Mulder blinked, pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the number in the LCD readout. It was Skinner's number. "Mulder?" "Sorry, sir, I just expected a harder sell." "Mulder...your statistics speak for themselves. Regardless of what I feel about your investigative...techniques, no one can argue that you get the job done when you're profiling. Within reason, I doubt there is anything that anyone at the Bureau would deny you." Pause. "Is there anything else, Mulder?" "No, sir. Thank you." Mulder hung up and turned to Cahill. "Expenses are taken care of." "Just like that?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged. "Skinner didn't even blink." "Ok," Alex said. "Now that we've handled the WITSEC problem, what about the message?" "First of all," Mulder said, "We haven't begun to "handle" the WITSEC problem. We have to assume two things. First, that we will get the list. Second, that we won't." "What?" Alex asked. "We need to plan for both contingencies. If we get it, we're going to need a huge amount of manpower, and good people, too. We can't tip off the Marshals that we have the list and we're warning the witnesses. This has to be handled with kid gloves. How many First Grades can you pull for this duty?" Alex thought a moment. "Sixteen on day tour, eight on fours, and four on midnights. Twenty eight from my squad alone." Mulder shook his head. "We'll need twice that, for sure." Alex sat down, pulling on her bottom lip. "I command all the borough Major Case Squads, but...the Lieutenants and Captains that command those units at the local level all hate me. They all wanted this job." "Who else can you pull?" Alex nodded, holding up a hand. "I'm thinking...Gimmie a second." She stood and walked to the window, staring out, hands on hips. "I know about thirty Second Grades I can pull from ESU on an overtime basis. They're the best of the best as far as being a street cop goes. The Inspector that commands the Special Victims Squad owes me like twenty huge favors; I can pull all of those First Grades, about twenty, on an overtime basis. I'd prefer the SVS people because they're used to dealing with the dicey stuff. Rape, incest, child abuse, like that. They're used to treading softly." Mulder nodded. "Ok, you need to draw up a plan and get ahold of the COs of those units to be able to draw those people at a moment's notice. We also need to make plans if we don't get the list. And that includes putting the message in the paper, and gearing up for another victim run." "A what?" Scully asked. Mulder turned to her. "When this asshole figures out that we've warned all his potential victims, he's likely to switch victim types." Scully shook her head. "I thought serial killers were... driven, obsessed on a specific type of victim." Mulder shook his head. "No, not in this case. I really don't think this guy is the typical sociopathic serial killer. I think he's a functioning psychotic with a barely controlled homicidal rage that's focused in a direction that looks like a serial killer. I mean, he is a serial killer in the sense that his victims are not picked at random and that he is acting out a psychosexual fantasy with them...but I think it's psychotic not sociopathic. Which means that he can convince himself that another victim type is acceptable. Which is dangerous." "What makes you say that?" Alex wondered. "Look at the victims. Two genders, which is rare but not that rare, and three races. That is very rare. So we've identified that his victim `type' is protected witnesses. Of all the ones that he's killed so far, they've all been former criminals or people associated in some way with criminals. We really haven't had a true "witness" yet, someone who's in the program because they saw something they shouldn't have. "So, if we remove his victim pool, protected witnesses, he's probably going to go after other...transgressors. People that have broken whatever moral code this guy has. We might see a run against vagrants, prostitutes, streetcorner dealers, that kind of thing." Alex held up a hand. "What you just said is not to leave this room under any circumstances. Is that clear?" She shuddered, thinking about what would happen if the press caught wind of what Mulder was suggesting. Scully nodded and after a moment, Mulder followed suit. "No problem." "I'm still confused about all that finite number stuff," Alex admitted. Mulder rubbed his brow, trying to find a way to quantify huge numbers for her, some way that she would understand. "Ok, let me ask you a question. How many possible songs can be written?" Alex sat down, crossing her legs. "My first reaction is an infinite number, but of course that's wrong. I just don't understand why." "First, we have to define our terms. Let's say, instead of `songs,' we'll use the general term `musical pieces,' which include instrumental, classical pieces. Ok so far?" Alex nodded. "Ok, now, assume a time limit, say ten minutes max. Most songs aren't much longer than that, right?" "But a lot of classical pieces are," Alex pointed out. "Sure, but go with me. In a minute you'll understand." Alex nodded. "OK. Now, third assumption, that you are using the standard set of musical instruments. No banging on steel pots or anything like that, right?" Alex nodded again. "Do the math," Mulder explained. "There are only so many notes that the human ear can hear. There are only so many notes that a given instrument can play. With a time limit, there are only a certain number of combinations of notes and instruments that can be composed. Therefore, the number of possible musical pieces that can be written is finite." Alex blinked. "It's a huge number," Scully expanded, "but Mulder's right. It's finite." She paused, and decided to go for the last twist. "And you want to know the really weird thing?" "What?" "If you take away one of his conditions, the number of possible pieces gets smaller." Alex cupped her forehead in her palm and leaned on the desk. "Which condition?" "Time. If you say that the amount of time that the piece can last isn't limited to any length of time, that the possible length is infinite, then the number of pieces that can be written gets smaller with each passing second." Mulder nodded at Scully, admiring her logic. "Let me get this straight," Alex said, holding up a hand. "If you say that the possible length is infinite, that shrinks the number of pieces that can be written?" "Sure," Mulder said as Scully nodded. "How?" Alex asked, squinting. "Because the amount of time left in the Universe shortens with each passing second. At some point, time will end. So, the possible number of-" "Got it," Alex said, waving her hand. "I understand now. I still don't quite see how that applies to this case, but-" "Sure you do," Mulder said, smiling. "Think it through. Use the music analogy." Alex thought about it and shook her head. "I have no idea." "Remember, limited time, instruments and notes, finite combinations of those three factors, right?" She nodded. "Will every possible combination fit anyone's definition of `music?'" Mulder asked. "God, no. Probably only a tiny percent..." she trailed off. "Which is the same statistical problem we're facing. There's only a tiny percent of people in the city that will fit this asshole's needs. And we can eliminate huge chunks of the populace because they're not..." "Musical," Mulder said with a flourish. "You people," Alex said, shaking her head, "are amazing. I never thought I'd use higher math to solve a damn murder case." "So," Scully interjected, "now that Calculus class is over, what message do we send?" Mulder spun on his heel and left. "I'll work on it," he said over his shoulder, heading back to the interrogation room. "Is he always like that?" Alex asked, pointing at Mulder's retreating form. Scully sighed. "Sometimes. Sometimes he can be really... wonderful." Alex tried to hide her surprised expression and for the most part succeeded. Scully only noticed a pair of slightly raised eyebrows and an amused tightening of her friend's mouth. "That came out wrong," Scully said, hurrying to explain. Alex held both hands up. "Hey, what goes on between you and your partner is none of my-" "Alex," Scully said, a strange quality in her voice. "Have..." "I ever gotten involved with a partner?" Alex asked. Scully nodded. Cahill shook her head. "No. But...I thought about it once or twice. Why...something brewing I need to know about?" Scully shrugged. "Maybe. He's...complicated." "And you're not?" Alex asked. Scully drew back, startled. She'd never even considered that. "I...I am?" Alex nodded. "Oh, hell, yes, Dana. You're one of the most complicated people I've ever met in my life." "How so?" Scully was genuinely curious. She'd never asked another person how they saw her. Alex sighed, gathering her thoughts. "You're so intelligent, so obviously smart that it puts a lot of men off. Not very many men are comfortable with extremely intelligent women. Not that that seems to be a problem with Mulder. He seems very...comfortable with you, both as a partner and as a woman." "As a woman?" "Oh, c'mon, Dana. You know how he stands in your space, how he touches you when he talks to you. He's aware of you as a female, I can tell you that much." "Ok...I guess." Scully was aware of his closeness and his touches. It was one of the things she cherished about him. She had just never realized that other people had noticed it. "You're beautiful," Alex continued, "and coupled with your brains ....that's a deadly combination. One-two punch, as it were." Scully nodded, reluctantly accepting Alex's compliment on her looks. "What else?" "Well...you're rigid," Alex said. "But in a really great way." "What does that mean?" "It means that you know who you are and who you want to be, and you're not haunted by most of the doubts that most women are. At least, you don't appear to be." "Like what?" "Body obsession, the fact that you're single at your age, the fact that your career has to be off-putting to most men, all that stuff that the ladies' magazines tell us means we have to make a choice: A career or a husband, marriage and family. You seem to be comfortable with who you are, and your attitude comes off as...well, if the other people in your life aren't comfortable with who you are, then that's their problem. That's...wonderful, but not all that common for a woman." Alex paused and then added, "At least, not as common as it should be." Scully grinned. "Thanks, Alex. You've given me a lot to think about." "You're welcome. So...what is Mulder doing?" "I have no idea," Scully admitted. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" On the hunt, prowling. Mulder paced the small room, his arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened and lowered. Every flat surface at eye level was covered with something: Crime scene photographs, autopsy pictures, mugshots, something. Mulder closed his eyes, going deep. Looking for the rage. He searched inside himself for that place he kept hidden from everyone: From his mother, from Skinner, from Scully. Even from himself. It was too dangerous to go there most of the time, but he needed it now. Needed it bad. Classic profiling technique taught the profiler to distance himself from the rage, the pain, the blood and the death. Only through academic deconstruction could a correct and proper resolution be arrived at. That was good as far as it went, Mulder knew. That gave a nice vague, general profile. A profile that was good enough, most of the time. Good enough to narrow a suspect list, to shed light on an investigative direction that the police might not have considered. But if you wanted to really narrow it down, Mulder knew, you had to go there. Where the killer lived. A gift and a curse. A blessing and an oath. Mulder took a deep breath and began circling the room, his eyes flicking from image to image, trying to find that place inside him, that evil center where death lived. He had killed before. He had even taken pleasure in it once or twice. Roche; he'd enjoyed killing that bastard. He'd never admit to anyone, not even Scully, but for a brief instant after the small .32 had bucked in his hand, Mulder had felt almost overwhelming joy and satisfaction. He'd felt a release of sorts. Modell. He hadn't killed Modell, but he'd come close. Mulder stopped in the middle of the room, leaning against the table, closing his eyes, remembering. Standing over the slumped body, pulling the trigger again and again, furious that the revolver was empty. Killing rage. Mulder opened his eyes and stared at the wide-angle establishing shot of the Leon King homicide. The victim, face up on the floor, his face dissolved by the multiple gunshots. Mulder translated in his head, that unique gift that set him apart, and approached the picture, seeing not Leon King but Roche, seeing the child rapist and murderer in that photograph. Mulder found his rage. He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the pressure. His eyes flicked to the next image, a mug shot of John Nelson. Another child molester. Never proven, but suspected. Collector of digitally reproduced horror, selling children's souls by modem to anyone that passed his twisted version of a background check. "Baby-raper," he whispered, eyes boring into the image. His eyes dropped to the crime-scene photo just beneath it, the blood brown, almost black. The deep incision in the man's chest and abdomen. The way he'd been opened, as if letting something out. He moved to the next one. Montoya. The mugshot showed a stupid face, tiny, beady eyes staring into the camera, devoid of emotion, dead. Small-time mobster. Extortion, running prostitutes, pushing junk. Dealing a drug just as addictive as Leon King's: Hope. The crime scene photo was gruesome: Eyes cut out, two bloody sockets where they had been, throat slid from ear to ear, the front of his body bathed in his own vital fluids. A pair of binoculars at his feet. The evisceration, again, throat to pubis, two fat, grey loops of intestine hanging in his lap. Beneath that photo, a Xerox of the note left at the scene. Finally, for now at least, Danielle Jones. Her mugshot was one of several with her name on it. In this one she looked much like Montoya, with dead eyes and a disinterested sneer plastered on her face. Mulder could almost hear her voice. "I've seen worse, copper," her face seemed to be saying. Beneath that, her body, sprawled on the grass in Central Park, opened from stem to stern like some odd baked potato, the insides tossed as if waiting for a pat of butter or a dollop of sour cream. The edge of her liver, lifted free of the abdominal cavity. Mulder walked away, circling the room again, coming to the blackboard again, opening his eyes, looking for it. There. The tickle of arousal. He felt it, felt the rush as he remembered killing these four people. "Pusher," he said to King. "Dealer. Poison your own people for money." "Baby-raper," he whispered to Nelson. "Bully," he whispered to Montoya. "Whore," he finally said to Jones. "Slut." She was. Mulder felt it, felt the disgust welling up inside him as he looked at the four faces. Animals. Less than human. Didn't deserve to live, any of them. Better off dead, wasting away in an unmarked grave in Potter's Field. They were all whores, he knew. He tapped King's mugshot. "Whore. You sell yourself, your identity is drugs. You sell the sex of the high, the ten-dollar mindfuck." Nelson. "Whore. You sell children for sexual pleasure. You sell soulessness for fifty bucks a Polaroid." Montoya. "Whore. You sell other's bodies. Prostitutes. You sell hope. Whore." And finally, again, Danielle Jones, the one that lived with the label of whore and slut and yet, was perhaps the most honest of them all. "Slut," he whispered, tapping her image. "Sell your body for money. Sell love. Die, you whore." Mulder stepped back, breathing deeply. Ashamed that it had been so easy to arrive in this place. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "So," Alex said, "what message do you think we should send?" "That's Mulder's thing," Scully pointed out. "But I'll go ask him." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mulder was standing in front of the crime scene photographs taped to the blackboard, a sheaf of them in his hands, flipping through them, a bloody slide-show. "Yeah," he whispered, licking his lips. "Oh, Yeah, look at that," he said, staring at a particularly gruesome closeup of Danielle Jones' intestines. The door opened. "Mulder," Scully started. "Get out," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. Scully froze. She had never heard that tone from him before. Her eyes took in the room with a single glance. He was standing near the blackboard, holding a stack of color photographs, peering at them like...like... Oh my God, Scully thought, gasping quietly. He's looking at those like a man with a Playboy, she thought, and felt her bile rising. "Mulder?" she asked, scared. He turned on her, his eyes blazing. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, SCULLY!" he screamed, throwing the pictures at her. They fluttered in the air, settling lazily to the ground, birds with their wings clipped. Scully shut the door quickly, stepping back into the hall and turning to find Alex Cahill standing six feet away. "What was that?" she asked. "N-nothing," Scully said, moving to walk past her. Alex put a hand on her arm. "Dana?" "Just drop it, Alex. He's...in a bad place now." "That much is evident, but that's not any excuse to-" "Alex!" Scully snapped. "What?" Scully felt her eyes narrowing, and knew at that moment what went through a mother bear's mind when she was defending her cubs. "Do you want to catch this bastard or not?" Alex sniffed. "I won't even respond to that, Dana." "Then let Mulder do his job," Scully said, biting off each word cleanly. "Why do you put up with this?" Alex asked. Scully gritted her teeth but didn't answer. "He's...dysfunctional," Alex said, pointing at the closed door to Interrogation Room "C." "No, he's not," Scully said, knowing how lame the words sounded. "Yes," Alex insisted, "he is." She tilted her head, regarding her friend slowly. "And so are you," Alex said slowly. "You encourage him." "I do nothing of the sort!" Scully said. "Yes, you do. By doing nothing. By letting him get away with this. You're part of it. Part of him when he's like this way." Alex paused, trying to find the words to make her friend understand. "It's like you don't understand who you are unless he's like this." "That's absurd," Scully said, turning and all but fleeing down the hall, away from Alex. Away from the truth. +=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mark Dupree glanced at his watch. Two hours before the noon broadcasts of the six New York television stations. Perfect. He dialed the number for the local ABC affiliate. He'd chosen them because he liked the look of their noon news anchor. She had a slight overbite, and it made Dupree think of something, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. "News desk," a voice answered. Dupree spoke quickly, comfortable in the knowledge that the electronic voice distortion equipment he'd attached to his phone would defeat any future attempt at voice analysis should this call be taped. "Do you have Internet access?" he asked. "Yes," the voice answered warily. "What's this about?" "The police are lying to you," Dupree said. "Check the Internet. Go to the newsgroups. MrKnife posted his latest masterpiece. Enjoy it." Dupree gave the voice the name of the newsgroup and then hung up. +=+=+=+=+=+=+= Two Hours Later "This...is EYEWitness News," the voice said. "Leading our top stories today, the serial killer that calls themselves Mister Knife has apparently posted pictures of his latest murder on the Internet. Eyewitness news received a call just over two hours ago from an unnamed source, telling us where to find the images. Before we continue, we want to warn you that some of these images are graphic. Storm Field has the story. Storm?" Dupree smiled in the darkness of his basement. Six hours until the national newscast. Six hours until fame. Chapter 17 +=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill stood in the hallway facing the door to Interrogation Room "C." She could hear Special Agent Mulder thrashing around inside. She could make out the occasional word or phrase. When she heard "whore" for the third time, Alex pushed the door open without knocking and entered. Mulder was squatting in one corner, several photographs spread on the floor in front of him. He looked up at Alex, wild-eyed. "Whores," he said simply. "They're all whores." Without knowing exactly why, Alex realized that Mulder was on some sort of edge. He was cupping his knees, rocking slowly, his gaze flicking back and forth from the pictures to Alex's face. "Who are?" "Them," Mulder said, pointing. Advancing slowly, Alex saw that Mulder had eight sets of mugshots spread out, two each for every victim. "Why are they whores, Mulder?" she asked. He shook his head, shrugged, and shook his head again. "Whores," he repeated. Alex moved a little closer, taking care not to make any sudden moves. "You said that already. Why are they whores, Mulder?" "They sell...themselves," he said slowly. "They sell death and sadness. Souls. They sell souls." Alex cocked her head to the side. "Why are you looking at the mugshots, Mulder?" He twitched, and then seemed to come out of himself. He glanced around the room, realizing where he was. Looking at Alex he stood, taking a moment to brush his knees off. He blinked. "Sorry," he mumbled. "This is the...side of what I do that isn't always pretty." "You can say that again," Alex said. "Are you aware you screamed at your partner?" "Scully?" Mulder asked, confusion written on his face. Alex nodded. "Ah, shit," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'll go apologize to her," he said, moving to go. "Wait," Alex said. Mulder stopped. "You are aware of her...feelings for you, right?" Mulder blinked. "Feelings?" "Yes. Feelings." "Uh...um...I'm aware that we're very close, even as partners go. But that is as far as it goes, Alex." Cahill shook her head. "I'm sure you'd like to believe that. I'm equally sure it's very easy to believe that, Mulder." She paused. "But c'mon; you're a trained psychologist. You take people's minds apart for a living. You're a trained investigator and observer of the human condition." Her final two words were said with her fingers making quotation marks in the air. "Surely you can see that she... loves you." Mulder shrugged. "And I love her. But we're not Alex." I wouldn't be too sure of that, Cahill thought. "Why the mug shots?" Alex asked. Mulder glanced down at the floor and then back up at her. "That's the only way he can see them," Mulder said. "Who?" "The killer. They're protected witnesses, which means they're in the system, somehow, somewhere. Once they get into the program, new names, new identities. In some cases, new faces. So the only way he can personalize them, work them into his fantasy, is through these pictures." "Which means-" Alex said, getting it. "He has access. Or, he had access. So far, all of the victims have been in the program for at least three years. So, sometime, possibly ending three years ago and going back only God knows how long, this asshole had access to the system." "Which we're going to need as well," Alex said. "I know," Mulder nodded. "But we're taking care of that." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= WCBS-TV (Channel 2) West 57th Street New York City Donald Peters was the News Director for the most popular newscast in the city, if you believed Arbitron. And for the second-most popular if you believed the Neilsons. Depending on what programming or news executive was breathing down his neck, he was either doing a wonderful job, or not nearly enough. The job of News Director for a television station was not nearly as glamorous as it sounded. His days and nights were filled with tracking down stories, listening to the police, fire and EMS frequencies, dispatching reporters to cover the stories, hours spent in the editing bay making sure that every story 'looked' right, and making sure that any network news feeds that came over the satellite from Washington or LA were queued up in the proper order. In other words, Don's job was a never ending series of putting out fires. Which is why Casey Tan was such a pain in the ass. She was on the rise; there was no doubting that. Her latest Q-scores, a measurement of popularity and recognizability, were practically off the chart. It helped matters (or didn't, depending on your point of view,) that she was beautiful, sexy and incredibly intelligent. She had an investigative reporter's natural talent for sniffing out a story, and the drive and determination to keep the pressure on until something gave. Normally, that pressure was focused on sources and reluctant public figures that didn't want to find themselves in the crossfire of Tan's camera. However, when she wanted to (which was too often for Don's liking,) Casey Tan would turn that focus on her boss until he capitulated and let her run with some half-assed story or other. But, Don thought to himself, you had to admit she got the job done. As huge a pain in the ass as she was, she got the damn job done. She had a shelf and a half full of local news Emmy's, and the word inside the network was that someone in the Washington bureau had his eye (and hands, as the rumor went,) on Tan. "Please?" She asked again, her almond-shaped eyes pleading with him. "The cops gave us a statement," Don tried one last time. "It's bullshit," she said. "I know it is. I can feel it." Don nodded. He would have bet a year's pay she was going to say those exact words. "What do you think is going on?" he asked. "I did some background checking on the victims," Tan said. "I have a friend in DMV who got me some of the basic stuff. Odd, though. None of the victims have lived in New York for more than three years." "So? We have a lot of people moving in and out. That doesn't prove anything." "Yes, but when you move into NY and surrender your license, there's usually a notation in the file regarding which state you came FROM." The Asian reporter paused and then bore-sighted her boss. "And none of them had a referring state." "So?" "That means that four victims of four murders in the past three weeks have moved into state from somewhere else, that none of them had driver's licenses anywhere else, and this is the best part -- none of them took a written or road test." Don Peters mulled it over. "So?" "You're not getting it, are you?" He shook his head. "Those four names are false. Fake identities. Officially sanctioned false names, birthdates, identities, the works." "Do you have a source at the Medical Examiner's office?" Tan nodded. "Fingerprints?" "Officially, no comment. But off the record, I got one of them to admit that they hadn't run the prints." "Doesn't someone have to make a positive ID for that?" Tan nodded. "And no one has, according to the coroner's reports that I read. Just a notation that police at the scene uncovered driver's licenses with the victim's picture." Peters stroked his chin, thinking. "What do you think is going on?" "I think they're witnesses," Tan said. "Protected government witnesses, and I think someone is taking them out." "What does One PP have to say?" "I haven't asked yet." "Any contacts with the FBI?" Tan shook her head. "And the Marshals handle the WITSEC program, not the FBI." Peters nodded; he hadn't known that. "Any sources there?" "No," Tan said, a soft, secret smile playing across her face. "Not yet." The rumor about Casey Tan sleeping with sources was completely and utterly unfounded. Still, Don Peters didn't like that smile on her face. "Go with it," he decided aloud. "But keep me informed. You don't broadcast dick until we can double and triple check anything you hear." "Got it," Casey said, standing to leave. "I mean it, Casey. You don't do shit without my explicit, prior approval. Is that clear?" Casey stopped in the door, and turned to give her boss the same smile. "Of course, Don. I wouldn't dream of upsetting you. I wouldn't want to be...disciplined." Peters shuddered with the memory of an afternoon spent in the Waldorf-Astoria penthouse, an afternoon that had seen Casey Tan tied to the bed with silk scarves, her naked, glistening body arched to receive each whistling stroke of Don's belt... "Just do it," he said, hoping for the thousandth time that someone in Washington would get off their ass and transfer this... temptress out of his life. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" "So what next?" Cahill asked. "We need a backup plan. You and Scully should go down to the USMS office at Federal Plaza and do whatever it takes to get that list out of them. The guys will be driving up-" "I thought they were flying." Mulder nodded. "Yeah, but they're bringing so much equipment that they decided to drive. They're eating the cost, though, so don't worry about the plane tickets." Alex nodded, accepting this. "And I want them to get started ASAP. They should be here in the next hour or two." "Then I'll need to stay around and get them situated," Alex said absently, running both hands through her hair. "After that, Scully and I can go down to Federal Plaza." Mulder grunted his assent. "Whatever. I have to go and find Scully and apologize." Moving to leave, Mulder was stopped by a hand on his arm. "Trust me," Alex said. "You may know your partner, but I know women. Give her until the end of the day, and then go apologize, ok?" Mulder rubbed his chin. "Whatever." He turned and moved to the corner again, squatting to pick up the mugshots. Shaking her head, Alex left him to his work. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Ninety Minutes Later Scully was at yet another borrowed desk, her laptop jacked into the incredibly ancient phone system. Filing expense reports electronically was much easier than the old paper method...when the system was working, that is. With all new systems, it had some bugs, and Scully was fighting with her laptop to get the damn thing to transmit correctly. Her cell rang. "Scully." "Hi, gorgeous." Scully rolled her eyes. Frohicke. "Frohicke, I swear to God, one day I'm going to-" "Oooh, sounds like fun. Listen. We're down here and security won't let us through unless we pass through the metal detector, and..." "Which one of you has a thing about metal detectors?" Scully asked, placing a mental bet with herself. "Byers," Frohicke said. Damn, Scully thought. I would have bet Langly. "What's his problem?" Frohicke's voice dropped, as if he were afraid of being overheard. "He thinks they scan and file a copy of your DNA away somewhere." Scully made a mental note to tell Byers that if he'd had a smallpox vaccination that the deed was already done. "OK, I'll be down in a minute." Getting up from her seat, Scully found Alex in her office fighting a similar war with the paperwork. Quickly explaining the problem, Scully got an incredulous look from her friend. "Let me get this straight," she said, holding up a hand. "He refuses to go through the detector, and refuses to be searched because he's afraid his DNA is going to be scanned and put on file." Scully nodded. "Whatever," Alex said, standing. They descended in the elevator together silently. "DNA?" Alex asked again. Scully just nodded, pursing her lips. "I want to warn you," Scully said, "about these guys. They're going to seem...extreme at first. But they really are good at what they do." "And what is it again that they do?" "The impossible," Scully said, smiling fondly. The doors opened on the lobby and they exited. Two NYPD uniform officers stood, fingers tucked into their gunbelts, watching the three editors of _The Lone Gunmen_ as they shuffled from foot to foot. "This is an outrage!" Langly was saying to one of the officers. "This is a public building-" "If you don't go through the metal detector," the cop explained patiently, the tone of his voice making it obvious that this was _not_ the first time he had done so, "we have to search you. You refuse a search, refuse to go through the detector, you can stand there all day, pal." "What's the problem?" Alex asked. The other cop turned to see her. "Oh, hi, Captain." "Inspector," Alex automatically corrected. "Congratulations!" the cop said, smiling widely. "I hadn't heard yet. These three-" he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and lowering his voice, "are-" "With me," Alex said. "Inspector," the cop said, his voice making it clear he wasn't going to be comfortable with what he felt she was about to ask. "And we were just leaving. Do me a favor? Call the motor pool and have them send my car around." "Your car?" Scully asked. Alex nodded. "Deputy Inspectors get a car and driver assigned." She lowered her voice. "And I'd rather not have them see my ride, since you tell me they can break into any system in the world." Scully grunted. "Good idea. But what about the driver?" Alex shrugged. "I'll dismiss him." Scully and Alex walked past the metal detector and found the three TLG editors. "Special Agent Scully," Frohicke said, removing his Navy watchman's cap and all but bowing. "Charmed as usual." "Give it a rest," Scully said, a little snappishly. Undaunted, Frohicke turned to Alex. "And who is this vision of loveliness?" he asked. "Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill, NYPD," Alex said, offering her hand. "And you are?" "Impressed," Frohicke replied, shaking. Scully rolled her eyes. "Listen. Get outside, get back in your truck and wait for us to join you. Follow us to the safe house. Do not talk. Do not answer questions. Am I making myself clear?" "Yes, Ma'am," all three replied in unison. They turned and left. "Sheesh," Alex said. "Where did you dig THOSE three up?" Scully shrugged. "They're more friends of Mulder's than mine," she said, "and he never told me where he met them." "At a geek convention," Alex mumbled, walking towards the front doors. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Casey Tan parked her two-year old Bronco in the rear lot at the Manhattan Medical Examiner's office. Picking her way through the other cars, she entered through the door reserved for the meat wagons and their attendant cargoes. DMEs and Morgue Attendants moved around the receiving area, checking in the newly departed and stacking them like cordwood against one wall. Within the hour they would be cataloged and moved to the refrigeration units so as not to...spoil. Wrinkling her nose at the thought, Casey kept her NYPD Press Pass handy but not displayed. No use spooking anyone until it was necessary. Within minutes, she found who she was looking for. A young woman, obviously and visibly infatuated with the famous TV reporter, a contact that Casey had carefully nurtured for almost a year, was more than happy to do what was required. Three of the four bodies were still being kept in a separate, secure facility within the ME's office. Casey slipped her a brand new one-hundred- dollar bill and gave explicit instructions. Two sets of fingerprints, each, for a total of six sets. It didn't matter what she put the prints on, but they had to be good, clear prints. "And I need them today," Casey said, reaching out to tuck a strand of the woman's hair behind an ear. Casey smiled softly as the woman shivered in delight. "Maybe we can meet later, so I can...uh, give you the prints," the woman said. "Sure," Casey smiled. "We can do that. Maybe...dinner." The woman's eyes widened. "Sure! I'll call you!" With a flirtatious smile, Casey got up and left, carefully threading her way back through the building and out into the parking lot. Perfect, she thought. Next stop, Federal Plaza. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Undisclosed Location 90 minutes later Amazing both Scully and Cahill, the gunmen had swung into action upon arriving at the townhouse. They had completed unloading the truck within half an hour, and had spent the rest of the time setting up, connecting, linking and booting the various systems. The living room of the townhouse looked like... Words failed Scully. "Looks like the control room to steer the Earth!" Alex whispered in her ear. Scully grinned, glad that someone had managed to put it into words. Byers finished fiddling with something-or-other and turned to face the two law enforcement officers. "So," he asked simply. "What's the target? Mulder said it would be the hack of the century." "First," Alex said, "raise your right hands." The three gunmen exchanged a glance and then did as asked. "I, state your name," Alex said. "I, John Byers," "I, Melvin Frohicke," "I, Ringo Langly," Ringo? Scully thought. MELVIN?! "...do hereby solemnly swear to faithfully execute the office to which I am about to be appointed, to uphold the laws of the State of New York and the Constitution of the United States of America, so help me God." The three men parroted Alex's words and then looked expectantly at her. Alex reached into a coat pocket and came back with something Scully would never have expected to see. Three silver NYPD shields, each mounted on a small piece of black leather with a ball-bearing chain attached. "You are now all officers of the NYPD, assigned to the Citywide Major Cases Squad." Scully almost gasped. Alex handed each man a shield. They took it reverently. Frohicke studied his closely, muttering "Coooool," under his breath. "What this means is that you now enjoy the protection of being a member of the finest police department in the world. You have 38,000 brothers and sisters on the job. I expect you three to make me, and Special Agents Mulder and Scully proud." All three men nodded, each of them donning their shields. Scully tried very hard to stifle the smile she felt crawling across her face. "The target?" Byers prompted again. "The WITSEC database," Scully said. Three mouths dropped open. "Is this sanctioned?" Byers asked. "You're wearing a shield, aren't you?" Alex asked. "Yes, but-" "Guys..." Scully started, "This is important. We need one, at least two of you working on the WITSEC database. The other one, when he has time, should be working to crack that damn code. What we need is a list of all federally protected witnesses currently residing in New York and the seven surrounding counties. Westchester, Rockland, Putnam, Duchess, Orange, Nassau and Suffolk. You have my cell number. Call if you need anything. We'll be in touch." With that, Scully and Alex turned and left. On the street again, Scully stopped Alex before they got into the car. "Was that for real?" Scully asked. Alex looked back up at the house and smiled. "As far as they're concerned, sure. Do any of them have a...gun?" "I doubt it. They're afraid of guns," Scully said with a smile. "Good. I'd hate to have to explain any of the three of them making an arrest." "Now we go to Federal Plaza," Scully said, "and try and convince them to cough up the list that those three are going to steal for us anyway." Alex stopped, the car door open, and leaned against the roof. "What do we do with them," she asked, pointing at the safehouse, "if they give it to us?" "We don't tell them," Scully said. "That's for sure. I think Mulder's actually on the right track with this. If they give it to us, we'll mobilize all those First and Second Grades you spoke about and get the witnesses notified. But we let them continue. If they can break in, that means someone else can. And if they can find out how to break in, then we can figure out who else did, and catch the bastard. And if they don't give us the list, and we get it anyway, we can prove that someone can and did. It's a win-win, either way." Alex nodded, getting into the car and slamming the door. "Makes sense. You know, the mob has been trying for years to compromise the database." Scully nodded. "I bet." "If word gets out that federally protected witnesses are being murdered by a person or persons unknown, it could have a sincerely damaging effect on federal law enforcement." "Well then," Scully smiled brightly, "we'll just have to make sure that it doesn't get out." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree paced his small office. He was down to twelve possible Chosen, and none of them were jumping out at him. The hunger was back, stronger this time, stronger than he'd ever felt it. Twelve people. Democratically mixed between men and women, six of each. Another child molester, two mobsters, an accountant that had discovered OC money being laundered in a video arcade and turned himself in, four drug dealers, an admitted ex-Soviet spy and three snitches that had overheard something in the showers at one federal prison or another and had capitalized on the program. None of them appealed to Dupree. Why? He stopped in front of his desk and stared at the twelve folders. Only the Soviet spy stood out from the group; the FBI seal was on his folder. Dupree glanced at it, the idea forming slowly. He opened the folder and read. Ivan Strimnovitch. The name. What was wrong with the name? Ivan. Russian for...John. Turning to the computer, Dupree entered the search criteria, a smile welling up inside him. It had to match. It HAD to. He checked the date and time and re-entered the information, starting the search. He set it for a wide search. Four hundred and sixty two hits, he saw. Releasing a sigh of satisfaction, Dupree sat back to read. In twenty seconds, it was over. Ivan "John" Strimnovitch was Chosen. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Federal Plaza New York City Scully and Cahill parked in the "Law Enforcement Officers Only" spot. Cahill tossed the NYPD parking plate on the dashboard and locked the car. "Handy," Scully noted, nodding at plate. "Yeah. I use it at the malls at Christmas time. Comes in handy." Scully blushed, amazed at how easily Alex managed to corrupt the perks she was given with her rank. They entered the building, identified themselves as law enforcement and bypassed the metal detector. The United States Marshals Office was on the sixteenth floor. Exiting the elevator, Scully and Cahill turned left and proceeded down the hall towards two huge glass doors. The doors were frosted with the six-point USMS star. Pushing through the doors, Alex and Scully were all but accosted by the receptionist. "Can I help you?" she asked snidely. "Inspector Alex Cahill," Alex said, purposely overstating her rank. "Special Agent Dana Scully," Scully said, flashing her ID. "We'd like to see the Marshal in charge, please." "That would be Chief Deputy Marshal Everett," the receptionist said. "And I'm afraid he's unavailable." "Don't be afraid," Alex said. "Just call him and tell him that the commander of the Citywide Major Cases Squad is here to see him." The receptionist made a face, but she dialed her phone. "Chief, there's an Alex Cahill and a-" She paused, her face registering surprise. "Of course, sir." She hung up. "The Chief Deputy will be out in a moment." "Thank you," Alex said sweetly. They turned and took a seat in the waiting area. "How did you know-?" Scully whispered. "Tim Everett and I dated a _long_ time ago," Alex whispered back. Scully nodded. A moment later a huge bear of a man stepped out from an inside office. His star hung from a belt-mounted chunk of leather, and his SIG Sauer was holstered neatly on his right hip. "Alex!" he said warmly. Alex rose to greet him, and Scully watched, amazed, as something came over her friend. Her face softened, and Cahill looked ten years younger. She gave the Chief Deputy a warm, gentle smile, and leaned up on tip-toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Tim," she said. "And who is your gorgeous friend?" he asked. Scully felt herself blush as Alex introduced her. "Special Agent Dana Scully, MD, FBI." "Ooh, smart AND pretty," Everett said, shaking Dana's hand. Scully resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "So, what can the Marshals do for the NYPD? Or the FBI?" "Someplace we can talk, Tim? Someplace private?" She glanced around and added, "Secure?" Tim frowned and nodded, holding his arm out for Alex and Scully to proceed him down the hall. They passed several offices. All the doors were closed, and none of them had signs. They stopped at another blank door that Tim opened. "This is the most secure room we have. We use it for debriefing when one of our...clients...messes up." The trio entered and Tim shut the door behind them. "I know what this is about," Tim said shortly. "I was putting on an act for our receptionist. She gossips like no one's business. Alex, I can't help you on this. You gotta understand-" "I understand that I have a mess in my lap, on my damn doorstep, and you can help me but won't," Alex said, cutting him off. "Washington," Tim said, shrugging. "They won't budge." Alex touched a forefinger to her nose. "Can you get it unofficially?" she asked. "I know your boss has called the Chief Deputy in Washington and begged him for it. I know that next, the Mayor is probably going to call the Attorney General or something like that. But, Washington is Washington. They're paranoid that this is going to break in the press. You have to admit, Alex, the NYPD isn't exactly the best at keeping secrets." Alex nodded, accepting his rebuke. "Sure. But you're not dealing with the NYPD. I'm not a local precinct commander, Tim. I command the Citywide Major Case Squad now. I answer directly to the Chief of Detectives. I don't have sixteen layers of administration above me. I have sixteen First Grades assigned to me, all good, trustworthy people. All of them have taken the NYPD Intelligence course." "Wonderful, great. If it were up to me, I would have FedEx'd the list over as soon as Wagner went down and we spotted the pattern. But my hands are tied, Alex." "You never answered my question, Tim. Can you get me the list on the QT? No one has to know it came from you." Tim nodded. "Sure, as if I believe that. Alex, we've been friends for a long time. You're the only..." He stopped and glanced at Scully, who had remained silent during the entire conversation. "Dana knows we used to be lovers," Alex said, throwing an extra growl into the last word. "You're the only...girlfriend...that I've ever stayed friends with. Hell, even my wife likes you, and she hates all my ex's. She invited you over for Christmas dinner two years ago! But...I know you, Alex. You forget how well I know you. I know that if this turns to shit, you'll throw me and this office to the wolves in a heartbeat." Alex shifted in her chair, glanced at Scully and then returned her gaze to Tim. "Actually, that's the FBI's role in this." Scully bit her lip, calculating. Was Alex telling the truth? "I see..." Tim said, glancing at Scully. "Is that true, Agent Scully?" "The Bureau," Scully said carefully, "while not expecting such a circumstance to occur, is willing to take its share of public pressure in the event that this case takes on a nonoptimal outlook." Tim nodded, impressed. "They teach you to say that at the Academy, Agent Scully?" Scully shrugged. "All I am saying is that we all want to catch this bastard before he hits again, and failing that, as soon as humanly possible. My partner is the number one FBI profiler-" "Mulder?" Scully blushed, flattered in some strange way that Tim knew her partner's name. "Yes, Fox Mulder is my partner." "What's he say about this?" Scully shifted mental gears, seeing the lever that Tim was offering her. "He thinks that if we warn the victims that we stand a better chance of catching this asshole. If Mulder knows the victim pool, he might be able to guess who the next one will be, and we can sit on them until this guy makes a move. Then we'll have him. The FBI looks good, the NYPD looks great, and the USMS looks like the finally learn how to play ball with the rest of the kids on the playground." Tim chewed his lip, ignoring Scully's thinly veiled insult. The USMS was more secretive, sometimes, than the CIA. "How about partial information?" Tim asked. "Like what?" "A count. I can probably get away with telling you how many clients there are in the city, just not the names." "How many?" Alex asked. Scully frowned, and then understood. Levers. Once Tim had given up information, any information, the next piece would be that much easier. "I have no idea. Let's go find out," he said, standing. Alex and Scully followed Tim out of the conference room to the elevators. They went all the way to the basement and exited, revealing a dark, dimly-lit hallway. "Our computer center is in the basement," Time explained. "Something about being able to control the humidity better or something. I don't understand all of it." They stopped in front of a steel door. A closed-circuit TV camera slowly panned back and forth, taking in every inch of the hallway. An electronic cipher lock was mounted next to the knob. Scully noticed that it had a stripe-reader as well as a sixteen-button keypad. Removing a photo ID from an inside pocket, Tim swiped it through the reader and then, shielding his body from Alex and Scully, typed the code quickly. The lock beeped and the door cracked open an inch. Tim pushed it open and the two women followed him inside. The room was huge, covering almost sixty thousand square feet. Rows and rows of mainframes littered almost half the space. There were workstations and terminals scattered around. Technicians sat at a few screens, typing madly away on the keyboards. "Tim?" a voice asked. All three turned to face the speaker, a short, curly-haired man in his late twenties. "Dave. I'd like you to meet Inspector Alex Cahill from the NYPD and Special Agent Dana Scully from the FBI." "Running the tour again, are we?" He held out his hand. "Dave Campion. Glad to meet you." They all shook. "So, you want to do the mainframes first?" he asked. "Dave, we're not here on a tour." "Oh?" "I need a special data run, and I need it fast." "Of?" "All clients in the city-" "Plus the seven counties," Alex added quickly. Campion's eyes widened. "Uh, Tim..." "Just a count, Dave. No names." Campion nodded. "Ok. That'll take about ten minutes or so. You want to wait?" "Please," Tim said. "It's important." "Right," Dave said, walking away. "I'll suspend other processes until this finishes. That'll speed it up a bit." Tim turned to face Alex. "That's the best that I can do, Alex. I'm sorry." "It's a start," Alex shrugged. "At least, if the CofD asks, I'll have a terminal number for him." Scully wrinkled her nose. Just the thought that they had a target number was repulsive. She took the time to glance around, making as many mental notes as she could. The guys might be able to use any information she brought back. Scully almost asked a question, but decided that to say anything might give her interest away, and if the gunmen's intrusion was detected, it would lead directly back to her. Talk about a career limiting move, she thought. This entire thing is like juggling hand grenades. With the pins already removed. Alex had seen Scully's mouth open and then close. She nodded at one of the technicians and then batted her eyes at Scully. The message clear, Scully frowned at Alex. She'd never used what her mother referred to as her "feminine wiles" to get her way, and she wasn't about to start now. Alex's eyebrows drew together and she nodded again at the technician and then flicked her eyes to Tim, smiling widely. Go ahead, Alex's face said, I'll keep Tim here busy. Sighing, Scully moved over to the nearest technician. He glanced up at her and then back down at his keyboard. "Hi," Scully said softly. "I'm Sc...Dana." "Ted," the man said nervously. "Quite a setup you have here," she said. "Makes my laptop seem puny by comparison." "Yup," the man said proudly. "We have the second most powerful computer setup in the city." "After who?" Scully asked, feigning interest. "The NSA has a site...somewhere. No one knows where. But they're supposed to have two Cray XM-2's. We only have one." Cray XM-2, Scully thought. Check. "Are you connected to Washington?" "Concrete-hardened fiber optic. ISDN. Thirty-six D-channel connections. That's..." Doing the math, Scully answered. "Four and a half terabits. Not bad." Encouraged that his new friend seemed to know a bit about computers, Ted continued. "Yup...firewalled behind a Matrix System 12." Matrix System 12, Check. "We're mostly a Unix shop, but we do have some old IBM System 360's here. And some 36's. Mostly we run NT across a 16megabit token ring network." "Token ring?" Scully asked. "I thought everybody was going to Ethernet." Ted shrugged. "USMS is behind the times, what can I say? What do you do?" "I'm a cop," Scully answered, not untruthfully. She was, after a fashion. "Oh, wow. You're armed?" Scully nodded, turning to show Ted the bulge of her pistol. "Wow." System 360's, system 36's, token ring. Check, check, check. WindowsNT. Check. Unix. Check. "So are you a detective?" "Something like that," Scully said. "Actually, I'm a medical doctor. A pathologist." "What's that?" "Like a medical examiner." "You cut up dead people?" Scully arched an eyebrow, her arms crossed. "Sure. That a problem?" "Er...no." Scully looked around. "With this much speed and power, email must run a lot faster than at my office." "Sure does," Ted said, a devious expression crossing his face. "So, do you have an email address?" Scully nodded, biting her bottom lip. She saw what was coming. "Maybe...if...uh..." "Why don't you give me yours," Scully said, "and later, after I wrap up this case I'm on, maybe we'll...have dinner or something." "Or something," Ted said, grinning. He wrote down his email address on a pad next to his keyboard, tore the sheet off and handed it to Scully. She glanced at it. tedm@dopey.usms.gov "Dopey?" she said. "One of our email servers. We have-" "Seven," Scully finished, smiling, getting it. "So which computer is Snow White, then?" Ted's face whitened. "I'm not allowed to talk about that one," he whispered, looking around for someone, probably Dave Campion. "That's the...big one, huh?" Scully pressed. "The one with the list of...clients?" she asked, remembering Tim's term for the WITSEC members. Glancing both ways, Ted held a finger to his lips and nodded. "But you didn't get it from me." Scully smiled. She knew a little bit about TCP/IP, the "language" of the Internet. If the USMS followed the same habits of system administrators the world over, the TCP/IP address for Snow White would probably be one or two octets from one of the mail servers. And using NSLookup, the guys could resolve the dopey.usms.gov address to a TCP/IP address in a matter of seconds. "Thanks, Ted. You've ... been a big help." Scully glanced over her shoulder and saw that Alex was still deep in conversation with Tim. She decided to have a little fun. Leaning down to whisper in Ted's ear, she asked, "Can you download dirty pictures on this thing?" He blushed, and Scully had her answer. "Well, most of the stuff is logged," Ted admitted, "but if you know what you're doing, there are ways around it." Gotcha, Scully thought. If there was anyone in the world that knew how to get to dirty pictures without being tracked, it was Melvin Frohicke. And if Ted here could get out to the network without being detected, then Frohicke could get in. On impulse, Scully kissed his cheek. "You're bad," she said, a husky tone creeping into her voice. "But...I like that. I'll email you." She stood and walked back towards Alex, rejoining them at the tail end of what appeared to be an involved conversation. "...no way she'd believe that, Alex. And besides, I'm happily married. Not that I'm not flattered-" Tim stopped as he realized Scully was standing next to him. "Hi, Scully," Alex said, arching an eyebrow at her. Scully smiled back. "How's it going?" "We're just waiting for Dave to get back with the number," Tim explained quickly. Sure you were, Scully thought. "I wonder what's keeping him?" Tim wondered aloud. +=+=+=+=+===+=+= By chance, Dupree was in the system when he saw it. He had done a routine job list, wondering who was running what, when he spotted the program. COLNYC1, the process table read. Collect NYC clients, Dupree instantly translated. Quietly, he took root access on the box, granting him superuser privileges. He suspended the process without killing it, effectively freezing the program in its tracks. He quickly dropped to a shell prompt and queried the temp file stack, seeing what output the program had already collected. Names. Names that were very familiar to Dupree. Names of witnesses. Someone was running a job that listed all WITSEC clients in... Dupree scrolled, looking at the parameter list that had been passed to the process. All five boroughs and the seven counties. Shit. He restarted the job and instructed the box to make him a copy of the file. Drumming his fingers on the table, Dupree considered his options. There were few. When the job finished, Dupree checked his ghost copy of the file. That was odd. The program had collected all the names and then just summarized them with a number. With a start, Dupree realized what was happening. Someone, probably that short little FBI woman, had asked a question. And the USMS, typically, had not given a complete answer. Perfect. That piece of information was useless to them. Dupree exited the box, erasing his tracks as he went. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Here we are," Dave Campion said. "Thirty two total in the area specified." Alex grunted. "Thirty two total, or twenty eight we have to worry about?" Campion blushed. "Twenty-eight." "Thanks, Dave," Tim said, turning to go. "We'll leave you alone." The trio exited the computer room and made their way back to the elevator. Ascending to the lobby, Alex smiled at Tim. "Give what I said some thought, tiger. I miss you," she said, running her hand over his tie. Tim cleared his throat and glanced at Scully, who pretended to be studying the floor display. The doors slid open and the two women casually walked out, through the lobby and out the front doors. Once they were safely inside the car, they exchanged a serious, heavy glance and then dissolved into laughter. "I can't believe," Scully managed to gasp, "that you made me DO that!" "Do what?" Alex asked. "You...I all but SEDUCED that poor boy!" "Did you get anything useful?" "Sure." "Did he get your phone number?" "No," Scully said. "He gave me his email address." ' "Have any intention of emailing him?" Scully shook her head. Alex started the car, putting it into gear and pulling into traffic. "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," she said, causing Scully to dissolve into giggles once again. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Safehouse Scully finished her description of the computer setup as Frohicke took copious notes. "Perfect," he grinned. "Agent Scully, you show an aptitude for these hacker-type activities." Scully smiled. "Glad you're happy. Now get back to work." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Federal Plaza Casey Tan was lying in wait. She had staked out Tim Everett's car and was hoping that the man was planning on calling it a day sometime soon. She wanted to get his denial on record so that she could proceed with the next step of her plan. This was huge. If this story played the way she thought it was going to, there was no telling where she could ride it to. Network, for sure. Washington and beyond. Casey Tan was so lost within the fantasy of replacing Dan Rather on the CBS evening news desk that she almost missed Tim Everett getting into his car. Quickly exiting her own car, Casey moved to Ted's side. "Chief Deputy Tim Everett?" she asked. Tim spun on her, his hand automatically moving to the holstered pistol on his hip. "What?" "Casey Tan, Channel 2 News," she said, flashing him a brilliant smile and offering one slim hand for him to shake. He did so and eyed her suspiciously. "What do you want?" he asked. "Just to talk for a minute," she said innocently. "Do you mind if I tape this?" "No interviews," he said, holding up his hand. "Deep background," Casey pressed. "Just you and me. Not even my news director will know." Knowing he would probably live to regret it, Tim nodded. Casey made a show of clicking her tape recorder on. Tim didn't know it, but one of the pens in her pocket was a digital recorder; it didn't use tape, and could hold up to two minutes of data. "It must be hard," Casey started, "being the Chief Deputy Marshal in charge of such a large area such as the First Federal District of New York." Tim opened his mouth to respond just as Casey added, "What with all the murders." Tim closed his mouth with an audible snap! "What murders?" he asked, knowing he was doomed. "The murders of the four federally protected witnesses, starting with Leon King and ending most recently with-" "I have no idea what you're talking about," Tim said hurriedly, digging for his car keys. "Oh?" Casey asked. "Are you denying knowledge that the four murder victims, victims that have been claimed by someone calling himself MrKnife, were all federally protected witnesses?" "I'm not able to comment on the status of those witnesses," Tim said, and then immediately regretted it. "Oh, so you are confirming that the victims _were_ all protected witnesses?" "I didn't say that." "So are you denying it?" Sighing and shaking his head, Tim fell back on the tried-and- true protection of a hasty, "No comment." Casey clicked the recorder off. "Ok, now that we're off the record, two things. First...is it true?" "You can't use it," Tim protested weakly. Casey just shook her head, saying nothing, knowing that the pen was still recording. "Yes. We're aware of it. And we're taking steps to apprehend the suspect." "What steps?" Casey asked. "I'm not at liberty to discuss that. We're working in conjunction with the FBI and the NYPD." "I see. Now...for the second," Casey said. "Would you like to have dinner with me?" Tim gaped at her, saw the open invitation on her face and felt himself grow hard. "S-sure," he said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza 6:42pm Scully sighed and closed her laptop. She had completed the autopsy on the most recent victim, Danielle Jones, and had discovered nothing that the New York City Medical Examiner's Office had overlooked. They had done a complete, thorough, competent job. Nothing keeping me here, she thought, and stood to go find Mulder. The door to interrogation room "C" was closed. Scully knocked. Getting no answer, she pushed the door open softly and peered inside. And found Mulder and Alex Cahill in an embrace. Chapter 18 +=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Ten minutes previously Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill was walking down the hall towards room "A," where a pair of detectives were interviewing an armed robbery suspect, a man thought to have committed six bank robberies in the last month alone. Sensing something wrong, Alex slowed and then stopped, turning her head and listening. There it was again. A soft thudding. Glancing up at the ceiling, Alex wondered if Physical Plant was in the ductworks again, fixing the heat for the dozenth time that week. Slowly turning her head to localize the noise, Alex realized that it was coming from inside room "C". Well, she thought, of course it was. She raised a hand to knock. Noticing that the door wasn't completely closed, she instead used her fingers to push it gently open. Special Agent Fox Mulder was seated in one corner of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms clasped around his shins. He was slowly, methodically rapping his head against the wall over and over again. Not enough to hurt or to cause damage, Alex noticed, but the glazed, distant look in his eyes was alarming just the same. "Mulder?" she asked softly. No response, except for his head thudding against the wall twice more. Glancing over her shoulder, Alex entered the room and closed the door. Moving slowly, Alex approached him, glancing around to see if there was anything obvious worth noticing. The interrogation room looked as if a hurricane had recently passed through; paper was strewn everywhere. Hastily scrawled notes peppered the blackboard. Two dozen empty Styrofoam coffee cups littered the tabletop. Mulder's tie was loose, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. "Mulder?" Alex asked again. He didn't appear to hear her. His head continued to thud against the wall with the regularity of a metronome. Squatting in front of him, Alex searched his face for something, some sign of recognition. "Mulder?" she asked again. "You OK?" His head turned towards her drunkenly, but his face remained blank. Disconnected, Alex thought. He looks disconnected. She reached out a hand and touched his face. Mulder's eyes immediately closed and he smiled. "I like it when you touch me," he whispered. "I'm glad," Alex said. She removed her hand and Mulder's eyes opened again. His eyes staring at something in the middle distance, he began once again to softly bounce his head off the wall. Alex turned to go find Scully. "Don't go," Mulder said softly, gently. He sounds like a little boy, Alex thought, turning back. "I want you to stay," Mulder said again, his voice a whisper. His voice held a musical, almost lyrical tone and Alex found herself captivated by it. Hypnotized, she thought. He almost sounds as if he's been hypnotized. "Mulder...what are you thinking about?" Alex asked. "The case," he said, a beatific smile on his face. "Always thinking about the case. Even when I sleep, which is almost never, I'm always thinking about the case. Or about you." Biting her lip, Alex took a gamble. "How long have you been thinking about me, Mulder?" "Since we met," he said softly, shyly. "And how long is that, Mulder?" His brows drew together as he thought about the question. "What year is it?" he asked. "1998," Alex answered. Mulder pouted and raised a hand. Starting with his thumb, the tip of his tongue sticking out from between his lips, he visibly counted. "Five years," he finally said. Bingo, Alex thought. He thinks I'm Dana. Now what? Alex realized that Mulder was in a very delicate, very fragile position. Not quite over the edge, but damn close. "What do you think about when you think about me?" she asked, trying to find a topic of conversation away from the case, hoping that it would bring him out of his shell. "I was thinking about how much I..." He stopped and frowned, still not seeing Alex, not seeing anything. "No," he finished. "Can't tell." "Why not?" "It's a secret," he smiled, placing a finger across his lips. "Shhhh. Secret. Can't tell." "You can tell me, Mulder. You know you can tell me anything." He shook his head. "Won't believe me," he said sadly. "Tell me I'm nuts, that I'm crazy, that I don't know what I'm saying." His eyes suddenly blazed, his brows knitting together. "You always say that. Always tell me to prove it. How can I prove it? It just is." "What is?" "What?" "What just is, Mulder?" "Me. You. Us." Alex sighed. No wonder they weren't a couple, if this was the kind of conversations that they had. Even normal, Mulder was frustrating. If he got like this all the time...it's a wonder Scully hadn't shot him by now. "What about us?" Alex pressed, not sure why she wanted to know. "You know," Mulder said. The shy smile was back. "You always knew. You pretend like you don't...but you do. I know you do. I read your book." Dana wrote a book? Alex thought. "What book, Mulder?" "You know...the book. When you were in the hospital. I read it. I know how you feel. But you won't tell me. You won't say it." Alex chewed her lip. Brushing her hair behind one ear, she tried again. "Why don't you go first, Mulder? Why don't you tell me?" "I did. I told you that night. That night we thought you were going to die." "What did I say?" Alex asked, realizing how absurd the question was, but knowing that in his state, Mulder probably wouldn't see the obvious. "Nothing. You were asleep." "So if I was asleep, how could I have answered?" He seemed to think about that and then shook his head. "I don't know how to tell you when you're awake." "I'm awake now," Alex pointed out. "Yes...but you're not really Scully," Mulder said again, still not focusing his eyes. "You're just a ...fig newton of my imagination." He giggled at the joke and then grew serious. "See, I don't feel good, and you know that, because you know me. You know when I'm not feeling good. I mean, when you're you, you know. But you're not you, you're me, or a part of me, or a fantasy or something. A dream. You're not really Scully." Progress, Alex thought. He knows something's not right. "Can you wake up, Mulder? If you're dreaming...can you wake up?" "I'm not sleeping. But I may be dreaming." "Have you ever done this before?" Alex asked. He shook his head. "Not since the last time." He laughed, knowing the answer was not the answer. "When was the last time, Mulder?" "What day is it? Date, I mean?" Alex told him the date. "Almost seven years ago. When I was in ISU. Serial rapist. I got bad." "What did you do then to get better?" He frowned, thinking. "I called Phoebe." Who is that? Alex wondered. "C'mon, Mulder...let's stand up." "Okaaay," he said, his voice a sing song. They stood together, Mulder still staring off into space. Alex brought her hands up to his face, raising his gaze to hers. "I want to help you, Mulder," she said softly. "Thanks, Scully." "Why don't you call me Dana?" Alex asked. He shrugged. "Because that's what everyone else calls you. You're my Scully." Alex nodded. In a very Mulder way, that made sense. "I need you to help me, Mulder. I need you to tell me how to help you." He shrugged. "Just don't ever leave me, Scully." Wow, Alex thought. Need, thy name is Mulder. The man was an emotional black hole. "What were you doing before I came in?" Alex asked. "Autopsy reports," Mulder said slowly, speaking as if the words were hard for him. "Looking at what he did to them. Looking at the..." He paused. "...at the blood and stuff." Stuff? "What stuff?" "Guts. Intestines. Stomach. Liver. Pancreas. All of it. He opened them up, Scully, to let it out. To let the badness out." Progress, Alex thought again. "What bad stuff?" "The bad stuff that he sees inside them. They have something bad inside them, and he's letting it out. He's freeing them. He's... choosing them because they have the stuff inside that makes you bad." Stuff inside that makes you bad? Alex felt like she was talking to a six year old. And then inspiration struck. "Mulder...have you been bad?" He looked at the floor and actually shuffled his feet. Alex tried to hide a soft smile and then let it shine anyway. It was beginning to make sense now. "Mulder...when is your birthday?" "October," he mumbled. "I want to get you a special present, Mulder. Is that Ok with you?" "Sure." "I need to know how old you're going to be on your birthday, Mulder." He blushed, Alex saw. He actually blushed. "Ten," he said and smiled shyly. Regressed, Alex thought wildly. He's regressed. He thinks he's nine years old. "Do bad boys deserve a present?" Alex asked. Mulder shook his head. "N-no," he said. "What did you do, Mulder. Why were you bad?" He shrugged again. Alex chewed her lip. "Mulder..." she said, trying to make her voice sound authoritative. "Tell me what you did." He mumbled something, something that sounded like "...myself." "What?" "Touched myself," he said louder. Alex nodded. "And you're not supposed to do that, are you?" He shook his head. "Bad. Dirty. Bad boys. Dirty boys." Alex wanted so badly to find a way to break through to this man, to make him understand what was happening. "Mulder, how old is Scully?" "Thirty three," he said. "And how old are you?" "Nine, almost ten." Alex waited, wondering if his mind was going to make the connection. "So you met Scully when she was twenty-eight?" "Yes." "How old were you then?" "I was...four?" Alex waited again. "No," he said, "that's not right. I was older." He stepped back, shaking his head, his hands going to his face. "Wait," he said. "Wait...it doesn't make...four?" "No..." Mulder said, shaking his head, his voice high, keening. "No, it....No...NO!" Alex stepped forward, her arms reaching for him. "Come here," she said gently, wrapping him up. She was almost four inches taller than Scully, but Mulder didn't notice. His arms went around her waist, pulling her towards him. He buried his face in her neck. "Don't leave, Scully...please don't leave." "I won't....Shh...." Alex said, stroking his head. "Scully," he whimpered. Alex made soothing noises, running one hand through his hair, and using the other to softly rub his back. She felt the air pressure change as someone opened the door to the hallway. And then she heard the gasp. "I'm sorry," Scully's voice said. "I had no idea-" Alex twisted slowly at the hips, her eyes searching for and finding Dana Scully. She made a 'come here' motion with her hand. Scully frowned, glancing back over her shoulder at the hallway. Alex made a more violent motion, narrowing her eyes. "Now!" she hissed. Slowly, Scully approached. Upon entering the room, to say she'd been surprised to find Alex and Mulder embracing would be putting it mildly. Seeing the way Alex was holding him, the way she was softly stroking him and making motherly noises, Scully began to understand what was going on. She stopped a foot away, asking a question with her eyes. "Mulder?" Alex asked. "W-what?" he said, his voice sounding humid, as if he'd been crying. He lifted his face from her neck and both Alex and Scully saw that indeed, he had been crying. "Look who's here," Alex said gently, turning Mulder to face his partner. "Scully...!" Mulder said, reaching for her. Startled, Scully took a step back and then stood there as Mulder folded her up in his arms. Alex stood and watched them for a moment and then quietly excused herself, shutting the door behind her on the way out. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Mulder?" Scully asked. "What's going on?" Mulder froze, his body tensing as her familiar, welcome voice filled his ears. He straightened, looking her in straight in the eye, his own gaze clear. "I..." he said, looking around. "I'm not sure." "I came looking for you, and I found you in here..." Scully said. After a moment, she added, "With Alex." "Alex?" "Yeah. You were...hugging." Realizing that his arms were still around her, Mulder stepped back. "Sorry," he said. "That's alright," Scully said. "I'm more concerned with what was going on before I got here, Mulder." "I don't know," he said. Scully bit her lip. "What's the last thing you remember?" "I was reading the autopsy reports...backwards. You know, how I do that thing...?" Scully nodded. "And the next thing I remember is...you came in, but you weren't you. You were...different." "I was Alex," Scully pointed out. "Y-yeah, I guess," Mulder said, running a hand through his hair. "I was...somewhere else." "I'll say..." "And then, you were here, and it was you, and..." Glancing around the room, Mulder asked the obvious. "What the fuck just happened here?" "I was hoping you could shed some light on that, Mulder." He shrugged. "Why don't we call it a night, Mulder? Go back to the hotel, get a good night's sleep?" He nodded. "That's a good idea." Moving to collect the paperwork on the floor, Scully stopped him. "Leave it. Just get your coat, ok?" "It's in the bullpen," Mulder said softly. Nodding, Scully used her hand at the small of his back the way he had so many times before with her, gently leading and guiding him out of the room. Walking back up the hallway, Scully spotted Alex in her office, talking on the phone. Spotting the door to the men's room, Mulder stopped walking. "I'm just gonna..." he trailed off, hooking a chin at the door. "Fine," Scully said. "I'll be in Alex's office. Take your time." Mulder nodded and pushed into the men's room. Scully listened to the door-closer hissing shut and then turned and marched into Alex's office. "What the hell happened?" she demanded. "Uh....let me call you back," Alex said into the phone and hung up. "I was walking by room and heard a thudding noise. Your partner was curled up into a ball, whacking his head against the wall, out of it. I tried to talk to him. He thought I was you. I stood him up, and was trying to talk to him when he started to get upset. He was regressing to childhood, Dana. For a while, he thought he was nine years old." "He told you that?" Scully asked. Alex nodded, not particularly liking the tone of Scully's voice. "As a matter of fact, he did. He also mentioned something about being a bad boy and touching himself." Scully gasped, a hand covering her mouth. "What do you mean?" she asked. "She means," Mulder said from behind her, "that I was flashing back to something my mother told me when I was very young." Scully spun on her partner, embarrassment flooding her face. "Oh, God, Mulder...." He waved it away. "It's ok, Scully. I was...deep inside that case and I started remembering what my mother told me about being bad. About what bad, dirty little boys did. And how bad little boys grew up to be bad men." He shrugged. "Happens sometimes, at least for me. I go out of it for about a half hour or so, and then I'm back. Sometimes, I..." He shrugged again. "Sometimes, when I get back, I have a new...angle on the case. A new insight." "Did that just happen?" Alex asked, interested. "I think so. Listen...do you know where the guys are?" he asked Scully. She nodded. "I want to stop by on the way to the hotel. I have an idea or two I want to run past them." "Fine," Scully said, eager to get Mulder out of the station, eager to...what? Get him away from Alex? +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= In the car, Scully drove as Mulder sat quietly, staring out the window as the scenery slid by. "Do you want to talk about it?" Scully finally asked. Mulder was quiet for so long that Scully was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer. "Later," he finally mumbled. Scully glanced at him as she drove, wondering if Alex had unknowingly unlocked the entire secret. The doctor in her knew that masturbation was a completely normal activity for both children and adults. The sex drive was second only to the sense of self preservation; this case, along with all the other serial murder cases Mulder had ever worked proved that. Mulder's childhood had been horrific; No one doubted that. Scully had always thought that the primary stressor in her partner's life had been his sister's abduction. But what if that wasn't the case? What if it went deeper, if the true stressor was in and of itself so utterly horrific that Mulder had fallen on Samantha's abduction as a defense mechanism? If the specter of her abduction was actually easier to take than what had happened. The possibilities ran through her head. Physical, emotional, sexual abuse. Any one of them, or some evil combination of the three could go a long way to explaining Mulder's...intimacy problems. "Tell me," Scully said softly. Mulder shook his head, still mute with shame. Scully pulled the car to the curb and killed the engine. She reached for his hand, taking it in both of hers. "Mulder," she said slowly, realizing she was entering an emotional minefield; one wrong step and the whole thing could blow up in her face. "... we've always been able to talk about anything. No one has the conversations that we do." She smiled. "And I wouldn't change that for the world." She paused. "Something happened in there. I'm sorry..." She saw him wince and hurried to finish her thought. "No...I'm only sorry that I wasn't there for you. I know how you get, how you need to be alone to do the things that you do, and I think I'm beginning to understand a little more why that is. But I...I wish I could have been there when it got ugly for you." "Why?" Mulder asked. Scully opened her mouth to respond, and after a moment, closed it. Such a simple question. Such an incredibly complex question. Mulder seemed to sense her confusion. "I meant, why would you want to go to...that place with me? It's not a nice place, Scully. Not a nice place at all." Scully spoke without thinking, and in doing so, gave Mulder the answer that came directly from her heart. "The only reason I would want to go there with you, Mulder, is to help you get back. Back to here. Me. Us." His soft smile was reassuring, and his fingers squeezed one of her hands. "Thanks," he said gently. "But I wouldn't want to take anyone there, least of all you." "Not even if I wanted to go?" Scully's tone was light, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness that they both felt. Mulder sighed. "It's...I don't think about it much," he finally admitted. Scully glanced away for a moment, unable to look her partner in the face for another moment. The infamous Dr. Fox Mulder, Ph.D., possessor of a doctorate in psychology from Oxford University. Board certified as a clinical psychologist, board certified as an abnormal criminal psychologist. Certified National Violent Criminal Profiler by the FBI. Known in forensic psychology circles far and wide. Internationally known, as a matter of fact; he had the letter of commendation from the Chief Detective Superintendent from Scotland Yard to prove it. And he couldn't see the truth that was staring him right in the face. "Not consciously, anyway," Mulder added, voicing the very thought that was crossing Scully's mind at that exact moment. She snorted. Once again, he'd surprised her. "Mulder...you've been in therapy so many times. Hasn't this come up before?" He looked away. "I tend to avoid it," he mumbled. Scully felt her jaw set as she started the car. "Not with me, you're not." Mulder glanced at his partner as she put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. He wondered if she knew how many times he'd wanted to tell her, to confide in her his dirty little secrets. Dirty, nasty little boy, his mother's voice said in his mind. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. It didn't work. He could see her face, unlined with age, red with anger, eyes wide and accusing, her finger shaking as she pointed it at him from a fist clenched with rage. And then another memory, one of Phoebe this time. The third or fourth time they'd made...they'd had sex. She'd done something to him, something he'd only read and wondered about, something his mother had made more than clear that nice girls didn't do and nice boys didn't ask for. She'd raised her head from his lap, licking her lips like a kitten and seen the look on his face, a mixture of passion and fear. "Oh, you like it that way?" she'd asked, a gleam in her eyes. Mulder had nodded, not knowing at that moment that he was handing her the crowbar she would use to pry his head open and mind-fuck him for the next ten years. "You a dirty little sod, aren't you?" she'd asked, and he'd flinched. And then another part of him had flinched, remembering a long ago moment. To his shame, even though he'd just spent, Mulder had felt himself harden. Phoebe had felt it to, and the knowledge shown from her eyes. Again, Mulder hadn't realized it at the time, but Phoebe Green had all but purred with the certainty that she now had the young Fox Mulder by the proverbial (and literal) balls. And for the remainder of that school year, Phoebe had proved again and again that she knew exactly which buttons to push when it came to Mulder, and she had not hesitated to push a single one when it had suited her purposes. Just as his mother had. "We're here," Scully announced, sliding the car to the curb once more and killing the engine. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Inside, Frohicke was bent over the keyboard, his eyes focused on the 21-inch monitor not six inches away from the end of his nose. Byers was working on something with a pad of paper and a pen, his face screwed up in concentration. Langly was playing video games. "What's up?" Mulder asked Byers quietly. The hacker leaned back and rubbed his beard with both hands, pausing to scratch against his jawline. "I'm working on some encryption ideas for your codes. I'm trying to see if there's a mathematical way to reduce the possible number of runs that we'll need to do once we get an idea of what text to attack." Mulder nodded, not understanding. Seeing the blank look in his friend's eye and knowing that Mulder hated above all things to admit to ignorance of any kind, Byers took pity on him and began explaining. "Finite number of texts to attack, which is a good thing. Or a bad thing." "Why bad?" Mulder asked. "Because it's a finite raised to the power of four. We have no guarantee that he used the same text for all four victims." Mulder grunted, realizing that he was right. "What do you think?" Byers asked, hoping to bring Mulder into the game by starting on his turf. Mulder paced for a moment, hands jammed in his pockets. "I say he's probably using the same text because the text itself has some importance to him. It's the source material for his fantasies, or the way he's picking them, or confirming them, or something. The text has something to do with it, something big. So you can assume it's the same text." Byers nodded. "Ok, so we can start removing a lot of stuff. Any book published in the last ten years, say. Any popular novel. Pretty much any non-historically significant non-fiction. For example, I doubt that he's using a Dustbuster operator's manual. Also, we can start eliminating some of the smaller texts." "Why?" "The numbers he gave; if they are an ELS, then he's using something big, something over a million characters. So that narrows it down again." "To what?" Byers smiled thinly. "Oh, only about twenty thousand and something." "So what do we do now?" "Now...now we use the clues he left. We start accessing all the stored texts we can find, using the ELS sequences he gave us. We match that against all known specific words related to the four victims." "Specific words?" Scully interjected. "Yeah. We ignore words like 'and' and 'the' and stuff like that which appears in the official case files. We concentrate on words that are specific to the case. Names, dates, crimes committed, lawyers and judges, arresting officers, witnesses...things that are specific. Serial murder is a highly personal thing, while at the same time almost completely depersonalized at the level that the killer is treating his victims as objects that he needs to fuel his fantasy." Mulder raised his eyebrows, impressed. "That's exactly right, John." Byers blushed. "I've been doing some reading." "Remind me to borrow your library card," Mulder said softly. "So, given the parameters that you have, how long before you can start searching?" "Two, maybe three weeks," Scully groaned. "At that rate, we'll be knee-deep in victims and hostile press. You can guarantee that little operation will be shut down." "That's why I've been hard at work," Frohike said, speaking for the first time. Scully groaned inwardly; whenever the stubby programmer got involved, she knew she was in for a conversation filled with sexual innuendo and suggestive looks. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Your information was wonderful, Agent Scully. I think that I'll be able to breach the security of the WITSEC system within six or seven days." "Why so long?" Mulder wanted to know. "Because I don't want to be detected," Frohike said. Mulder waved that off. "You guys...you're protected on this one. I told you that." Frohike regarded his friend calmly, wondering to himself how much sleep Mulder had been getting lately. "I wasn't talking about the police or the Marshals, Mulder. If our perp can get in without being detected, you can almost be sure that he'll be on the lookout for anyone else attempting the same thing." Our perp? Scully thought. Well, he was a sworn law officer. And he was officially helping on the case. "I hadn't thought of that," Mulder admitted. "What, exactly, are you doing? And remember, I know just enough about computers to write a memo and download a game." Or a dirty picture, Scully thought, and was immediately ashamed. "Basically, using the information that Special Agent Scully provided, we're attempting to ride a secondary backbone access into the main mail server disguised as a mail message. A variation on the old sendmail bug that was so widespread with Unix systems a few years ago. Depending on certain configurations of secondary and tertiary servers, we can fool the machines into thinking that a trust relationship exists where one does not. That gives us a higher level of access to certain system functions. One of those functions has to do with how passwords are sent across the local internal network at Federal plaza." Mulder's head was spinning. "In English, please." "Very well," Frohike said. "At the FBI, they run a Novell front end and a Unix back end. When you sign onto the Novell network, your password is sent across the network encrypted. Not in the clear. If your password, was, say, "Scully," it's not sent as those six characters. It's encrypted so that anyone sniffing the packets as they go by won't be able to intercept it and use it." "Are the Marshals doing the same thing?" "Well," Frohike said, "we managed to capture one password file already." "That's GREAT!" Mulder said. "No, not really," Byers interjected. "The system administrator there is actually very sharp. He knows what he's doing security-wise. See, under Unix, you can't just copy the password file over and start using the passwords themselves. Unlike Novell, the password file itself is not encrypted, but the passwords themselves are. And because of the nature of the encryption scheme used, you can't just reverse it and figure out the password." "So what do you do?" Scully asked, fascinated. "Well, you select a password at random. An encrypted one, that is. Then, you use a dictionary, a big one, and you use the same Unix encryption scheme to encrypt every word in the dictionary until it matches one. Then you know what that password is. From that, you can extrapolate others. It's called a dictionary attack, for obvious reasons." "So what's the problem?" "As we said," Frohike explained, "the system administrator is no dummy. You can make it incredibly hard for a dictionary attack to succeed just by following a few simple rules." "Such as?" "Using non-English words. German, French, even Japanese. Using words that don't exist. My first system password in high school was 8JPK5R1. That won't appear in any dictionary, so the dictionary attack would fail on that password." Mulder nodded. "Ok, I get it. So if the system administrator is doing such a good job, why are you even bothering?" "Two things. First, Unix attracts hackers like Agent Scully attracts admirers." This from Byers, Mulder thought. "And hackers hate security rules like that. And so they code around them. Part of the hacker ethic is making it easier to do your job rather than harder. So they might have coded a backdoor into the system, using an English password. Or they might have created a ghost process, or a zombie daemon, or a dozen other little tricks that, if discovered, would be the key for us to unlock this particular Pandora's box." Mulder rubbed a hand over his face. God, I'm tired, he thought. "Ok, I do want you to pay specific attention to a few things. If you get in...one question: How long does account activity remain on the system?" "What do you mean?" Byers asked. "If I had an account that was created, say, six years ago, and I haven't used it in two months or so...would that show up?" "Sure," Byers said. "Unless root wipes it, it'll be there forever." "Ok, when you get in...notice I said 'when' and not 'if.' When you get in, I want a run of all account activities. I want to know who the oldest accounts are, and then of those, which has had the least access in the last three years. Also, the account with the least remote activity, and the account with the most remote activity. Think you can do that?" Byers nodded, seeing where Mulder was going. "Good idea. We'll keep an eye on it." "Great. I'm going to bed." Mulder turned to leave, stopped and turned back. "Do you guys need anything?" "A satellite dish," Langly called out. "I'll see what I can do," Mulder said. "But don't hold your breath," Scully added. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= They'd driven back to the hotel, ridden up in total silence and waved good-byes at their respective doors. Scully had desperately wanted to continue the conversation they'd started in the car, but judging by the look of pure exhaustion on her partner's face, it just wasn't the right time. Scully had taken a long, hot bath and then pounded her laptop's keyboard into mush bringing the case file up to date. She'd called down to Washington, checking both hers and Mulder's voice mail. A call to her mother had followed that. By then it had been almost nine, and Scully had decided to turn in. In the next room, Mulder was sleeping. And dreaming. If it could be called that. The movie screen his in mind played the same two dozen images over and over again like an endless tape loop from hell. The times his mother had caught him touching himself, first as a young boy, and then again as a teenager. When he'd been younger, she'd said told him that only bad, nasty, dirty little boys touched themselves like that, and if the continued to do it, God would punish him, God would send gypsies to take him away. When he'd been older... That image played over and over in his mind. He'd been fifteen. A friend of Mulder's had found a Playboy belonging to the friend's father and had let Mulder borrow it for the weekend. Mulder had excused himself from the dinner table, gone upstairs to his bedroom, closed the door and sat on the bed, reading the magazine. When he'd gotten to the centerfold, he'd felt himself harden. He did what any normal teenage boy would do under the circumstances; he touched himself. His timing couldn't have been worse. His mother, worried, had come upstairs with a piece of carrot cake on a plate, carrying a fork and napkin in the other hand. As was her habit, she'd pushed through his door without knocking, sure in the knowledge that nothing went on in her house that she didn't know about beforehand and personally approve. The shriek, Mulder later thought, could probably have been heard in other solar systems. She'd stood at the foot of his bed, the cake and plate in a mushy pile by her right foot, shaking with barely suppressed rage and anger. An accusing finger had been pointed and she'd gone off on him; the term hadn't been in vogue then, but if it had, Mulder's mother had truly "gone ballistic." "Don't you ever LEARN?" she'd screamed. And then...then the fateful words. "LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR SISTER!" The scream woke Scully from a dead sleep. She knew that scream, knew it like the sound of her own voice or the image of her own face in the mirror every morning. She was out of bed before she realized it, moving towards the connecting door. Flinging it open she shot through, taking a left and heading directly for Mulder's bed. The sheets were in a tangle at his feet and he was tossing and turning from side to side, obviously lost in the throes of some horrific dream. "Sorry," he said, again and again. "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry, mommy. I didn't know. It's my fault. It's all my fault." He kept repeating the words like a mantra, almost as if he were able to say them enough times, whatever was torturing him would be satisfied and go away. Scully climbed onto his bed on her knees, reaching down to stop him from tossing and turning. "Mulder," she said softly, already knowing that her words weren't going to be loud enough to wake him. "It's me. It's Scully...wake up, Mulder." He stilled instantly, smiling in his sleep. "Scully," he whispered. Touched that just the sound of her voice could have such a calming effect, Scully was shocked by what happened next. "Sc-Sc-Scul-ly!" Mulder moaned. And then he started sobbing in his sleep. Tears, fat and wet and salty, brimmed over his lids and started leaking down the side of his face, his lower lip trembling. Frozen, Scully could only watch as Mulder rolled away from her, his shoulders shaking with the effort from crying. Oh, Mulder, Scully thought, her heart breaking. She was torn between comforting him and leaving him his dignity. Compassion won out. Scully reached down, using her hands to turn his face towards hers. Her lips brushed against his forehead, and then his eyebrows, his nose, his cheeks, first one and then the other, and finally his lips. When Scully's lips brushed Mulder's, his eyes snapped open. In the dim light of the hotel room, Scully saw Mulder regarding her solemnly. Neither spoke. Scully opened her mouth and lowered it against his, her tongue brushing lightly across his lips before seeking out his tongue. He met hers with his own and they wound around each other, wet and slick and hot. She tasted his breath in her mouth and greedily inhaled it. She felt his hands on her back, sliding up, fingers tangling in her hair, bringing her mouth against his harder, more urgently. Scully responded, knowing that it was right, that he needed it, needed her, that they needed each other more than words could say, more than either of them had thought possible. Scully's entire body was jerking with erotic energy, the nerves and synapses firing again and again as she sank lower into this man, into her partner, into her lover. Finally, a small part of her exclaimed. Finally! And then all rational thought left her. Scully felt his hands at the front of her PJs, working the comically large buttons quickly, easily. She twitched her shoulders, losing the offending garment in an instant, baring her skin to Mulder for the second time. This time it was not a cold, dank morgue locker room. This time it was for real. His hands traced her shape, her lines and contours. She felt his smile of delight against her lips as his fingers encountered the tips of her breasts, tugging and gently twisting her there. Scully groaned low in her throat, welcoming the animal noise, wanting Mulder to know how aroused she was, how much she craved him, his touch, his lips, his fingers, him. "Scully," he breathed. Mulder was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. One moment he'd been asleep, and then he'd woken to Scully's mouth on his, her fingers on his face, her tongue asking for permission to enter his mouth. A thousand fantasies rolled into one, a thousand and one nights spent thinking about this woman, this moment, this kiss, these lips, these fingers. Her eyes. He opened his own, searching for hers and finding them. Even in the darkness of the hotel room he could see her depthless blue shining eyes and he let out a bone-deep sigh of desire and expectation. "Mulder," she sighed back. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The government, Mark Dupree thought, had done a very good job of providing for Mr. Strimnovitch. He'd been given a first-class dacha, Dupree joked to himself. Looked to run two, three grand a month. On the top floor of a midtown apartment building, Strimonvitch's apartment probably had a spectacular view of the park and the Hudson RSiver. Well, for a man who had sold his loyalty, his very soul, Ivan was doing quite good for himself. Mark approached the door, already having bluffed his way past the doorman. He'd worried for a moment that the doorman would be able to describe him, but Dupree had a plan for that as well. He'd kill the doorman on the way out. The door to 1205 was closed, as Dupree expected. He felt inside his pocket and found the straight razor. He'd purchased it earlier that day and had spent most of the afternoon alternately masturbating and sharpening it. The anticipation of this one was killing him. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with Strimnovitch once the man was dead. He had it all planned in his mind, he could see every image, every movement, every sweet motion of the razor as it cut and split flesh. Dupree reached out and knocked on Strimonvitch's door. +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Mulder rolled, bringing Scully with him. She grunted as she took his weight, but it was a delicious, secure feeling and she welcomed it, opening her legs to him, cradling his body with at the juncture of her thighs. She was breathing heavy, eager, hungry. She eyed him from below, licking her lips, pleased at the expression that crossed his face. She did it again, wanting to be hot for him, sexy for him, knowing in a deep part of her soul that no matter what she did, she would be sexy for him. She had been waiting for this moment almost as long, if not longer, than he had. And if pressed, Scully would be unable to pinpoint the exact moment when she'd known she wanted her partner. When she wanted him to touch her, kiss her, make love to and with her. Mulder looked down at his partner, his lover and smiled the widest, warmest smile he'd ever felt. Tomorrow didn't matter; the case was forgotten. All that mattered was the wonderful woman beneath him. Her face...like this...twisted and sweaty with passion and anticipation...there could never have been a more beautiful sight in the world. Mulder suddenly understood the hold Helen of Troy had exercised over her armies. I would do anything, Mulder thought, go anywhere, fight any battle, any foe, any monster...for this woman. For her to look at me this way, with desire and passion and hunger and want and need and lust on her face like this...for her to reward me, grace me, give me this...I will do anything. "Anything for you," he whispered, and Scully knew what he meant. She smiled, reaching for his face with her hands, drawing him to her for another kiss. Deep, moist, passionate, promising more, demanding more, asking for all and accepting nothing less. Mulder reached to his waist, making short order of his boxers. Scully was still wearing the bottoms of her PJs, and underneath those, plain cotton panties. Mulder didn't notice. He lifted her legs to his chest, closing them, and quickly made her naked for him. Scully spread her legs slowly, letting her legs trail down his arms, rubbing her calves against the hairs there, purring at the sensation. Scully said something she had always wanted to, something she had been sure she would never get the opportunity to say. Smiling, arching an eyebrow, giving Mulder the smile she knew he craved, Scully whispered, "Take me." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Yes?" a heavily-accented voice called. "Open up," Mark said, using his Command Voice. The door opened, and again the world faded to black and white. There, in front of him, the mark, the symbol, the last signal that Mark Dupree needed. Strimnovitch, the word CHOSEN carved in the skin of his forehead. Dimly, Dupree was aware that the word wasn't REALLY there. But that was about to change. For the first time, Dupree was going to actually carve the word in the corpse's body. "I'm...Angers," Dupree said, almost giving his real name. "With the Company," he added. Strimnovitch regarded him calmly, saying nothing, making no move to invite him inside. "We need to talk," Dupree said again, rearing back as if to take a step forward. Strimnovitch hesitated for a moment and then nodded. "Of course," he said. "Please...come in." Dupree entered, feeling himself harden. This was going to be wonderful. "Can I get you a drink?" Strimnovitch asked. Dupree shook his head. "Do you mind if I have one?" the spy asked. Again, Dupree shook his head. "Well, have a seat." Dupree remained standing and watched as the impossible happened. Strimnovitch walked over to a wetbar next to the entrance to the terrace. Reaching inside an ice bucket, he returned not with ice, but with a small semiautomatic pistol which he then pointed directly at Dupree. "Please not to be moving," Strimnovitch said calmly. "Or I will be forced to kill you." Dupree felt the world regain color. When he looked, the word was gone from Ivan's forehead. "W-what are you doing?" Dupree asked. "You obviously know who I am, but how you know this is a mystery to me," Strimnovitch said. "Your English is getting better," Dupree observed. "Yes, quite," Ivan said, smiling. "It comes in handy sometimes to play the stupid Russian immigrant. But that is of no matter. I'm afraid that I must insist you tell me how you know who I am." "You first. What gave me away?" Dupree asked. Ivan shrugged. "Since it is unlikely you will live to see tomorrow, I will tell you. You said you were from the Company. That's a Hollywood creation. No one from the CIA says Company anymore." Dupree swore softly under his breath. "Now. My turn. You are?" Dupree felt the weight of the pistol at the small of his back. He'd been planning on using it on the doorman. Plans change, he thought. He'd practiced drawing and firing that pistol a thousand times. He'd even managed to clock himself. He could do it in under a second. But a second was a very, very long time. Ask any computer programmer. Dupree moved to the side, hoping to hide his next actions. "Please don't move. I have no idea who you are or who trained you, but they are obviously picking from the bottom of the barrel. Your tradecraft is horrible. Now...who are you?" "Dupree, Mark Dupree," Dupree said, hoping it sounded funny. After a moment, Ivan smiled. "Ah, I get it. Bond, right?" Ivan snorted. "To quote one of your politicians...Mr. Dupree, I have met Mr. Bond. I know Mr. Bond. Mr. Dupree, you are no James Bond." Mark smiled, moving an inch more to the left. "Please," Ivan said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Right there, please!" Scully moaned. Mulder froze his motions, memorizing the location on Scully's body that had obviously given her so much pleasure. His lips continued their work, kissing and licking and sucking her, tracing the outlines and contours of her sex, his face buried between her legs, Scully's fingers buried in his hair, twisting and pulling, guiding him. "Oh..." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "...right there," Ivan finished. Dupree began to move. Ivan fired. The bullet missed, high over Dupree's right shoulder. The gun was in his hand and the arm was moving clear of the coat, coming up, finding, tracking Ivan. The ex-spy lunged to his right, Dupree's left, forcing the serial killer to move so he wouldn't have to fire cross-body, the most inaccurate of all positions for untrained, non-professional shooters. Dupree pivoted, moving with him, the pistol finally coming around. The world went black and white. He Chosen, Dupree thought, and fired. The bullet caught Ivan high in the chest, six inches from the sternum over the right lung. The ex-spy grunted and fell, but managed to keep the pistol in his hand. Tucking a shoulder and rolling, Ivan came up in a Spenatz combat stance, using his left wrist to steady the pistol as he aimed at Dupree's crotch. Ivan Yorgi Strimnovitch fired. +=+=+=+=+=+===+= "Oh YES!" Scully cried out, exploding in orgasm. "Oh my GOD!" Her legs clamped against Mulder's head, drawing him even tighter against her. Mulder rode through her orgasm, his hands clutching her tight, compact little tush as she wriggled under his touch. "Now, Mulder...my God, please NOW!" Straightening, Mulder moved between her thighs, gently spreading her with his hands on the insides of her legs. Scully's eyes were glassy with passion and need, and she smiled up at the man who had just given her so much pleasure and who was about to give her so much more. She felt him, fat, hard, hot, at her entrance and she bit her lip, knowing it was going to be painful at first. It had been so long. But this was so right. And then she felt him entering her slowly, filling her, opening her to him. And it didn't hurt. It was the most delicious feeling she had ever had in her life. Scully moaned, low and deep, her voice sounding like it was coming from somewhere else. Mulder continued his long, delicious slide and then he was completely inside her. "Scully..." he whispered, feeling her clutch at him with her muscles, moist tissue tugging at him, urging him on. He began to withdraw, sighing at the feeling. Scully moaned and pouted at his absence, her tiny hands pulling on his biceps, encouraging him with her eyes and her moans and her breathing to insert himself again, to fill her again, to join with her again. Mulder slid into her again, harder this time, just a little bit harder the next, and then harder still the next. Socketed to Scully like this, Mulder was sure he had died and gone to heaven. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree felt the bullet pass through his leg, white hot, burning, like a poker had been shoved into the meat of his thigh. Retreat, his mind said. Time to get the out of dodge. He used the pistol to lay down a withering cover fire, aiming nowhere in particular as he pulled the trigger again and again, moving for the door. And then he was outside the door, panting, stopping at the elevator, thumbing the magazine release. The empty clip clattered to the floor and Dupree fumbled in his pocket for the spare. Finding it, he slammed it home and thumbed the slide forward. It slid into battery with a satisfying ker-chunk! A door opened in the hallway and Dupree threw a shot towards it. The door slammed shut. Dupree heard the bolt being thrown and smiled. That'd keep whoever it was inside. The elevator doors slid open and Dupree stepped inside. +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Scully rolled, bringing Mulder with her. She was on top, her hands planted on his chest, fingernails digging into the skin, raising and lowering herself over him, filling herself with his thickness, reveling in the liquid, moist sounds they made as they parted and joined again and again, over and over. Nothing had ever felt this good, this right, this damn-fucking-tastic-perfect... "Fuck me," she groaned, surprising herself. She hated that word, hated men that used it as casually as "How do you do?" She hated women that used it even more, women that tried to be more like men. But at this moment, that was what he was doing to her. And doing it wonderfully. Mulder's eyes opened and found hers, his smile warming her heart, a lower portion of his anatomy warming a similar portion of hers. "So close," he moaned. "Me too," she groaned back. "Almost there...." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= @ The doors opened on the lobby. The doorman, Dupree saw, was on the telephone, a panicked look on his face. Dupree raised the pistol without thinking and emptied it into the man's body. Shot after shot impacted: Chest, arms, throat, face. Sixteen rounds of 45ACP splattered the doorman against the wall. He slid to the floor in a bloody pile, taking the phone with him. # Dupree stopped next to the body, stooped and laid the note on the dead man's chest. He had not completed his mission, but that didn't mean the game was over or even suspended. There is an agenda, a scheduled that must be adhered to, he thought. Dupree stepped outside and hailed a taxi. It was dark, and the driver didn't notice the blood seeping from Dupree's leg wound. As the cab pulled into traffic, Dupree studied the wound in the limited available light. It was a flesh wound. It hadn't gone through the leg, but along the inside edge. Six inches higher, Dupree thought, and I'd be singing soprano for the rest of my life. The wound was jagged, but clean. The heat of the bullet had cauterized most of the blood vessels. He wasn't bleeding so much as oozing. He would survive. And more importantly, he wouldn't have to go to the Emergency Room. That was a ticket straight out of the game. Relaxing, Dupree leaned back against the seat sighed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Oh my..." Scully giggled. "That was..." She trailed off, unable to find the words. "Intense," Mulder suggested, breathing heavily. "Uh-huh," Scully agreed, rolling over onto his body, moaning at the slick, delicious feeling their sweaty skin made as they slid together. "Tell me again why we waited so long," Mulder said. "Five years of foreplay, Mulder. Five long years." "Works for me," he said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill was in the middle of a particularly erotic dream when the phone rang. Oddly enough, the dream was about a man she could never have: Sam Cross. "Cahill," she mumbled into the phone, using her other hand to lift the hair out of her face. "Central radio, Cap...er, Inspector. We have a homicide that fits your teletype. Midtown South is responding." "Shit," Alex said. "Uh, Inspector, it might not be my place to..." Alex frowned. She knew the voice. McDonald. Hugh McDonald. Lieutenant, old-timer, weeks away from his pension. He'd been moved to communication when... She blushed, remembering. Hemorrhoids. He'd gotten an incredibly painful case of them, and the powers that be decided to let him spend the last six months of his career in radio. At the peak of his career, he'd been a hell of a cop. "Talk to me, McDonald," Alex ordered, knowing that he'd be impressed that she'd remembered his name. "Ma'am...I think you lucked out on this one. The intended target is still alive." "Come again? You said it was a homicide." "Yeah, but that's the doorman. We got his murder on the 911 tape. The doer came at him just as he reached an operator. We got all sixteen shots, clear as a bell on tape. But the intended victim took one in the shoulder. He's still alive...but he's circling the drain. I think...from what I heard from the first units on the scene, he took one in the lung." "Ok..." Alex said, swinging her feet out of bed, shaking her head to clear it. "Page Detectives Cross and Hicks. Send them to whatever hospital the vic is at. Page the rest of my day tour; send them to the scene. I'll meet Hicks and Cross at the hospital. I'll come up on the air in about ten minutes, and I'll need that hospital." "Ten-four, Inspector. I show you notified at...two thirty six." McDonald hung up in Alex's ear. Alex sighed, thinking. Everything was taken care of. Dammit. Mulder, Scully. She dialed the hotel and asked for Mulder's room. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "That can't be good," Mulder observed wryly. "Maybe it's one of your girlfriends," Scully said, giggling. Mulder shrugged. "I dunno. What day is it? I'd have to check my calender." Mulder grabbed the phone and handed it to a surprised Scully. "Scully," she said, trying to sound sleepy. "Alex. We just got another, but the victim fought back. He's alive, on the way to the hospital. I have my team minus Cross and Hicks going to the scene. Want to join me at the hospital?" "Of course," she said, reaching over Mulder to turn on a light. In the process of moving, she dragged her right breast across his face. She felt his lips tease at it as she moved and she slapped his chest, pointing at the phone and shaking her head. "I'll call Mulder," Alex said. "As a matter of fact, I thought I just had." "Uh..." Scully said. "What?" "Don't. I'll...uh..." They both paused. "He's there, isn't he?" Alex asked. Scully said nothing. "Good for you," Alex said. "But listen to me. If you're going to keep doing...that...you've got to learn how to lie better. Call me when you two get moving." Scully heard Alex hang up in her ear and she lowered the phone to the bed. "Our killer struck again, but he didn't finish the job. The victim is on the way to the hospital." Mulder was moving before Scully had finished the sixth word. Scully's next words, however, froze him in his tracks. "Alex knows." "About...us?" Scully nodded. It was Mulder's turn to shrug. "Ok, we'll deal with that later. We need to get moving." He moved to his suitcase, digging for jeans and a t-shirt. Scully watched him sadly for a moment, realizing that he was right, that they did need to get moving. The timing couldn't have been worse. The first time they make love...and no snuggle time. Thirty seconds of it, and the phone had rung. She got up to go back to her room and get dressed. A hand at the small of her naked back stopped her. She closed her eyes; how many times had she felt those very same fingers at that exact spot through her clothes and wished to feel them against her skin? Fantasies were good; reality was better. "Hey," Mulder whispered in her ear. "I hate rushing off like this. When we get some time...I want to pick up where we left off." She nodded, not turning to face him. "I'd like that," she finally said. "Go," Mulder said, patting her on the rump. She went. Chapter 19 +===+=+=+= Enroute Mulder drove. Scully watched him drive. Scully's cell had chirped almost the moment they'd gotten into the car: Alex, telling them which hospital the latest victim had been taken to. Mulder had nodded and pulled into traffic, heading downtown. The ride over was silent up until the very point that Scully thought she wouldn't be able to stand it a single moment longer. Mulder was chewing his bottom lip as he drove, casting glances left and right as he sped through the intersections, his eyes never falling to meet hers. Scully knew her mind should be on the case, on the victim they were about to interview and hopefully gain new knowledge about the killer from. But, despite her intentions, Scully couldn't think of anything besides what had just transpired in Mulder's motel room. She opened her mouth to ask Mulder what he was thinking, but before she could speak, he told her. "The case is going to get hot in a few minutes," Mulder said, taking a right turn hard enough to make the tires squeal. "But before it does, I want you to know that...what happened wasn't casual for me, Scully. It wasn't...a fling." Scully let out a slow, soft sigh, fighting to control her breathing. "For me either," she replied. Mulder looked left and right again as he approached and passed through another intersection. "It probably saved my life," he said softly. "Or at least my sanity," he amended. "Not much to save," Scully cracked. She saw the soft smile teasing Mulder's mouth and she smiled back. "We may not get a chance to...uh..." "I know what you mean," Scully said. "...until this case is over. But...it's important to me that you understand a couple of things. First, like I said, it wasn't casual for me." He paused, looked directly at her and grinned. "Nothing with you ever is, Scully." She nodded, waiting for him to finish his thoughts. "Secondly," he continued, "I very much want to see where that will take us. I'm not sure where that is, but I know I want to find out, and I want to find out with you." Scully felt a warmth in her chest. She wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to run her fingers through his impossibly soft hair. "And lastly, you've got to help me not screw this up, Scully." That stopped her short. "How do you mean, Mulder?" He flashed an ironic grin at her. "You know me. You know what I'm capable of. You know that given half a chance, I'll say or do something that will piss you off. It's okay to get pissed at me about work stuff. I expect it now. But...personal stuff. When it's personal, and I do know how hard it's going to be for us to separate the two... but when it's personal, I need you to help me through the rough spots. It's been almost ten years since I've been in a relationship. I'm a little rusty." "Need I remind you that it's also been a while since been in a relationship?" Mulder nodded. "Sure, but that stuff comes natural to chicks, like crying and shopping." Shocked, Scully turned to stare at her partner and now lover, not entirely sure that he was kidding. Only the mischievous glint in his eye gave him away, and she playfully smacked him on the arm. "See?" Mulder said. "This is exactly what I was talking about." Scully just shook her head. Mulder turned one last corner and then they were there; the hospital loomed before them. Mulder turned into the ambulance bays and deftly slipped the car over the curb and onto the sidewalk. "What are you doing?" Scully asked. "Old NYPD trick. Better than a real parking place. Cheaper, too." "Mulder, we'll get a ticket!" Scully protested. Mulder turned to face his lover and grinned his wolf's grin. "Do you really think a parking ticket compares to any of the other rules we've broken tonight?" Scully felt her lips twist as she thought. "I guess you're right," she said. "But I can't get out!" The car was parked flush against a retaining wall, its nose almost against the back of the hospital. "Slide over," Mulder said, getting out. He held out his hand for her; Scully thought about ignoring it, and then decided to accept. She placed her fingers in his hand, using the extra leverage to unlimber herself from the car. Mulder shut and locked the door. Quickly, they walked through the Ambulance-only door... Only to emerge into bedlam. Mulder spotted Hicks and Cross standing in a huddle with Alex and someone else. The back of Alex's head was blocking Mulder's view of the fourth person; all he could see was the person's legs, shoes, and the bottom edge of a white jacket. Doctor, Mulder thought. From the way Alex was moving her arms, Mulder thought, she was not happy. Together, the FBI duo approached the foursome. "If you had let us talk to him," Alex was saying, "we might have gotten a statement." Shit, Mulder thought. "And as I keep telling you, Inspector, the NYPD has no jurisdiction inside this hospital." The doctor had a nasal, clenched-jaw twang that made Mulder twitch when he heard it. He sounds like every asshole I've ever known that went to Harvard or Yale. Mulder and Scully came up behind Alex. Cross and Hicks nodded glumly at them. "We got here as fast as we could," Mulder said. Alex turned to him and shook her head softly. "Did you get a statement?" Mulder asked. "No," Cross said. "Doctor Payne here wouldn't let us." "Are you saying that the good doctor impeded a federal investigation?" Mulder asked, turning his gaze on Payne. "I'm sorry," Payne said. "And you are...?" In unison, Mulder and Scully presented their credentials. "Mulder," he said. "Scully," she finished. Together: "FBI." Cross hid a smile behind his hand, wondering how long they'd practiced that move. "I'm sorry," Payne said arrogantly, "I was led to believe this was an NYPD matter. What interest does the FBI have in a...common criminal getting shot? Surely you have better things to do with my tax dollars." "Actually," Mulder said, deadpan, "we were called over to this case from a Medicare fraud investigation." Scully noted with some satisfaction that Payne actually paled at Mulder's words. "But the fact of the matter is," Mulder continued as if he hadn't noticed, "this case is a joint NYPD-FBI matter. And interfering with a federal investigation is...oddly enough...a federal crime. Now, before we all start calling lawyers and press conferences and naming names for tomorrow's New York Times, why doesn't someone here tell me what the hell just happened?" "The patient presented with a gunshot wound just below the right shoulder. The bullet traversed his body ventrally, exiting just beneath the third intercostal space. This had the effect of-" "Severing the subclavian artery and the ascending pulmonary vein, causing the patient to drop almost immediately into hypovolemic shock, which almost surely killed him," Scully finished. "Yes," Payne said softly, nodding. "Quite. I wasn't aware that the FBI was training its...what do I call you?" "Special Agent," Mulder helpfully supplied. "Yes. Quite," Payne repeated, sounding vaguely like a British butler. "Anyhow, as I was saying-" "I'm a medical doctor," Scully said. "And you're an FBI Agent?" Payne asked, as if shocked that anyone would throw away the benefits of a medical education for something so pedestrian as...police work. Scully had her reply ready. Cross saw it coming and nudged Hicks in the ribs with his elbow. Even Alex turned to hear Scully's reply. "I find it lets me deal with a much nicer class of people than medicine," Scully said smugly. "Yes," Payne said, and then paused. Hicks, Cross, Cahill, Mulder and Scully all finished his thought simultaneously. "Quite," they chorused. Payne flushed, realizing he was being mocked. "As I was saying," he continued, "when the patient presented, he was throwing multifocal PVCs, and was obviously moments away from a full crash." "Was he conscious?" Scully asked. "Yes," Payne admitted. "Lucid?" "Yes," he nodded. "Doctor, please remember that not only am I a medical doctor, but also a forensic pathologist. I will be examining the body and most likely assisting if not performing the post mortum myself. With that in mind, is it your medical opinion that the wounds suffered by the deceased were in fact fatal?" "I'm sure I don't understand what you mean." "Doctor, you know very well what I mean. At the time the patient presented, did you have any doubt in your mind that the patient would not survive his wounds?" "Sadly, no." Scully glanced at Mulder and nodded, giving him the go-ahead. "So why did you deny access to the patient?" Mulder asked. Payne shrugged. "Because there was always the chance-" "Bullshit," Alex growled. "I tend to agree with my esteemed colleague," Mulder said, adopting the same clenched-jaw accent that Payne affected. "I feel that you purposely withheld access to this patient simply because you could. And that may have cost more than this man his life." "What did he do, anyway?" Payne asked, obviously annoyed at Mulder's tone. "He is a victim of a vicious serial killer. Up until he croaked, he was our only living victim. The man inside your trauma bay could have provided us with valuable information, information that could help the NYPD and the FBI catch the man we're looking for." Payne shrugged. "I'm sorry, Mr...Mulder, was it?" "DOCTOR Mulder," Mulder corrected. "Yes, very well. Doctor Mulder then...I'm sorry, but the rules of this hospital are quite specific in these matters. No one but medical personnel is allowed in the crash room while a code is ongoing. Insurance reasons, y'know. To make sure that nothing...happens." Mulder had a sudden thought. "Doctor, have you officially declared the time of death?" "I announced it, but I haven't signed the death certificate yet. Inspector Cahill and her thugs and goons dragged me out of there before I could." "I'm not a thug," Hicks said. "No, you're a goon," Cross replied. "I'm the thug." "Which is better, a thug or a goon?" Hicks asked. "Enough!" Cahill snapped at them. "So you haven't signed the death certificate?" Mulder asked. "No," Payne admitted. Mulder grabbed Payne by the elbow and guided him into the trauma bay. "Get the patient's chart and get every single last employee that was in here at the time of death," he said to Scully. "Accept no excuses. I want them all here." Scully quirked an eyebrow at her partner/lover, asking a question. "I've always wanted to play God," Mulder said, "and now I'm going to get my chance. Mr..." He looked to Alex. "Strimnovitch," Cross answered quickly. "Mr. Strimnovitch is about to come back to life." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Ten minutes later The four nurses and the single X-ray technician that had run the code with Doctor Payne, Payne himself, the three NYPD officers and Scully were all assembled in the trauma room next to the rapidly cooling body of Ivan Yorgi Strimnovitch. "Listen very carefully," Mulder said as he paced. "Ivan here never died. He came in with a shoulder wound, was throwing multifocal PVCs and almost descended into cardiac arrest. But Doctor Payne here, showing his usual brilliance and competence, managed to save the day." Scully didn't miss the incredulous look two of the nurses shared at Mulder's mention of the quality of Payne's work. "In fact, Ivan is about to be transferred to ICU after having come out of surgery for the repair of the damage done by the bullet." "The patient," Payne said slowly, as if he were speaking to a two-year-old, "is dead. Quite dead." "No," Mulder said, wagging a finger at Payne, "he's not. And here's why. Our...suspect...is a known user of computers." He stopped and looked at Scully. "Ever notice that computer geeks and drug addicts are both called 'users?' I wonder why that is." Shaking his own question off, Mulder continued. "We are going to create a false computer trail for our little killer to follow. Because as sure as God made little green apples, our killer is going to go traipsing into the hospital computer system. And as soon as he does, I want...Langly on it." Mulder's wry wink at Scully was rewarded a second later as Payne exclaimed, "The CIA is in on this?" "I never said that," Mulder pronounced solemnly. "I understand," Payne said. He put a finger to his lips. Asshole, Scully thought. "So here's what's going to happen. Doctor Payne here has just been sworn in as a member of our merry band of law enforcers. He will create the appropriate paper trail for our killer to follow-" "The nurses really do most of-" Payne started, glancing at his watch. "Yes, normally," Mulder agreed. "But you're going to do it since you prevented the NYPD from interviewing our victim before he died. Think of it as your little contribution to the cause. You, ladies, will remain quiet. If anyone asks you, and I do mean anyone, Ivan lived. Ivan walks again. Are there any questions?" "I go off shift in half an hour," Payne whined. "Are you eligible for overtime?" Mulder asked. "N-no." "Well, that's too bad. Again, any questions?" Payne sighed, resigned to doing his duty. He got up and Mulder watched him leave, shaking his head at the man's back. "What an idiot," he said quietly. "And then some," one of the nurses said softly as she moved to leave. Scully waited until it was just the five of them before speaking. "Mulder, do you really think this is going to work?" He shrugged. "Can't hurt to try. I think you four should go to the scene. I'm going to call the guys and get John down here to oversee the...details. When I'm done, I'll join you." Scully nodded; there wasn't really much to do here anyway, and Mulder obviously knew exactly what he wanted done. She glanced at Alex. "Catch a ride?" she asked. "Sure," Alex said. "Oh...can you have a car meet Officer Byers at the safehouse?" Mulder asked. "I really don't want him driving here in the van they rented." Alex laughed. "Sure. How bad do you need him here?" "Bad." Alex pulled a portable radio from the hip pocket of her blue blazer and raised it to her lips. "M-Mike-Six to Central, K." "M-Mike-Six." Alex requested a car be dispatched to the safehouse to pick up an Officer Byers for transport to St. Luke's Roosevelt hospital forthwith. Once that had been accomplished, she followed Cross and Hicks out of the trauma room, correctly guessing that Scully and Mulder wanted a quick moment alone. "You know," Scully said, "this is the stuff that I'm going to have to get used to dealing with." "What?" "The fact that I want to kiss you goodbye before I follow Alex to the scene." Mulder took two fast steps to where she stood, leaned down and pecked her on the lips. "There," he said, smiling. "No one saw us. I'll call you when I'm done." Scully leaned up and kissed him again, softer this time, a kiss that promised more than it told. Mulder sat down and pulled his cellphone out of a pocket and dialed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Safehouse Undisclosed Location Frohicke reached for the phone, and then stopped. How the hell do I answer it? He finally settled for a "Hello?" "Mulder, Frohike. Ask Byers to get up, get dressed and be waiting downstairs for a car to take him to St. Lukes Roosevelt hospital. I need some work done. Tell him to pack a standard back of tricks, nothing fancy. Just enough for you guys to tell from where you are if anyone accesses specific records from a hospital computer, and enough to trace it back. Questions?" "None," Frohike said. "I'll get him ready." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Fifteen minutes later, a sleepy John Byers stood by the curb waiting for a car to come and pick him up. Frohike had roused him from a sound sleep, informed him of Mulder's request, and then returned to his own work. Glancing up the street, Byers saw an unmarked Chevy Caprice Classic turn the corner and approach him, the power window sliding down as the car slowed. "Byers?" a voice asked. John nodded and got in. The man driving the car looked as if he had been woken up himself. "How important is this?" the driver asked. "Pretty important," John said. "They woke me up for this." "Me, too," the driver said with a snort. "Ok, hold onto your ass." Reaching under the seat, the driver found a small red revolving light with a magnetic base and mirrors mounted behind it at forty-five degree angles. Placing it on the dashboard, he plugged it in and hit the siren at the same time. The car sped away. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Nine minutes later by John's watch, the car pulled into the ambulance bay of St. Luke's hospital. "Thanks," John said, getting out. "Hey," the driver said. "Mind if I ask you what your command is?" Byers searched his memory, wondering what question the man was asking. "What unit are you with?" the man asked again. "Major Cases," John replied. "Citywide." Offering his hand through the window, Byers again said, "Thanks." "Funny," the driver said, shaking his hand. "I'm assigned to One Police Plaza, and I don't remember seeing your face." "I'm...new," Byers said. "John Byers." "Stoltz. Captain Stoltz, Special Services." Byers nodded his thanks again and turned to enter the hospital. Captain Stan Stoltz frowned as he watched his passenger walk away. He didn't walk, talk or act like a cop. Therefore, he wasn't a cop. Then who was he? Somebody pretty important, judging by two things. First, the guy had enough juice to get a Deputy Inspector on the horn to citywide radio to get him, a Captain, roused from a nice little nap in the middle of a midnight tour just to give him a ride to the hospital. Second, Stoltz was pretty sure that he'd picked "Byers" up from one of the two-dozen NYPD safehouses scattered across the city. Who the fuck was this guy? Throwing the car into reverse, Stoltz wondered if his "friend" could use this tiny piece of information. Stoltz's friend was someone that the Captain was very interested in keeping happy, only because when she was happy, she had a knack of showing him how much. That demonstration of appreciation usually took the form of a stolen afternoon in a midtown hotel room. Grabbing his cell, Stoltz dialed and waited for the answer. Hearing the sleepy female voice answer, he asked, "Casey?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Byers found Mulder in the trauma room. "Who's the stiff?" he asked, pleased that he was getting "into" this cop stuff. "The deceased," Mulder said dryly, "is the latest victim of the man we are all hunting." Byers nodded, waiting for more, not yet understanding why he was here. "At the time the killer left this man's proximity, he was alive and shooting back. As far as the killer knows, this man is still alive." Quickly, Mulder explained his plan. "We can do that," Byers said. "I'll just need access to the mainframe and about ten minutes. After that, I can go back home and you can do...whatever it is you need to do." Mulder grinned, glad that his friend was on the case. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mark Dupree grimaced in pain as he sat down in front of his desk. He'd taken the time to carefully clean and dress the bullet wound in his leg, but it still stung like a bitch. He knew what had to be done. He found the specific spiral-bound notebook he was looking for and quickly flipped through the pages, looking for a specific telephone number and configuration. Finding it, he quickly used the computer's modem to access the chain-drugstore's central computer. He created a record for himself, and for a fictitious doctor who was about to prescribe some Percodan. Typing quickly, Dupree completed his transaction. He waited ten minutes for the mainframe to update all the satellite stores, and then called a 24-hour pharmacy nearby that delivered. Fifteen minutes later, after tipping the delivery boy, Mark Dupree felt a pair of Percodan tablets sliding down his throat. Four minutes after that, the pain began to abate. Think, he told himself. I hit the bastard; of that I'm sure. But did I kill him? Checking the spiral-bound notebook again, Dupree found yet another number and dialed that with his computer. He searched the NYPD and FDNY databases for ambulance runs that night and found the one he was looking for. Strimnovitch, who had been living under the name Silver, had been brought to St. Luke's Roosevelt ER not an hour ago. Disconnecting, Dupree contacted an HMO computer that he had broken into six months before, and quickly cross-accessed the St. Luke's mainframe. He found John Silver's records in a heartbeat. Checking his watch, Dupree grunted. As of ten minutes ago, he was out of surgery and resting in Surgical ICU. Yanking open a desk drawer, Dupree found Silver's Justice Department record and began flipping through it. Towards the back he found what he was looking for; as a defecting spy, one of the first things that had happened to Strimnovitch upon his arrival in the Unites States was a complete physical at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. At the bottom of the patient's history page was a small notation: "Pt. aller. Pen." Patient allergic to penicillin. Dupree quickly glanced through the medical records at St. Luke's. No mention was made of the allergy. Perfect. Penicillin was given after surgery, and especially for gunshot wounds. Entering St. Luke's Patient Care Database, Dupree entered an order for 20mg of IV Penicillin, stat. A medical technician would be by in a few moments, paged by the mainframe's scheduling computer, to administer the medication. And shortly after that, Strimnovitch would be dead. A perfect murder, Dupree thought. Not as...satisfying as flaying the flesh from the bastard's body himself, but it would have to do. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "FLASH!" someone called, and Scully glanced away. A second later the foyer of the apartment building was filled with a blinding flash of light. The CSU detective checked his position and moved a foot to the left, re-framing the body of the doorman. Blood, Scully thought. There is a hell of a lot of blood around here. "I want blood samples on every single drop," Alex called. "And on the larger pools, I want samples taken from all four compass points and the center. I have a feeling not all of this blood belongs to the vic." The chief CSU technician nodded, making a note. Beside him, a detective with a video camera filmed everything, zooming in on the gory details. "Where's the note?" Scully asked. Hicks handed her a glassine EVIDENCE bag. Pulling the antenna of her phone out with her teeth, Scully deftly dialed Frohicke's number. "Wha?" a voice answered. "New note. Ready to copy?" "Hold it...sheesh, Scully, I was asleep!" "No rest for the valiant, Frohike." "Yeah, yeah...ok, read it." Scully read off the ELS code. "What's the puzzle?" Frohike asked. Scully read it. "How many months have 28 days?" "One," Frohike answered. "February." "All of them," Scully answered. "It didn't say 'only' 28 days." "Right. Ok, we'll get to work with this." Scully hung up and turned to hand the bag back to Hicks, only to find he was standing astride the body, leaning down, examining the wounds. "Something big," he muttered. ".45," Scully replied. Hicks straightened, his eyes sweeping the body, his lips moving, counting. "Fifteen shots, possibly sixteen. What the hell...? Did this asshole reload?" "We found a magazine upstairs," Cross called to his partner. He was behind the doorman's desk, looking for any evidence that might be there. "We get a make?" "It holds sixteen, whatever it is," Cross replied, holding up another EVIDENCE bag. "Lemme see that," Alex called, holding out her hand. Cross tossed her the bag. Turning it over in her hands, Alex examined the writing along the edge. "Aftermarket mag, pre-ban, for a...I'd say ParaOrdnance P-14 or something like that." Scully raised her eyebrows; Alex obviously knew her weapons. "Ok, you know the drill," Alex said, tossing it back to cross who caught it easily with one hand. "To the lab. Prints, everything. Ultraviolet, infrared, lasers...I want every single possible test that can be done on it done. When that's finished, FedEx it to Washington and let Scully's forensic wizards take a crack at it." Cross nodded. He knew the drill. "Witnesses?" Scully asked. "Canvassing now. No one was home on Ian's floor. We're going above and below to see if anyone heard, or please God, saw something." Scully nodded, wondering if she was forgetting anything. "Can I see the scene upstairs?" Alex nodded, hooking a chin at Cross. "Sam, take her." Sam nodded and walked to the elevator. Two CSU technicians were working over with the proverbial fine tooth comb, in this case a small battery-powered vacuum cleaner. Scully was amused to see that it was a Black & Decker DustBuster with a NYPD decal stuck on the side. "You guys finished?" Sam asked. One of the CSU techs looked up crossly. "Almost," he said. "Let's take the stairs," Scully suggested, "and let these guys finish in peace." "Good idea," Cross agreed. They walked to the door guarding the staircase and pushed through. As they climbed, Cross asked, "Think Mulder's plan will bear fruit?" "Possibly," Scully hedged. She couldn't tell if Cross was for or against Mulder's idea by his tone, and she was reluctant to voice her own opinion before knowing his. One of the hazards of working with Mulder, she thought. "He's quite bright," Cross allowed, smiling softly. They turned the third (or was it fourth?) landing and continued upward. "Yes," Scully said, realizing she wasn't in as good a shape as she had previously thought. She was beginning to get slightly winded. Of course, she thought, that could be from the...activities earlier that evening. Great sex had a way of tiring her out. At least, the first time she'd had great sex was tonight, but Scully was fairly sure that the theory held. "You two seem very close," Cross tried again. "More so then some, I'd imagine, and not as close as others." Cross's laugh was rich and deep, and he stopped on the sixth landing to let it out. Scully, glad for the momentary rest, let him laugh. "If you two," he said, sighing, "were any closer, you'd be married. Agent Scully, I've been a cop for almost twenty years. A good cop. Not the greatest, but as you said, better than most, not as good as some. You tend to...notice things." He turned to continue climbing and Scully followed him. "I'm sure you're aware of the way you invade each other's personal space." Scully nodded. It was an old observation. "Yes, and we've been partners for five years. That sort of thing evolves over time, as I'm sure you know." Cross shook his head. "I've never had a partner longer than two years." They turned another landing and continued upwards. "Well, when you've been partners with someone as long as Mulder and I have, certain...delicacies tend to go by the wayside." "For example?" Cross asked, genuinely curious. "Well...for example, we were on a case in Florida recently. I won't go into the details, mostly because you wouldn't believe me, but the point is that at the end of the case, Mulder was with two other FBI agents and local law enforcement tying up the loose ends. It was my job to go back to the hotel and pack our stuff and meet him at the airport." "So?" "Well, Mulder, as I'm sure you're aware, is a man. A man who hasn't been in a relationship for a long, long time. Some might call him a confirmed bachelor. Bachelors, as you know, tend to be...messy." "Ah," Cross said, grinning and nodding. "I get it. Dirty socks on the floor." "That's the least of it," Scully said with a grin. "Yes, I know what you mean. I had a..." Cross paused. He'd almost said 'lover.' "...roommate, once. He was equally...non-fastidious." Scully tried to smile. "That's a nice way of putting it, I guess." "So I know what you mean. So, that just proves my point, Agent Scully. You and Mulder are...unusually close." Scully suddenly wondered if Cross suspected, if he knew. She hadn't had time to shower before leaving the hotel room. Embarrassed, she kept her mouth shut and continued climbing. Cross saw the sudden flush on Scully's face and knew that he was right. He would never say it outright, but when she and her partner had arrived at the hospital, they had fairly reeked of recent lovemaking. Alex had noticed it to, as had Daryl. They had all exchanged secret glances and smiles behind the two FBI agent's backs, each of them glad, for separate reasons, that the relationship had taken that step. Each of them somehow sensed that it had been the first time for them. Scully stopped on a landing. "You can tell, can't you?" she asked. Cross thought about denying it. But, on this case, she was as much a partner as Daryl was, and Cross had a strict policy about not lying to his partners. "Yes," he said gently. "We all could," he added. "Alex already knew," Scully admitted. "She called Mulder's room and got me." Cross reached out and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Does it bother you that the three of us know? Because I know I won't tell anyone, and I know Alex won't, and after I have a word with my partner, I know Daryl won't." Scully shrugged. She wasn't upset, exactly. Not...disturbed, really. She searched her emotions, looking for the correct word. Frustrated seemed to fit. She'd wanted time to savor this new step in her relationship with Mulder, time to examine it like a new toy, time to get used to it before she had to worry about what other people might or might not be thinking. And because of fortuitous timing on the part of the UNSUB, she had been robbed of that. "It's just so...new," Scully said, confirming Cross's suspicion. "I wanted time to get used to it." "If it helps, I think that...it's a good thing." Scully wanted to laugh. How on Earth could Cross say such a thing? He hardly knew Mulder, and what he did know of him wasn't exactly flattering. Finding the FBI's premier profiler rocking like a baby in an interrogation room, banging his head against the wall was not exactly the best possible impression to make. Although Cross hadn't been present when that little matter had popped up, Scully knew that cops gossiped like little old ladies. Alex was sure to have told him, if only to keep in the loop as to who they were dealing with. "What...why would you say that?" Scully asked, turning to continue her upward trek. "It can be just as simple as the fact that you make him happy, Scully. That much is obvious." "How so?" Cross almost giggled. "I keep forgetting that you can't see what he's like when you're not around. Let's just say that when you come into the room, Mulder's mood brightens considerably, and when you're away, he can be kind of a..." "Jerk?" Scully finished. "I think that sums it up quite nicely, Agent Scully." "How do you know all this?" she asked. "I wasn't aware that you spent a lot of time with my partner." "Alex told me," Cross admitted. They arrived at the proper landing and stopped to catch their breath. "Have you ever been involved with one of your partners?" Scully asked almost timidly. Cross shook his head. "With an ex-partner once." "How did it end?" "Not well. He wanted to see other people. And in today's day and age-" Scully nodded. "Got it. Doctor, remember?" Wait a minute, Scully thought. wanted to see other people? And then she remembered the remark that Cross had made in Central Park at the prostitute's crime scene, about the Army officer Scully had agreed to date in exchange for cracking the ELS. "Well, if he's cute," Cross had started. NOW Hands on his thighs, slightly bent at the waist to make breathing easier, Cross grinned at Scully's shoes. "Just give it time, Scully. Don't push. Don't panic if he wants to distance himself early on. Don't panic if he wants to make love all the time. Just...don't panic. It's as new for him as it is for you, and men traditionally aren't the most sensitive gender out there. He'll need your help." "He's already asked for it," Scully admitted, not knowing why she had. "See?" Cross said, straightening and running a hand through his hair. "You're already ahead of the game. Most couples never get to that stage. The roles are cast at the beginning, each character poured into some die that our culture has created. People are scared of breaking those molds, and so they fall back on the scripts that have already been written. Mulder, as brilliant as he is, has already figured out that he's way, way out of his league with you, and he doesn't want to fu...er, mess it up." "Out of his league?" Cross grinned, wiping a hand across his brow. It came away wet. "Yes, Special Agent Dana Scully, MD. You must realize that to most men you are a very intimidating woman. A cop, for one, a fed for another, a doctor for a third, smart as a whip and to-die-for-sexy." Scully blushed. "You think so?" Sam's smile widened. "I know for a fact that half the day tour has a crush on you, and the other half are afraid of you." Scully chuckled, pushing the door open. Cross followed her out and they found themselves practically in front of Ian's door. Scully took a glance up and down the hallway. "Have the detectives been up here?" she asked no one in particular. There were two patrol officers guarding the door to Ian's apartment. They shrugged. "We got here late," the first one said. Scully walked down the hall to the end, turned and walked all the way back past Ian's apartment to the other end. Something had caught her attention, and she couldn't put her finger on it. "Something's wrong about the hallway," she said. "I know they were up here because they found the magazine, right?" Cross nodded, wondering where she was going. "Do we know how many shots were fired in the apartment?" she asked. Cross consulted his notes. "Fourteen." "Plus one in the victim is fifteen, right?" Cross nodded. "The magazine," Scully said, "holds sixteen. The magazine was empty when it was found, right? Where's the last shot?" Sam Cross walked to the elevator doors and faced them. A small chalk circle drawn on the carpet indicated where the magazine had been found. There were six small drops of blood on the carpet, also circled. "If he's right handed," Cross said, "he would have been facing the elevator when he changed magazines. He hits the mag release, it falls out, he reloads, right?" Scully nodded. "If he only threw fifteen shots inside and threw the last one out here, while facing the elevator..." He twisted from the waist, miming a gun with his thumb and forefinger. There were only two apartments that were in range from his position, only two that could be fired upon without having to take a step. "One of those two," he said, pointing with both hands. He went to one, Scully to the other. She found it first. On the striker-plate of the doorlock, a deep, angry metal trench had been dug. Scully chewed her lip and made the mental calculations. Glancing straight up, she saw it. In the dropped ceiling panel directly above the apartment door was a neat, round hole. "Got it," she called. Cross joined her and looked up. "Perfect," he muttered. Grabbing a radio from his back pocket, he called downstairs. "M-Mike-Four to M-Mike-Six, K." "Six," "We need a CSU team and a ladder up here. Scully found something." "On the way," Alex called. A moment later they heard a call for ESU to respond with a ladder, forthwith. "I doubt," Scully observed, "that our killer would have shot at this door unless there was someone to shoot behind it." Cross checked his notes again. "First officers knocked, no answer." Scully knocked. No answer. "FBI!" she announced loudly. "Open the door or we're coming IN!" Cross stared at her in shock. A moment later the door opened. "FBI?" a timid voice asked. Scully produced her identification and displayed it. "Special Agent Dana Scully," she said. "This is Sam Cross." "I didn't see-" "And your name is?" "Sidney." "Sidney...look at the strike-plate on your lock." Sidney dutifully glanced down, saw the mark, and blanched. "I don't want to get involved," he said, starting to close the door. "Sidney," Scully said softly, gently. "Please listen to me for two minutes. If, after that, you still don't want to get involved, I'll respect your wishes." Long enough to get an appearance warrant for a material witness, she thought. Pause. "I'm listening." "The man that shot at you is a very mean character. He's wanted in conjunction with several other murders. He shot and killed your neighbor tonight. Anything you can tell us about him would be helpful. Anything." Sidney seemed to consider this. "What would I have to do?" he asked with a sigh. "First, I'd like to ask you a few questions," Scully said. "Tomorrow, we may ask you to come down to Police Headquarters and talk to some detectives, and perhaps a sketch artist." "Will I have to testify?" Scully shook her head. "I doubt it, but it's always possible. I'd like to come in now and ask you some questions." "Ok," Sidney said, opening the door. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= St. Lukes Roosevelt Information Systems Machine Room "Holy shit," Byers breathed. He pointed at the computer screen. "Look at this." Mulder leaned over his shoulder, glancing at the laptop's screen. "What am I looking at?" "He's already been in," Byers said. "Did you get him?" Mulder asked excitedly. "Hold on," Byers mumbled, typing madly. Accessing the connection and session logs of the mainframe, he found what he was looking for after running a finger down a column of numbers. "He came in from a privileged connection to another system. I don't recognize the address off the top of my head-" "You," Mulder said, pointing at one of the hospital's IS people. "Come here. Do you know what this is?" The IS tech peered down at the screen. "Veteran's Hospital Service. It's sort of an HMO." "They have access to your systems?" "Yes...part of the automated billing system. A patient that's covered by them is admitted, and every test, drug, procedure or exam that a doctor prescribes is transmitted to their computer for cost approval. The connection is two ways, though. That was part of the contract." "Can you trace it back through the VHS computer?" Mulder asked. "I can try," Byers said, his fingers already moving. After thirty seconds of typing, he stopped. "No. I have no idea what the privileged account's password is. The communication account only has enough access to drop files in a specific location and scan another for any files to be picked up. I can't see the directory structure, so I have no idea where I am in the system. I'd have to crack this system to get any further." "So CRACK it!" Mulder ordered, frustrated. "It's not that easy, Mulder," Byers protested. "And this is more Frohike's thing anyway." Mulder held out his hands, showing Byers his palms, calming himself. "Let me ask you this...is there anything more you can do right now?" "No." "What did he do?" Mulder asked. Byers scanned the files quickly. "He perscribed penicillin. 20 milligrams IV." Byers paused. "That doesn't seem very menacing." "Unless," Mulder thought out loud, "somehow this asshole knows that Ivan was allergic..." Mulder openly wondered at the access this man must have. "Ok, let's kill Ivan. Enter it into his medical record that the penicillin killed him instantly, and that the time of death was approximately 22 minutes after the injection was given. That gives someone enough time to notice that he crashes, run the code, and call it." Byers nodded and began tapping again. Mulder paced behind him, trying to come up with something, anything to track and trace this asshole. "He's going to check back," he said suddenly, snapping his fingers. "He has to. He has to make sure that Ian's dead, that he can't identify him." Excited now, turning to Byers, he asked, "Can you put a trace in?" "A trace?" "Sure...the next time he connects through that account to look at these files, can you...like, check the connection? Trace it back? Invisibly?" "I think so..." Byers said. After a moment he confirmed it. "Yes, I think I can." Mulder turned to the IS tech. "How many HMOs have that kind of privileged access?" "Why?" he asked. "Because this guy is slick. He's sure not to connect again using the same account. He'll try and get in another way. The only way he'll use this account is if we break any other connections." "Oh," the tech said, getting it. "About thirty." "Can we break them? Just for an hour or two?" "Break them?" "Make it look to anyone who knows anything about computers that there's something physically wrong with all this stuff. A card blew, or a cable got cut or something...anything that doesn't look like the accounts were deliberately disabled." The tech tapped a finger against his nose, thinking. "Sure," he said. "Follow me." He led Mulder behind a thirty-foot-long rack of equipment; each rack was over six feet high, and they were crammed with electronic equipment of all shapes and descriptions. Mulder had no idea what any of it was. "The primary connections are via TCP/IP connection to the Internet through a gateway. If I pull this card, here...the gateway goes down, and it looks like a router or hub problem. Each HMO that has a privileged account has a 56.6 dial backup on a leased line. One line to a company. The lines are in blocks of two on a 128k D-Channel fiber converter." Mulder nodded, not getting any of it. The tech saw this, and dumbed it down. "If I pull this card, all the normal connectivity goes away. If I start pulling these cards, it will look like there's more than one problem. But it will look like a technical problem, not a tightening of security. I can leave two or three cards in the dial backup rack, so your friend can put his sniffer on two or four accounts, instead of thirty. That will narrow your chances of finding this guy." Mulder's head bobbed as he got it. "Do it." "Whoa," the tech said. "You asked if it were It's possible, Mr. Mulder. As for actually doing it..." "Which ones?" Mulder asked again. The tech pointed. Mulder reached over to yank it out, but the tech stayed his hand. "Ok, ok...but you gotta cover me with my boss. The VP of IS is going to have my ass for breakfast-" "I'll take care of him. Do you really think he wants an FBI press conference to be held on the front steps of this hospital, a press conference where I announce that we've managed to figure out that the killer broke into the computers here and killed a patient from somewhere else by entering a false medication order into the patient care system? I doubt it. He'll play along." The IS tech yanked the gateway connector and moved to the dial backup racks. Quickly, he pulled twelve cards, leaving three. "Six or four?" "Four." He pulled the next-to-last card. "Everyone except VHS and OMM are down." "IMM" "Omega Medical Management." Omega? Mulder thought. That name sounded familiar. "John, did you get that?" Mulder asked. "OMM, got it....hold on...." Mulder took a few steps away, letting Byers do his work. He dialed Scully's cell and waited for her to pick up. "Scully." "Hey, it's me. Got a minute?" "Not really. We're...interviewing." "You have a witness?" "Sort of. I'll explain-" "Is anyone there with you?" "Cross." "Lemme talk to him." The sound of the phone being handed off scratched across Mulder's eardrums, and then, "Cross." "Hey, get Alex on the horn and tell her that we need to issue a press release via your PIO that Ivan was able to give a complete description of the suspect before he succumbed. We have an artist working from the outline that Ivan gave, all the usual bullshit that the press loves." "Raise the stakes? Are you sure that's wise?" "No, but it's all we've got. Our little trap here worked, and it didn't. We're putting new cheese in it right now." "Gotcha," Cross said, and hung up. Mulder began pacing, absently thwacking his phone against his palm. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mark Dupree was not stupid. As with most serial murderers, he was of above average intelligence. He'd once purchased a do-it-yourself IQ test and was more than a little surprised to discover that he was "extra bright," only a few points away from being an official genius. But, if pressed to describe himself, Dupree would admit that it was more than the fact that he had a large capacity to learn (which was what, after all, all an IQ measures.) He was devious. He was sneaky. He could make plans with the minutest of details and follow them to the letter. He was careful. Paranoid, even. When he had started entering other people's computer systems without their permission, he had learned some fast and hard rules. Rule number one was: Never use the same door twice, especially when you were thrashing something. If you were just peeking, just looking around, not changing anything, you could use a door as many times as you liked. But the first time you changed something, you burned that bridge forever. Which is why he attempted to enter the St. Lukes Roosevelt computer from another node to check on the progress of Ivan. He got a message that the connection was unavailable. Curious, he thought, not alarmed yet. He tried another route. Same message. He went through several quickly, always getting the same message: Connection unavailable. Not a security thing...it was starting to feel like a router problem. Dupree sent a ping packet towards the St. Luke's mainframe. Sort of a cyber-equivalent to a submarine's sonar ping, it would report back if the target machine was answering a very basic version of "Hey, you there?" Four packets sent, four dropped. Router, Dupree thought. No reason to panic yet. Consulting the same small spiral-bound notebook, Dupree found some of the dialback connect numbers. He was taking a chance now; if they were looking for him on the dialbacks, he would lead them right to his source. Not to the office...but to the jumping-off point that he had to use to connect to the dialbacks. He tried a soft connect. No user name, no password, just two machines agreeing to talk to each other for a few seconds. Dupree went through twenty of them before he became concerned. What were the chances that a router and a dialback rack would go out on the same night? The same night that he had breached security? Zero. Pushing his chair away, Dupree considered his options. First, it could be a simple technical problem. Maybe the boxes were down for maintenance. It was almost four in the morning, after all. A perfect time to do preventive, periodic maintenance. Except for the timing, again. Same day. Two different communication systems, one specifically designed to be a backup for the other. Fiber cut? Pulling himself back to the console, Dupree ran a traceroute. The program attempted to connect from his machine to the target machine, reporting every intermediate stop. It got all the way to the gateway and then died. A traceroute couldn't be done on a dialback...but there was a way to check. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= St. Lukes "Mulder, if you want to do this right, you need to open a trouble-ticket with NYNEX on this." "What?" Byers grinned. "If this guy is as good as you say, he's probably going to ping and then traceroute the router, and then see if NYNEX has an open trouble ticket for the dialbacks. If they don't, it's going to arouse suspicion." "What if he works for NYNEX?" "Then the jig is up. But...hey, I'm just-" "Do it," Mulder said to the IS tech. "That means a NYNEX tech will be here in about an hour. Who's going to explain it to him?" "I will," Mulder said, his face grim. The tech lifted the phone and dialed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Cracking the NYNEX database wasn't particularly hard, it was just annoying. Who used VMS anymore? Dupree thought. He'd believed that the entire telephony industry had switched to Unix long ago. Obviously not NYNEX, and Dupree wasted valuable connection time fighting to remember his VMS syntax. Finally he found what he was looking for. There. A trouble ticket for SLRIS. St Lukes Roosevelt IS. Gateway down, dialbacks failed...fourteen out of fifteen. Sensing the trap, Dupree logged out of NYNEX and sat, thinking. VHS shared a dialback with...OMM. Of course, Dupree thought. The way this is going, it's not ironic. It's expected. They were onto him. They had set a careful little trap for him, hoping to force him to use the same account again. He had a privileged OMM account, but...that wouldn't be any fun. Dupree opened the notebook again and read his notes. St. Lukes Roosevelt used a combination of information systems technologies. There were Unix boxes, Novell boxes, a few LanTastic print servers here and there, some DOS and Windows boxes, even a few Macs in the PR department. All connected via the internal Ethernet network. There were also some WindowsNT boxes. Dupree reconnected to NYNEX, wondering if they had the contract to wire the building. They did. And there, in black and white up on the screen, was what he needed. Three WindowsNT boxes, one for the VP of IS, one for the VP of Operations and one for the Chief Administrator. All of them with modems. And the modem numbers neatly recorded by the NYNEX technician on the work order. WindowsNT, if not configured properly, had some rather huge, gaping security holes. One of them was the fact that Mark Dupree just happened to know a trick to trick the computer into answering an inbound modem call. And once that happened, he could get to the data he needed from inside rather than outside. It was exquisite. It was perfect. It was a hack of epic proportions. Wait, Dupree thought. I can do better. I'll send a message to the FBI, only they won't know what it is, only who it came from. Spinning in his chair (and wincing at the sudden, shooting pain from his leg,) Dupree moved to another workstation and called up a program he'd been working on for a few months. It was an encryption scheme of his own design, something that was so ingenious that he was sure he was the first person to have thought of it. They would never, ever solve it, but it would drive them crazy trying to. He opened the specific file that he wanted to encrypt and launched the program. It took almost two full minutes, but when it was done, the encrypted file looked like garbage. Returning to the first workstation, Dupree quickly dialed a special number that he had created himself after spending several hours deep inside the NYNEX computers. The number was nothing but a way for him to vanish inside the network; once he connected to it, he could dial anywhere in the world, and the call would be untraceable. From there, he connected to the hospital, dialing one of the WindowsNT boxes. It took him moments to breach the Remote System Access protocols, giving him almost complete control of the box. A few seconds later, after invoking a little known administrative backdoor, he had the machine completely under his control. Seconds after that, he was on the internal network at St. Lukes. He quickly found the records relating to Ivan, and was pleased to see that the man had died as a result of the penicillin injection. He dropped the encrypted file in the same place and quickly exited the system, covering his tracks as he went. When Mark Dupree went to sleep that night, there was a warm, soft smile on his face as he thought of the FBI and the NYPD chasing their tails, wondering where and when he was going to strike next. The hunger...the need was still there to take a Chosen, but he would be able to control it for a few days more. Enough time to find a new victim. Enough time to plan it right this time; as he hovered between sleep and reality, Dupree knew that his biggest mistake had been in underestimating his prey. They were all smart, he realized, in their own sick ways. Just as he was. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= St. Lukes Hospital "Mulder," Byers said. "You'd better come here." Mulder moved next to his friend and peered over Byers' shoulder. "What am I looking at?" "In the directory that contains the most recent medical data for your patient, a new file just appeared. The file appears to be encrypted, but...not by any program or algorithm that I've ever seen, and I've seen most of them." "Where did it come from?" "That's the thing...it looks like it came from the Vice President of Information Systems' machine, if I'm reading the network matrix right." Mulder turned to the IS Tech. "Is there any way into the internal network other than those...things?" he asked, pointing at the disabled gateway and dialback racks. "Sure," the tech said. "About six or seven dozen machines in the building have modems for dialout purposes. Most of those machines are NT, and someone...oh, wow...did he come in the front door?" "Apparently," Mulder said, turning back to look at Byers' laptop. "Copy the file, give it to Langly to crack. Highest priority. And then leave some kind of monitoring software here. After that, we're going home for some sleep." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza Sidney had been with the sketch artist for about an hour, and Scully was growing impatient. She was in Alex's office, slowly pacing back and forth in front of Alex's desk. "What's taking so long?" Scully asked. "You want it fast, or you want it right?" Alex asked. "Yes," Scully said, and then smiled. Alex grinned back. Cross came out of the interrogation room, holding an 11x17 sheet of paper in his hands. Scully opened the office door and held out her hand, eager to see the first glimpse of the man she was chasing. "Here it is," he said. Scully took it and turned it around. The man looked...haunted, Scully thought. He had dark, soulful eyes, a thick, generous mouth, a narrow, almost pinched nose. The hair was long, but not overly so. He looked... "Dangerous," Alex said aloud, glancing at the image over Scully's shoulder. "Yeah," Scully agreed. "Copies to all precincts?" Cross asked. Scully shook her head. "We'd better check with Mulder." Alex's first reaction was to overrule Scully and order Cross to have thousands of copies made for every station in the department and every patrol car on the road on the off chance that a uniform would spot the killer and put the arm on him. But the reality of the situation was that she needed Mulder, and Scully, and the FBI. If this turned to shit, she'd need their help. Her phone rang. Alex leaned over her desk and hit the SPKR button. "Cahill," she called loudly. "Inspector Cahill, this is Casey Tan, with WCBS news..." "No comment," Alex said, reaching over to hit the SPKR button again and disconnect the call. "Inspector, who is Officer Byers?" Alex's hand froze. Scully closed her eyes. "I'm not aware of any officer named Byers," Alex said truthfully. "You know that I can call the PIO and find out exactly who he is." "Are you threatening me, Miss Tan?" "No, Inspector. Merely stating the obvious facts." Alex snapped her fingers at Cross and pointed at the door. she mouthed. Cross stared at her blankly. Scully grabbed him by the elbow and pulled his ear to her mouth. "She wants to you get to personnel and get them briefed in on my three friends." Cross nodded, getting it, and turned to leave. "Miss Tan," Alex started, "you realize that any story you might air at this time is premature and-" "Save it, Inspector. Two things. First, I already called the PIO, and there are no officers, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, detectives or otherwise named Byers in the employ of the NYPD. And I personally know everyone from Deputy Inspector on up. So that means that the man Captain Stoltz gave a ride to St. Lukes Roosevelt hospital is not a cop. I'd very much like to know who he is. The second item is that I have no plans to run with this story until the murderer is caught... if you play ball with me." Alex glanced at Scully, shrugging. What can I do? her eyes asked. Scully shrugged back. Not much. "Will you agree to a meeting?" "Of course." "No cameras, no recorders, nothing. Just you. Not even a notepad. Depending on the results of that meeting, we might have more." "Agreed," Tan said. "When?" "Either very late this afternoon or tomorrow. I'm not trying to put you off, Miss Tan, but my detectives and I have been up all night on the latest murder, and we need our sleep." There was silence as the reporter seemed to consider Alex's offer. "Very well," the voice finally said. "Tomorrow morning, ten AM, One Police Plaza, in the Citywide Major Case Squad's bullpen." "Agreed," Alex said. Cahill hung up, and then turned to face Scully. "Go back to the hotel. Take your partner to bed. Make love to him like you've never made love to a man in your life. When you're done, tell him the bad news, and ask him if he's up to mind fucking our little reporter friend." Shocked, Scully gaped at her friend. "What?" "We have to buy time. Tan can't be trusted. She's burned more sources than I care to remember. She'll promise us the world, blackmail us to death, and then run the story anyway. I need Mulder to do what he does best." Scully nodded, understanding that. "But why...why do you want me to...?" "Make love?" Scully nodded. "To soften the blow. When he hears about this, he's going to go nuts. His friends' covers have been blown. We may have to move them." At that moment, Scully's cellphone chirped. "Scully." "I," Mulder said, "am at the hotel, in my bed, naked, all alone. Where are you?" "On my way," Scully said, ending the call. Chapter 20 +=+=+=+=+= Casey Tan hung up the phone and smiled to herself. Thanks to the information provided by Captain Stoltz, Casey now had Inspector Cahill, the Citywide Major Case Squad and the NYPD (in that order,) in the palm of her hand. The only part that troubled her was the promise she'd made not to run the story until the killer was caught. It was a stupid promise to make, one she always ended up breaking. She couldn't count the number of sources she'd burned over the years by running stories ahead of time. Normally, it wouldn't have concerned her. This, however, was different. Casey could feel it. This could be the story that launched her to the network. If she handled it exactly right. The network news division frowned on reporters that burned sources or ran stories early in an attempt to garner sensationalistic ratings. Casey sighed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. It was such a story, she thought. Brilliant serial murderer, the NYPD and FBI running around in circles, men posing as police officers living in safehouses and being shuttled around the city in the dead of night by ranking officers. The details were delicious and tantalizing. The public would eat it up. Casey could almost see herself doing the standup in front of One Police Plaza, the wind whipping at her trench coat, her voice serious and hushed as she explained all about the madman stalking the city, terrifying the citizenry. And the pursuit! Casey had been able to piece together a bit of what happened. The killer, MrKnife, had struck again last night, taking out a Mr. John Silver who lived in Midtown. Apparently Mr. Silver had been born with a different name, a name Casey was still struggling to discover. The other interesting thing about Mr. Silver was that he had put up a fight. The rumor was that MrKnife had been wounded at the scene, and that the victim had lived long enough to give a description to the police before dying on the table in the St. Lukes ER. Another troublesome rumor had surfaced not long after, indicating that Silver had in fact lived, and had been taken to surgery for repair of a bullet wound, and then had died in SICU a few hours later. And yet a third rumor, from another one of Casey's sources inside the hospital; this one saying that Silver _had_ died in the ER, but the Byers man and the FBI agent Mulder had faked his... What, death? No, faked his rebirth. They had listed him as alive hoping that MrKnife would make another attempt and they could trap him. When pressed for details about what Byers had been doing to help the investigation, Casey's sources were apologetic, but uninformed. They had no idea. They reported that he'd been carrying a briefcase made out of the same material expensive electronics were shipped in; a hardened plastic shell with metal corners and twisting latches. Anvil cases, the videographers called them. There was something more going on. MrKnife had posted the pictures from the Central Park murder on the Internet. Casey had her own set of them and referred to them often, knowing that they would make great video if the news director would only allow her to air them. She'd begged and pleaded (and promised a week of nonstop carnal delights in the motel of his choosing,) but in the end he'd refused, insisting that it was in poor taste. Casey had tried to talk him into blurring the more gory portions and preceding the entire story with the standard "may be too intense for younger viewers" message, but the news director had remained steadfast. No fucking way. Infuriated, Casey had taken it to the station manager, and had used all her charm on him as well. It hadn't worked. WCBS was not going to air the pictures. It frustrated Casey to no end; she _knew_ that the station's ratings would climb through the roof if they aired the damn things; people would be clamoring for it, videotaping it, reviewing it again and again. It would become a party tape, a discussion piece. A cultural touchstone for late twentieth century law enforcement. The public's fascination with serial killers, their victims and the twisted mental pathology that drove them on was almost insatiable. And no matter how horrendous, how vicious, how sick the killers and the murders were, the public ached for more. It was frustrating in the extreme. A small pink piece of paper on Casey's desk caught her eye. A phone message, taken by one of her three assistants. The independent television news magazine "Inside Report" had left yet another message offering her a job. Casey toyed with the slip of paper, chewing on one corner of her bottom lip. The offer was tempting; the money was spectacular. A million a year to do what she did best: Peek into other people's lives with a camera behind her and a microphone in front of her, asking those wonderful "Have you stopped beating your wife yet?" questions. It was easy for a TV reporter from the largest market in the country to go from CBS to "Inside Report." Impossible to go the other way; once she jumped ship for the money and the freedom, she'd never be able to make it to Washington, to the national news bureau of the CBS News Division. And that was the only thing holding Casey back. Her drive, her ambition, her desire to rise to the very top of a business that claimed to value integrity and ethics above all else (and in fact, made a great deal of both money and noise rushing around like rutting elephants every time anyone but one of _them_ made a mistake,) and yet subtlety encouraged its members to dig for dirt and air as much of it as possible, while professing only the public's best interest the entire time. What a load of shit, Casey thought. She knew. Every time she heard someone call her a member of "the liberal media" she wanted to laugh out loud. It would be hard to find a more conservative business than the media. It was all about money. Money generated by advertising revenues. And the pricing for advertising was set by the ratings; ratings ruled all. Ratings were king. The presidents and chairmen of the networks were all, to a person, rich, white males that wanted to be richer and whiter, if that were possible. And so the pressure, subtle at first, had slowly grown over the years. Do whatever it takes to get ratings, but don't compromise your integrity. The message was clear: Dig for dirt, air it, but if you get caught -- you're on your own. At least "Inside Report" was honest about it. They hired only the nosiest, sleaziest reporters in town, journalists that loved digging into other people's lives, loved sticking the camera in people's faces and asking horrendous, embarrassing questions. Casey faced the facts. She wanted to run the MrKnife story as soon as possible. But if she wanted to go to Washington and the network, she was going to have to play by the rules this time. This case was just too high profile, too visible for her to pull her usual tricks. Sighing, Casey turned to her personal, private phone directory and began calling sources, digging for information, doing what she did best. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully had driven as quickly as she dared back to the hotel, trying extremely hard not to dwell on why she was hurrying. Mulder's call had sent a chill of anticipation up her spine, a warm flush to her face, and a growing heaviness in points due south. The image of a naked Mulder in his bed, waiting for her with carnal intentions on his mind, an image Scully had more than once teased herself with, was almost more than she could bear to handle in reality. It's true, she thought. We're finally lovers. Funny how that word takes on a whole new meaning when it's applied to me, she thought. She tried the word in her mouth once or twice, whispering it softly to herself as she waited at a red light. She tried each syllable at least twice, feeling her bottom lip snapping over her front teeth as she passed the "V". Scully found the hotel and parked the rental in the underground garage. The elevator ride to their floor was interminable. Finally the doors slid open. Scully turned left and all but ran down the hall, ashamed at herself for the image of a woman running after a man that popped into her head. But it was Mulder, she tried to convince herself. Mulder. She slid the key into her lock and twisted, turning the knob at the same time with the other hand. The door slid open and Scully stepped in, closing it quickly behind her, toeing her shoes off at the same time. She undressed as she walked, honest enough with herself to admit that she wanted to be with him, she wanted to be with him in bed, she wanted to be with him in his bed, and she wanted to be with him in his bed naked. Mulder was asleep. The covers were at his waist, and he slept with one arm tucked behind his head, his face turned to the side, his soft, almost feminine lashes lying gently against his cheeks. Scully felt her pulse quicken juuuuust a notch. Naked, she slipped into his bed. He stirred, mumbling in his sleep. Taking a deep breath (and wondering more than just a little bit if she was making a mistake,) Scully slid across the sheets, lifting a leg to drape it over his hip, turning her face into his chest and wrapping her arm around him. She felt his arm come up, his hand finding her back and stroking. Scully sighed as the tension flowed from her body. She hadn't realized until this moment how tightly wound she'd been. Hating herself for it, Scully admitted that this was one of the reasons she'd feared becoming intimate with her partner. She'd known that once the dark, rich texture of making love with Mulder had been sampled, she would be helpless to resist the pulling physical ache being apart from him would cause. "Missed you," Mulder mumbled. "Me, too," she said, meaning it. He kissed the top of her head and she smiled into his chest, tightening her arm around him. "How did it go with your witness?" he asked. "We have a sketch. It's not much to go on, but we have a sketch. We found the magazine for a high-capacity .45 at the scene; Daryl and Sam are trying to track it down. See if it's some sort of special kind or something. It came back negative for prints. The bullet we recovered at the scene was nothing special. I have the victim's autopsy in about seven hours. According to our witness, Sidney-" "Witness?" he asked sleepily. "Yeah, that interview I was on when you called me. Sidney, a neighbor of the victim, stuck his head out the door when he heard our UNSUB and the victim throwing shots at each other." "Throwing shots?" Mulder asked. "You're starting to sound like Alex." "Is that a good thing?" Scully asked quietly, teasing. "No. I prefer my cops to be short, feisty redheads, not tall, leggy blondes." "Leggy?" "Should have stuck with just 'tall,' huh?" "She does have nice legs," Scully admitted. She felt his hand moving a moment later, dipping slow at the small of her back, and then gently resting on the soft flesh of her left buttock. "But she can't touch your ass," Mulder said. "No, only you can," Scully replied, turning her head to kiss Mulder's chest once. "What I mean is," Mulder explained patiently, slowly becoming more awake, "is that I've had the absolute pleasure of watching this," he gently patted her rump, "for the last five years." "I'm kind of glad this happened now, instead of earlier," Scully said softly. She could almost feel Mulder frowning. "Why?" "When I was sick...my body...I started to waste a little, and I was atrophying here and there. I hated it. I hated looking at myself in the mirror." Mulder didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. "In case I never said it..." Scully continued, "Thanks." "For making love with you? You're welcome!" "For...sticking by me, I guess." "Ah, shit, Scul. You stuck by me through situations that were almost as bad." He rolled gently, bringing his face to hers. "And I'm glad to finally be able to tell you that there was no place that I rather would have been than by your side." They kissed. Breaking apart, Mulder rolled onto his back again. "How did yours go?" Scully asked. "Is this what it's going to be like now?" he asked. "No ditching, each of us contributing to the case, and then coming back home to sit in bed naked and talk about our day, how we went out to battle the forces of evil?" She jabbed him in the ribs with two fingers. He yelped. "This," she said, laughing, "is what it should have been like from the beginning." "Really? You wanted me that far back?" "You bastard," she giggled. "I meant the sharing, the no- ditching policy, that. Not...this," she said, waving a hand at their bodies. "Well, to answer your original question, both good and bad. Good, because I was able to accurately predict this asshole's actions. He did try and break into the computer system, and he tried to kill our already-dead patient. Prescribed penicillin for him, twenty milligrams IV, which would have killed Mr. Silver if he weren't already dead." "I didn't know Silver was allergic," Scully said. "Neither did I, nor would I suspect Alex, Cross or Hicks or Doctor Payne-in-the-ass." "So how did-" "That's part of the good and part of the bad. That means our UNSUB has access that we can only dream about. We are now able to approach the Marshals with almost irrefutable evidence that this guy has compromised their systems." "Irrefutable?" "He waltzed into the system at St. Lukes like he owned them, and then when we set the trap, found a back door that I didn't even know about. Let me put it this way...Byers was very impressed with this guy. His technical competence." "Byers?" "Yeah, he made some remark about the Dark Side of the Force. He was pretty out of it by that point. But if this guy impressed the Gunmen..." Mulder didn't finish his thought. He didn't need to. "So what's next?" Scully asked. "For you, I mean." "After we get some sleep-" "Oh? Is that what we're going to do?" "Eventually. Anyway...after we get some sleep, I'm going back to the interrogation room. I want to talk to Sidney, so I may rope Cross into a ride over. I assume you let the poor man go home." "No, Alex has him stashed at a hotel with ten cops guarding him. She's convinced that the UNSUB will make another attempt at him." "I doubt it," Mulder said after a moment's consideration. "This guy's ego is so huge that he won't consider Sidney a threat, first of all. And second, if we manage to keep it quiet that we even have a witness, I doubt that the UNSUB will even think of him." Scully chewed her lip, drawing small circles on Mulder's chest with her finger. "What?" he asked. "What, what?" "You do the same thing with your finger on the mousepad on your desk when you have something to tell me that you think I'm not going to like." She lifted her head and kissed him again. "You know me that well?" "I could write a book. Now give." Scully sighed. "We got a call from a reporter. They're onto Byers, possibly the whole setup with the guys. When you asked for a car for Byers, a Special Services Captain named Stoltz picked him up, asked some questions, and got some wrong answers. Alex thinks he tipped this Casey Tan woman, and she did some investigating on her own. She's got an interview with us tomorrow morning at ten." Scully paused and then added. "Alex wants to know if you're up to...your usual bag of tricks." "She wants me to mind fuck the reporter." "Something like that," Scully agreed. Mulder shrugged. "Sure. I can give her the usual song and dance. What did we get for the interview?" "She'll hold the story until we catch him." "Good thing this isn't Seattle. They've been chasing that Green River asshole for how many years?" Scully shrugged. She'd lost count. "So she's going to hold the story. What does Alex think? What do you think?" Scully shrugged again. "This is Alex's city. She knows the reporter, isn't very fond of her, and is convinced that Tan is going to try and slip a recording device into the meeting and run with the story." "You can take care of that," Mulder said. "Strip search her in an interrogation room." Scully smiled at that. It might take a bit of wind out of the sails of Casey Tan. She doubted that the woman would consent to it, but it was a nice thought just the same. "What do you think?" "I think we have no choice. We need Byers and the guys. We can't have them compromised." "I have an idea," Mulder said. He rolled again, dragging his chest across Scully's breasts. She groaned low in her throat at the contact, taking the opportunity to wrap both arms around his back. "Nice," she cooed. "Down, woman!" Mulder joked. "I'm working!" "Work all you want, I'm playing," Scully teased, lifting her head and kissing one of Mulder's nipples. "Cut it out, I'm calling Skinner," he grunted, dialing. Chastised, Scully dropped her head back onto the pillow and closed her eyes, losing herself in the feeling of Mulder's soft, warm weight on top of her. "Sir, it's Mulder," Mulder said. "I need a favor. Can you call one of your friends in Intelligence and have them FedEx for 8:00am delivery a Federal Non-Disclosure Agreement form and a National Security Act oath statement? I have a situation here." He paused. "Yeah, a reporter that's gotten onto some things. Yes. Yes. Thank you, sir. She's fine." Mulder hung up the phone and lowered himself more fully on top of his partner. "Skinner will play ball," he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose. "All you ever think about is work," Scully complained. "Does this feel like work?" he asked, moving against her. "Hard work," Scully whispered back, lifting her mouth to his. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mark Dupree woke in a hazy fog of combined pain and numbness. His leg ached; it had been several hours since his last Percodan. And numbness; he'd slept on his strong side all night, afraid to move or jostle his leg. Rolling over slowly, he found the remote for his television and punched the power button just in time to hear the ending strains of the theme music for the noon CBS broadcast. "WCBS has learned that the latest victim of the serial killer calling himself MrKnife managed to give police a statement before his death at St. Lukes emergency room. The police department will not confirm or deny this, but sources inside the department report that a sketch artist was able to develop a composite from the victim's description." Dupree felt faint. He closed his eyes, thinking. If it was true, if Strimnovitch had managed to give a description good enough for a composite, the NYPD would have to release it. Dupree decided to put off any further worry until he saw the sketch. What was more important now was finding a new Chosen. Dupree hit the AUX button on his remote. A small box that sat on top of his VCR kicked into life; it was an interface between Dupree's personal computer network and the television. He could scan files on his servers from the bed, complete with images and sounds. He opened his personal folder of possible Chosens and began shopping for a new victim to kill. It took him almost an hour to find what he was looking for. It still had to be confirmed; the name still had to be in the matrix, but Dupree was sure that he would find the match he needed. A woman this time. Good, Dupree thought. That would throw off the FBI's profiler. Crossing gender lines was always productive. And this particular victim was not only female, but Asian. Yuki Tanaka, the file read. Wife of Akira Tanaka, deceased. Akira had been a member of the famed Japanese Yakuza organized crime syndicate. He'd come to this country to try and extend the reach of the Yakuza into the heart of America. Settling in Dallas, Akira had wasted little time in setting up his little mini-syndicate, complete with loan sharking operations, a string of prostitutes and some drug peddling. He'd made his big mistake when he attempted to move into the importation and distribution of illegal firearms, specifically fully automatic assault weapons. Akira, at the time of his arrest, had patiently explained to his defense attorney (who went on to write a book about the case shortly after the death of Mr. Tanaka in prison,) that he'd had the brilliant idea of selling these fully automatic assault weapons to the gang members that plagued Dallas in the theory that once they were well-armed with bargain-priced killing sticks, they'd go on a shooting rampage, killing each other (and the occasional innocent bystander or six) in an orgy of violence and murder. Then, Akira went on to explain, with all the gang members lying dead in the gutters in pools of their own blood, he, Akira, would be free to move in and take over their territory. Social Darwinism at its best, he'd explained. The ATF and FBI had made a joint raid on one of Tanaka's hideouts, catching him in the act of purchasing several cases of stolen M16A2s, including one case of the M203 variant. That had caused the ATF some minor heartburn, since the M203 came with a 40mm grenade launcher mounted where the forearm would normally go on an M16. Only the fact that Akira Tanaka had been unable to get his hands on actual ammunition for the grenade launchers had saved the Director of the ATF from a premature coronary. The thought of drugged-up gang members firing military ordnance into a nursery school had not played well in Washington. What had played well was Akira's deal with the feds. In exchange for fingering his suppliers of illegal weapons (four US Army sergeants assigned to bases throughout the southeast,) Akira had asked only that his wife be protected. At all costs. He knew that he could handle himself in prison, but he was afraid for his timid, shy wife. According to surveillance reports, Yuki had taken the separation well. She had entered the WITSEC program eagerly, happy to be away from her husband and all his thuggish friends. Neither of them were aware of the Fifth Hand. The Fifth Hand, one of the literally hundreds of gangs that had sprouted up in the super-max state and federal prisons in the last twenty years had cut a truce with another gang, the Jade Knives. Jade Knives were Chinese, but they had familial connections to the Yakuza. In Narita, Japan, the head of the Yakuza cell that Akira belonged to was given word that one of his men had broken the solemn vow of silence that all Japanese gangsters swore to. A decision was made, an order given, and through channels the desire for the death of Mr. Akira Tanaka was communicated. A friend told a friend who told a girlfriend who told a boyfriend who told his prison cellmate who told another friend...and on up the line until it reached the head of the Fifth Hand chapter in the Parchmont Federal Penitentiary, where Mr. Akira Tanaka was scheduled to reside for the next forty years to life. Akira had been taken in the shower. A metal file, stolen from the workshop where the prisoners made furniture for use in federal facilities had been sharpened to a deadly point and then inserted vigorously into the throat of Mr. Tanaka, who had promptly died. As the executor of her husband's estate, Yuki Tanaka had been excited to discover that he had a hereto unknown life insurance policy in the amount of six million yen. After currency conversion, she was even more happy to discover the intricacies of international finance. Her husband's timely death had made her a very rich woman. But still, a hunted woman. A rumor had been spread that she had cooperated with investigators just as her husband had, naming names and pointing fingers. The wives were held to the same standard as the gangsters, and a million-yen bounty was placed on her head. So Yuki Tanaka, now rechristened Melissa Shirro (Mel to her friends,) had remained in the WITSEC program and was currently residing in Staten Island in a house that had cost her the better part of almost half a million dollars. The purchase of the house aside, Mel had chosen to live a rather Spartan life, with no servants or staff. She spent her time reading and writing Haiku, tending to her garden and writing checks to charity. She was a perfect Chosen, because she had sold her husband out, because she had sold her country out, and because she didn't have the common decency to return the money she'd obtained when Akira had died. She was a whore. Humming to himself, Dupree began to plot her murder. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Office of the Chief Medical Examiner's Office New York City, New York Scully skimmed a hand over her head, taking the surgical cap with it. Pulling the scrunchy out of her hair, she rolled her neck from side to side, seeking to lessen the tension. "So?" Mulder asked. "As I thought. The bullet tore through the chest at the perfect angle. No matter how good Payne thinks himself a doctor, Mr. Silver would have died no matter what." Mulder nodded. He had fully expected that Strimnovitch's autopsy would yield precious little information about their UNSUB. "But it was a .45?" Scully nodded. "Yes. The police recovered it from the apartment. It wasn't that badly damaged, actually. If we get a weapon to test it against, we might be able to get a match." "That's something anyway. But we need a suspect first." Scully nodded. "Yes we do." "Let's get dinner, go back to the hotel and...discuss the case." Scully grinned as she moved to the sink to wash the smell of latex off her hands. "I thought you would get tired of...talking about the case." "I could never get tired of talking to you, Scully," he said. "Maybe...my voice is tired." "Is it?" he asked, obviously worried. He hadn't considered that. "No, but you should see the look on your face." +=+=+=+=+===+=+= One Police Plaza The Next Morning The FedEx man, actually a lady this time, had just left after forcing someone to sign for the package. It had appeared on the edge of the desk Scully was borrowing as if by magic, and no amount of squinting at the signature would reveal the identity of the signer. Scully tore the small cardboard strip off of the flap and removed the contents. Four copies each of the Non-Disclosure Agreement and the National Security Oath. Scully had no idea how Mulder was planning to get the reporter to sign either one of them, let alone both, but she had faith in him. She dialed the number of the interrogation room. "Mulder." "They're here." "Do me a favor, please? Fill it out with our names and hers?" "They sent four each. What do you want me to do with the others?" Mulder chuckled. "Skinner must know this trick. Fill one out for Alex, Cross and Hicks each and have them sign it. Pre-date it to the first day we were in town, and then try and make them look older, used, like they've been handled. If you have to, spill some coffee on Alex's." Scully grinned. Mulder, when he wanted to be, was one devious son of a bitch. She still had no idea how he was planning on convincing the reporter that this was a National Security case. "Ok, I'd better get to work. She's due in half an hour." Mulder hung up without another word. Scully turned to the typewriter sitting on the small secretary's return next to the desk and rolled the first sheet in and began typing. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Casey Tan showed up exactly at ten. Scully glanced at her watch as the reporter strolled into the bullpen. The second hand had just passed the twelve. Impressive. "Miss Tan?" Scully said, rising to greet her. "I'm Special Agent-" "Dana Scully, MD," Tan finished. "Undergraduate degree, Physics, U of Maryland, medical school at Johns Hopkins, graduated both Magna Cum Laude, member of the number one RT team from VICAP when you're not chasing little green men." The reporter smiled, obviously pleased with herself. Scully shook her hand. "Casey Tan," Scully said. "Graduated from CCNY...not Magna Cum Laude, but still a respectful showing. Took two years off to work as a model for a small lingerie shop in the garment district, and then went to the J-school at Columbia. Hired as a cub reporter for the Post, you jumped to TV when Channel 9 made the offer. You did a lot of elephant-birthday-party stories for two years, then broke a story about a drug scandal in the Trenton Police Department. WCBS hired you as a general assignment reporter, and since then you've slowly worked your way up to the Investigative desk. You've won six local news Emmys, the latest for a story about the Highway Department's tendency to tow cars that aren't parked in tow-away zones." Scully smiled back. She'd done her research as well. "Where is Agent Mulder?" Tan asked. "And for that matter, Inspector Cahill?" Alex was resting in her office, Scully knew, and Mulder was still...dressing the set, as he called it. Mulder had gotten them up at the crack of dawn. He'd made several fast phone calls, and then headed down to Federal Plaza to the local FBI office for "supplies." And now, it was showtime. Scully buzzed Alex. "Inspector, Miss Tan is here." "I'll join you in interrogation 'C,'" Alex replied through the speakerphone. Scully opened a drawer and found the first item that Mulder had obtained from the local Field Office. It was an FBI visitor's badge, but not a normal one. It was for the secure communications vault of the New York Field Office. Only the crypto clerks, the SAC and three ASACs (Criminal,Administrative and Civil Affairs,) and those employees of the companies that manufactured the cryptographic equipment were allowed inside the crypto vault. With the high concentration of diplomats in New York due to the UN, FBI Intelligence and counterintelligence agents spent a great deal of time transmitting classified reports to Washington. The visitor's badge was impressive; it had a huge, bold, bright blue "V" on the front, the six-color seal of the Department of Justice above that, and the four-color seal of the FBI beneath it. In printing large enough to be seen from six feet away, it said "CLEARENCE-TOP SECRET." "What's this?" Tan asked. "Where we're going, you'll need it," Scully promised. Dutifully, Tan clipped it to the lapel of the fashionable suit she wore, a suit Scully was more than aware cost more than her monthly salary. Scully had her own FBI ID on, and she led Casey Tan through the bullpen and down the hall towards Interrogation 'C'. Two immense ESU officers were standing guard in the hallway, one armed with a shotgun, the other with a carefully displayed (for effect,) Heckler & Koch MP-5. They had moved a small desk into the hallway where it widened before entering the bullpen. A small red phone sat on the desk. "Miss Scully," one of them said politely. "This is Miss Tan," Scully said. "She has been cleared by SAC Mulder for access to the room." "Of course," the man said, lifting the phone. "I'll just check." Scully smiled; the man was playing his role perfectly. No one in the hallway, if they hadn't known, would be able to tell that the cord leading out of the back of the phone wasn't plugged into anything. "Agent Mulder, this is Stevens. We have Miss Scully and a Miss..." He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. "I'm sorry, your name again?" "Tan," Casey said slowly, "Casey Tan." "...a Miss Casey Tan here." He paused. "Of course." Reaching down to the top drawer, he removed a clipboard and handed it to Scully. Scully signed it, entered the date and time, and then handed it back to Stevens. Then, reaching under her jacket to the small of her back, Scully unlimbered her weapon and handed it butt-first to the other officer. "Miss Tan, if you please?" the officer said, holding the clipboard out for her. Casey took it and scanned it. The document had been prepared by Mulder only minutes before. It showed various people logging in and out of Interrogation Room "C". In the column marked "Agency," he'd written FBI, ATF, DOJ, NYPD, and a scattered "C12" here and there. "What's C12?" Tan asked. Scully shook her head, smiling. "Not yet. That's classified." Tan frowned. She'd never heard of anything called "C12," and she had excellent contacts in law enforcement. Signing her name and entering WCBS-TV as the agency, Tan handed the clipboard back and smiled brightly. "Are we done here?" she asked. "Not quite," Stevens said. He pulled a black plastic wand with a handle out of the drawer next and quickly passed it over Scully's body. Scully couldn't resist a small shudder as the wand passed the back of her neck. Tan tried to hide her displeasure. The small digital recording pen was in the inside top pocket of her jacket. The metal detector was sure to find it, and she desperately wanted to take it inside room "C". "Is that really necessary?" she asked. "Yes," Stevens grinned. "Or you don't get in the room. I'm sorry ma'am, but I don't make the rules." "Even I have to do it every time I go in or out," Scully said. "That's the rules." "What's in there?" Scully shook her head again, chuckling. "Miss Tan, these two nice gentlemen are not cleared to know what's in the room, so I cannot answer the question here in the hall." At that moment Alex Cahill appeared. She already had her weapon in her hand, a nasty-looking Glock in 9mm. She handed it without a word to Stevens, signed the clipboard and then held her arms out at her sides as the other officer waved the wand over her body. "Ready?" she asked. "Almost," Scully said, wanting desperately to wink at her friend. Casey sighed and held her arms out. The wand beeped over her pocket. "Please take any metal objects out of your pockets and put them on the table," Stevens said, as if by rote. His voice sounded bored, the tone of a man who had repeated a phrase a million times before. Casey took her keys and some loose change out of her pockets and then the pen, tossing all of it on the table and hoping that no one would notice what it was. "Well, lookee here," Stevens said, holding up the pen. "A RamDyne 1200." He waggled the pen at Casey. "You really should have gotten the 2000 model. It has ten times the recording capacity of this little thing." "What is it?" Cahill asked. "A digital recorder. This one can record up to two minutes on a digital chip." He waggled his finger at Tam. "Bad girl!" he teased. "Can't blame a girl for trying," Casey said, flashing her most brilliant smile at Stevens, all the while thinking: Asshole. Stevens passed the wand over the rest of Tan's body and then nodded to Scully. The three women walked down the short hallway and entered Interrogation Room "C." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mulder had done a spectacular job. The room looked like what some Hollywood set dresser might have imagined the Situation Room in the White House looked like. Two easels were set up, each of them covered by an opaque piece of plastic that had the seal of the FBI on it and the words TOP SECRET in six-inch high red letters on the top and bottom. A small table in the back held a computer and several other electronic devices that defied description. They looked, however, very important, very official. Mulder had organized a lot of the material. A map of the city was tacked to one wall, with red pins stuck in at the locations of the five murders. Blue, green and yellow pins were also poking out of the map. Only Scully and Cahill knew that Mulder had jammed them in at random. Another computer was in the opposite corner. It was displaying mugshots on one side of the screen, and the composite of their UNSUB on the other. Every few seconds a mugshot would change, and a red bar would scan from the top of the image to the bottom. A series of numbers and letters would flash, and then the mugshot would change. Frohike had downloaded the software from a friend who worked for a Hollywood prop house. It was dressing, nothing more. Mulder wore his FBI ID clipped to the handkerchief pocket of his jacket. From a chain around his neck hung three more laminated ID cards, each bearing his picture. They had nonsensical numbers and letters and stripes running diagonally from corner to corner. One of them said "WHITE HOUSE-ALL ACCESS." All of it, all of these little touches were for the benefit and intention of awing Casey Tan. And it worked. Casey glanced around, trying not to look like she was looking. Mulder let her eyes flit around the room for a few moments before opening his mouth. Stepping forward and offering his hand, Mulder said, "Miss Tan, I'm SAC Mulder with the VICAP RT out of FBI ISU in Quantico." "That's quite a mouthful," Tan observed dryly. "You know the government," Mulder said, smiling, turning on the charm. "We love acronyms." "Quite." "Anyway, we have a little paperwork to complete, and then we can get down to business." "I already signed in," Casey pointed out. What the hell was going on here? "I'm aware of that, Miss Tan. We just have some forms for you to sign. Pretty standard stuff." Mulder handed her a clipboard. "Please read that and sign your name at the bottom and date it. Agent Scully will witness your signature." Casey read what she'd been handed. It was a standard Federal Non-Disclosure agreement. By affixing her name to the bottom, she agreed not to disclose anything discussed between herself, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully and Inspector Cahill until such time as one of the three granted her explicit, written permission, or the document was obviated by a court order, or a certain time limit had expired. In the box that contained the time limit, Mulder had written "30 days." "So I can't run a story for a month?" Mulder shrugged. "That's the minimum I can put there. If we catch the UNSUB before then, I'll give you this." He handed her another sheet of paper. It was an undated and unsigned letter on FBI stationary that said he, Fox Mulder, SAC of the VICAP RT1, was hereby granting permission for one Casey Tan to reveal information disclosed to her by the FBI relating to a specific FBI case number. "You can keep that document," Mulder said. "When the case breaks, bring it by, and I'll sign it." Casey felt better knowing she'd be able to take the document with her. Later, if this Mulder character reneged on his offer, she'd air a close-up of the letter and make a point about prior restraint and government censorship of the press. Casey signed. Mulder took the document back from her and began speaking. "One more thing, Miss Tan. The matters we are about to discuss have a certain...problem associated with them. Evidence which I will disclose to you in a minute indicates that there might be a National Security concern relating to this case." "Such as?" Mulder shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, but I can't disclose that until you complete some more paperwork." Casey clenched her jaw. "More paperwork?" "Just one more," Mulder said, handing her what he'd been calling the "torpedo" all morning (much to Scully and Alex's combined annoyance and amusement.) Casey saw the seal of the National Security Agency at the top and gulped. She read the introductory paragraphs and started to feel light-headed. These people were _not_ playing around, she decided. The document outlined the fact that information that was about to be disclosed to her was considered classified by the United States Government, and that she was being trusted for the rest of her life to keep this information confidential. She was not to tell anyone. Furthermore, if she had to leave the country in the next twelve months, she had to notify the government, in writing, 30 days prior to departure. In an emergency situation where she was unable to provide such notification prior to departure, she was to notify the government within 18 hours of her return to US soil. Failure to do so was a "courts martial or civilian criminal offense, inclusive." Further, she read, if she did disclose the information she was about to learn, she agreed by signing the document that she understood that the information was of such a delicate, sensitive nature that Federal Law provided not only extremely severe penalties ("in such time of war, up to and including death,") but broad investigative and arrest powers to the Federal government as far as she was concerned, up to and including "the suspension of your personal liberties." "What does this mean?" she asked, pointing at the phrase. Scully glanced at it. "It's boilerplate. The NSA lawyers insist that it be in there. Basically it means that if you open your mouth before we approve it, we can arrest you and confine you indefinitely. Miranda will not apply; we don't have to let you talk to a lawyer or make a phone call." "Lock me up and throw away the key?" "Something like that," Scully agreed. "Has it...uh, ever happened?" she asked. "Classified," Scully and Mulder said in unison. "If I sign it, will you tell me?" The two agents exchanged a glance. Scully shrugged. "Sure," Mulder said. Casey signed. Mulder grinned. Scully grinned. Take that, bitch, Alex thought. We got your ass now. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "So," Casey said. "Have you ever had to invoke that particular clause of your agreement?" "Thirty-six times since it was first used," Mulder said, making the number up. "And what happened to those people?" "They're serving time in a special federal facility located at an undisclosed location." What a story! Casey thought. And then she realized the trap. She'd already signed. She couldn't broadcast it. Shit. "Well, now that you've effectively gagged me, do you want to tell me what all the secrecy is about?" "Sure," Mulder said, walking over to the computer and studying it. "Our killer is most likely an ex-case officer." "A what?" "Spy," Scully provided. "But we don't call them that. Case officer is the official term. We have case officers, our enemies have spies." "What makes you say that?" Casey asked. "That he's a spy, I mean?" "The methods he's used to select and kill his victims. The weapons he uses. The way he's managed to escape our dragnet." Casey nodded, absorbing this. "I see. Do you know his identity?" "Well, no," Mulder admitted. "But we're getting closer." "Why is that machine scanning mugshots?" she asked. She's sharp, Scully thought. That's dangerous. "Because he might have been arrested after he stopped being a spy," Mulder explained blithely. Tan nodded. "What was your first indication that he was a spy?" "His first victim was an ex-spy. So was his third. And his fifth." "What about the other two?" "Common criminals," Mulder explained. "He's alternating. His next victim is going to be...a female, probably. A woman who didn't commit a major crime, but something serious enough to warrant federal attention." Scully sighed quietly. Mulder was playing a _very_ dangerous game. If the UNSUB struck again and it wasn't a female, they would have a LOT of explaining to do. "Of course," Mulder said, continuing on as if he'd read her mind, "the next victim might also have been born a man, like our fourth victim." Scully had to try hard to contain her surprise. Mulder went on, describing the bare outlines of the case, filling in some of the details that Casey had only guessed at. He confirmed that all the victims were federally protected witnesses, and that the killer obviously had access to the system at some point. He continued on with some of the things they were doing to track the killer. He omitted Byers and the gunmen, setting the trap, letting Casey step into it. "So who is this man Byers?" she finally asked. Mulder pretended to become uncomfortable. "Byers is...classified, I'm afraid. Even above your classification." He paused. "I don't think Byers is even his real name." Nice touch, Scully thought. "Who does he work for?" "I don't know. All I know is that he helps us with certain ... aspects of our investigations." "Such as?" Mulder hesitated. "Technical aspects. You might say he's a mechanic." Scully sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her nose, trying to hide a smile. Casey Tan obviously thought of herself as a well-connected young reporter, a hip, knowledgeable member of the Fourth Estate. "Mechanic" was a term that used to mean "assassin." "I see," Casey said. The "briefing" went on for another half hour. At the end of it, Mulder promised to keep Tan updated with any new information, and reiterated the government's seriousness when it came to security matters. For her part, Tan agreed to keep the meeting and the information in confidence until such time as the FBI or the NYPD told her she could air it. Alex offered to escort Casey out, leaving Mulder and Scully alone. Scully waited fifteen seconds after the door closed, and then softly clapped her hands together three times. "Bravo," she whispered, smiling at her partner. "You should get a Screen Actors Guild award," she smiled. Mulder blushed and shuffled his feet. "Aw, shucks, ma'am. T'weren't nothing." Seconds later Cahill let herself back into the room. "Think she bought it?" she asked. "I hope so," Scully said. "I really hope so." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The planning was almost complete. Not surprisingly, the matrix was complete. Yuki's fate was sealed. All that was left were the smaller details. After the fiasco with Strimnovitch, Dupree had decided to do a bit more research before attempting his next Chosen. Starting tomorrow, he would place Yuki Tanaka under surveillance for a minimum of three days. At first, he'd wanted a week, and then he'd waffled and considered not doing it at all. And then something had occurred to him. By watching and waiting and dreaming about this Chosen, it would make the final taking that much richer an experience. He could sit from his vantage point (as yet undiscovered,) and dream of what he was going to do to her and with her. Dupree had spent the last day and a half exercising his leg. It was still tender, but healing nicely. He practiced walking without a limp. He didn't want any of his neighbors remembering that the nice man who lived next door was suddenly walking weird if the cops ever came around asking questions. Dupree took a quick foray into the world that night. He took a subway to midtown near Times Square and walked to one of the electronics stores and purchased a digital camera. He asked about attachments for it, and also purchased a powerful laptop computer that he could use to manipulate and render the images he would capture with the camera. He also purchased a cigarette-lighter attachment for the laptop and two extra batteries. Returning to his house, Dupree cracked the manual on the camera and quickly learned how to use it. It would suit his needs perfectly, he discovered. And the best part was that he would mail the images to the police and the FBI after the deed was done. They'd know that he'd been stalking her, watching her right under their noses. Sighing happily with his plans, Dupree lay down and went to sleep. +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Dinner had been a quick bite in the hotel's dining room, followed by a slow walk to the elevator and a silent ride upstairs. Mulder had turned to Scully in the elevator and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing the top of her head softly. "I don't know about you," he said gently, "but the idea of hanging out with you tonight is kind of appealing." She chuckled against him, amazed at the comfort with which they were both dealing with their new closeness. "What do you want to do?" he asked. "I'm going to read. I have a book I've been trying to get to for almost a month. You?" "Probably the same. I have some reading I want to do, too." And so they did. Mulder's room came with a small three-cushion couch, and he plopped on one end, and Scully took the other. At some point during the evening, Scully toed her shoes off as she read. Mulder glanced down at her feet. They, he thought, look like _they_ could use a rub. He reached down and scooped her feet up and swung Scully so that they rested in his lap. Balancing his magazine on the arm of the couch, he used both hands to stroke and knead her feet, taking the time to do every square inch exactly right. Finished, he glanced over and smiled. Scully, her book long forgotten, was leaning her head against the other arm of the couch, her own arm tossed across her eyes. "Oh my God," she whispered, realizing that Mulder was finished. "Please don't take this the wrong way...but is that something I can come to _expect_ from you now that we're...involved?" "Sure," Mulder said after a minute. "Tell me again why we waited so long," Scully demanded. "Let's see...five years of foreplay, I'm a headcase, you didn't want to be a cliche...am I forgetting anything?" "Nope," Scully said, pulling her feet out of his lap and moving to his side. "Not a thing." They kissed softly. "I have good news and I have better news." "I'm listening." "The good news is that I give backrubs." "And the better news?" Her hand drifted to his lap, tracing his inner thigh with her delicate doctor's touch. "I give front-rubs, too." Chapter 21 +=+=+=+=+= Dupree prepared to set up his surveillance the next morning. His leg was a little stiff, and he knew that sitting in the rental car for hours on end wasn't going to make matters any better, but the facts had to be recognized: He had to take Yuki. She was Chosen, after all. And more than that, the need was growing again. Strimnovitch had been an incomplete Taking. Discounting for the moment that the bastard had actually shot back, Dupree hadn't had the delicious, invigorating pleasure of using his straight razor on the man's flesh. He hadn't had the pleasure of that beautiful copper-sweat-spice smell as the man's blood spilled out of his wounds. Instead, he'd gotten shot for his troubles and had been forced to break into a computer and kill Ivan the hard way. And let's not forget, Dupree thought, that the FBI is a hell of a lot smarter than I originally gave them credit for. The bastard was actually waiting for me. Dupree had given the entire St. Lukes computer fiasco a lot of thought. He realized fairly quickly that he'd all but telegraphed that move by posting those pictures from Central Park onto the internet, and doing it in such a way as not to leave a trace. Add that to the ELS code he was sending, and the obvious hints with the NYPD booking numbers and the USMS case numbers included with the notes, and he was all but begging them to try and figure out his secret. So it was only natural that a brighter-than-average FBI agent, someone assigned to the VICAP Response Teams would take little time to figure out that if he, Dupree, hadn't managed to kill Ivan the first time that he couldn't risk the victim giving a description to the police. From there it was a very short jump to the computer systems. So Dupree blamed himself for that more than he did the RT guy. And that was another thing. A quick peek into the FBI's computer that morning had revealed that F. Mulder, as the red-headed little bitch referred to him as, was one Fox William Mulder. Dupree had read what little information was available on Mulder and was impressed. He'd been a star a decade ago, and then had all but vanished six years before. His records of that time were classified, but there was an occasional blip in another report. Dupree had read with barely controlled glee the account of the Roche case. Mulder was apparently some kind of semipsychic certified genius birddog of an FBI agent. He had read some case reports filed by Dana Scully, and she seemed like an awful stick in the mud. Dupree had come away from his session with the FBI computer with a new understanding of what he was up against. He also realized that he had to watch his reaction to the press coverage from now on. Mulder was not above using the media to his own ends; his efficiency reports clearly indicated that he was a rogue, someone who had no aspirations to get promoted, someone who didn't care whose toes he stepped on as long as he got his man. Mulder would have made a good Mountie, Dupree thought. Always gets his man. Dupree went through his mental checklist again. He had food for the day, and a silver thermos of strong coffee. He had the laptop, the digital camera, books to read, his notebook, the ParaOrdnance, an extra magazine, and the straight razor he hadn't gotten to use on Strimnovitch. A driver's license, three credit cards, a social security card and a gas company card all bearing a name that was not his. Enough to pass a casual identity check, but not enough to stand up under any deep scrutiny; if he felt that he was in danger of being unmasked or arrested, Dupree had no compunction about using the pistol. He'd proved that last night. He decided to take the Department of Justice file on Yuki Tanaka with him for some light reading. He'd already memorized the file, but there was something in the actual process of opening it, of flipping through the pages, reading the interviews, even just running the pads of his fingers over the loops and whirls of her fingerprints that aroused Dupree, that fed the anticipation, that stoked the fires that fed his hunger. Glancing at his watch, Dupree saw that it was almost six in the morning. Time to go. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Special Agent Dana Scully rolled over into a warm, naked body. At first, this caused her half-asleep mind a moment of concern. A naked body next to her in bed had not become so commonplace yet that her subconscious had accepted it. On the heels of that, she realized that she was not, in fact, in her personal bed. This fact, coupled with the previous message regarding the naked body, caused Scully to wake up a little more suddenly than she was used to. As her mind swam up through the hazy layers of sleep, she became aware of some more things, more sensations. She had rolled into Mulder's back, she realized. He was turned away from her and actually asleep, rare as that was. He was half on his side, half on his stomach, and at some point during the night he had tossed his share of the covers off. Scully opened sleepy eyes to the sight of Mulder's smoothly muscled back. She sighed softly to herself, smiling and closing her eyes again. She slid an arm around his middle, stopping only to tease the dark hairs around his navel. He grunted and pressed back against her; she felt the warm press of his buttocks against her upper thighs. Scully felt her jaw shift as she trapped her tongue between her teeth to keep from moaning out loud. I could get used to this, Scully thought. And that's dangerous. The endless internal dialog started up again, completely unbidden this time. As her hand continued to stroke the soft, warm skin of Mulder's abdomen, she tried to convince herself yet one more time that she could have a relationship with her partner, she could be in love with this incredibly challenging, complex man, she could devote her life to what she knew was right and yet not be the cliche of the female agent who hopped into bed with her partner. Well, hopped into bed was a bit of a stretch, Scully reasoned. If the Bureau's policies about fraternization between partners was designed to protect the virtue of the female, she'd given the rules a run for their money. It had taken them five years to cross the line, a line that Scully had no desire to return across. Scully once again held the mental dialogs with her superiors, Skinner included, with her mother, with the two or three other agents that she considered herself friendly with...she heard them asking the questions, some with kindness, some not. How to approach it? Scully asked herself. Do we sneak around for the rest of our lives, hiding it? That might work for the first month or two, but before long one of them would mess up, would make a mistake, do something dumb and obvious and then the secret would be out, would be known. And they would look twice as guilty, twice as stupid for having gotten caught; the very fact that they would be sneaking around would only add grist to the rumor mill. The reasoning would be that there had to be something very juicy about the relationship for them to be circumspect about it, right? Maybe Mulder likes to be tied up, and maybe Scully is the one who likes to wield the whip. A mental image of herself dressed in a dominatrix costume flashed across Scully's mind and she grinned. No, Mulder didn't need to be tied up. He needed to be held, like most people. He liked to be held and stroked and kissed and touched. Nothing 'Spooky' about that. So what was her other option? Stand on a table in the cafeteria and hold an impromptu press conference? Ask any question and it shall be answered? That didn't present an attractive picture either, Scully thought. Images of drooling secretaries (administrative assistants in the politically correct 90s) begging morsels of information about the intimate details of her sex life...the thought was repulsive. So, obviously, there was a third option. There had to be. And she knew what it was, and it was the hardest of the three to accept. The third option was to proceed as normal. Be adult about it. We won't go out of our way to hide it, OR to flaunt it. We'll proceed as we are right now, and let our casework, our investigations and our closure and our solve rates speak for themselves. Scully was convinced that it was the right thing to do. So why, she asked herself, did the right thing to do feel like such a risk? Putting that problem out of her mind for the time being, Scully mentally calculated her schedule for the day. She and Mulder were going to swing by the Gunmen's safehouse and have a talk with Byers about Casey Tan and other matters. After that, Scully wanted to go to the NYPD lab and go over the forensics reports from the Strimnovitch crime scene. The NYPD CSU officers were still running fingerprints. There had been a great many latent prints in the apartment, and they weren't taking any chances. Mulder wanted to interview Sidney. He and Cross were going to go over to the hotel that Alex had stashed the scared little man at and see if he had anything more to add to his story. The FBI had learned a long time ago that putting up a reluctant witness in a four-star hotel with hot and cold running room service tended to loosen their tounge over time; it was more than apparent that the NYPD had learned the same lesson from its Federal big brother. And then Mulder wanted to go to the New York Public Library. He wanted to spend the afternoon in the stacks, thinking about the ELS, thinking about what classic text the UNSUB was using to encrypt his ELS with. The gunmen would be working on the ELSs themselves, as well as that new cryptic piece of the puzzle, the file the UNSUB had left in the St. Lukes hospital computer. A full day, Scully thought, spent fighting the Forces of Evil. She kissed Mulder square between his shoulder blades. "Mmmmmf," he mumbled into his pillow. She smiled against his skin and kissed him again. "Mulder..." she teased softly, her hand drifting down from his navel, "...time to wake up...." He rolled, pulling her to him. He moved to kiss her and she turned her head. "Ew, morning breath," she said. "Me?" Mulder asked. "No, me," Scully said, turning her head further away. A finger caught her cheek and turned it back just in time to allow Mulder's mouth to capture hers. "Give me a break," he said, the smile in his eyes matching the one his face. "Morning breath." Kissing her again, he rolled more fully on top of her. She felt him against her, warm and hard, and wondered if his apparent interest in her was more the product of lust or a full bladder. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, she reached a hand down and grasped him just as the phone rang. "Oh, please," Scully muttered, reaching for it. "Scully," she answered. There was a pause, and then Skinner's voice came over the line. "Good morning, Agent Scully," he said smoothly. Oh shit. "Good morning, sir," she said, going for 'chipper' and falling short by quite a bit. "Is Agent Mulder about?" About six inches away from me, she thought. Well, Dana, time to put plan "A" to the test. "We just woke up, sir," she said. She could almost _feel_ Mulder's eyes widening behind her. "Just a moment," she added, holding the phone over her shoulder for him to take. For a long moment, he didn't. Two hands captured the phone from hers, one of them cupping the mouthpiece. "Are you _insane_?" he whispered in her ear. She shrugged. "Good morning, sir," Mulder said. "Good morning Agent Mulder. Sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but the Documents Section just gave me a call and I have a question or two for you." Mulder waited. "An Officer John Byers of the NYPD called asking for some texts to be uploaded into one of our mainframes for some kind of pattern search. He gave your name as authorization." Mulder rubbed a hand over his face. "Is there a problem, sir?" "No, I just wanted to make sure you had authorized it, since I hadn't heard anything about it." "Officer Byers is operating under my authorization, sir." "Very well. I was wondering if you had a minute to explain to me the significance of the text that has been requested." Mulder groaned silently. What had Byers asked for? The Kama Sutra? "Sir?" "He requested the complete works of William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and Lewis Carrol." "Yes, sir," Mulder said, immediately impressed with Byers' selections. "And the significance is...?" "Sir, the codes that we're trying to break are most likely what is known as an ELS..." Mulder quickly explained all that he could. Scully busied herself by playing with the hair on Mulder's chest. He tried slapping her hands away but she kept returning to his chest. I love touching him, she thought. Especially now that I can. "So you see, Officer Byers is probably trying to get a fix on general usage patterns and things of that nature. We're trying to narrow the selection of texts down." "But Mulder, there are possibly thousands...hundreds of thousands of possible texts he could pick from." "That much is true, sir, but what I think Officer Byers is doing is taking some educated guesses. In some historical novels there were certain language usage patterns that were consistent among authors. If we can find even a partial "fingerprint" of the ELS inside one of those texts, we can narrow the search to other works of that period." There was a short pause. "That makes sense, Agent Mulder. Thank you for your time." Mulder was about to hang up when Skinner added, "Please give my regards to your partner." "Of course, sir." Mulder hung up. "Ok, I just explained to Skinner why John requested some texts to be uploaded to one of the FBI mainframes. Do you want to explain to me why you let the cat out of the bag with Skinner?" "Well, I answered your phone. I thought the cat was already out of the bag," Scully said. Mulder pursed his lips. "You could have said I was in the shower, Scully." She sighed. He was right. "You're right. Before you woke up, I'd been thinking about how I want to handle...us." Mulder nodded, listening intently. "I don't want to skulk around like we're ashamed of it, and I don't want to stand on top of the World Trade Center and shout it out to the world. I want to be...adult about it. This seemed like a good time to test the theory. Why? Did he say something?" "Just to give you his regards." "See?" she said. "It worked." "Well, remember, Skinner all but gave us permission for this, so that's not a total victory. We still have to deal with...the rest of them." Scully nodded; he was right again. "Race you to the shower," she said, slipping out of bed. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= NYPD Safehouse Undisclosed Location Frohike looked like he hadn't slept in a week; he probably hadn't, Mulder thought. Langly was crashed on the couch, watching MTV with the sound off. Only Byers was working. He sat in front of a laptop connected to its desktop dock, peering at the 19-inch monitor. Rows and rows of text filled the screen. Certain letters were highlighted, forming a crossword pattern. "What's up?" Mulder asked. "Well, once the FBI agreed to upload some text that I requested, I've been able to make some educated guesses." "Let me guess," Mulder said. "Lewis Carrol, Dickens and Shakespeare." Byers didn't even blink. "They called you," he accused. Mulder smiled. "Guilty." "Anyway...I was trying to see-" "If there are any period occurences," Mulder said, nodding. "But we just don't have enough from the ELS to go with." "What do you mean?" "Well, you know that the first number is the starting position and the second number is the separation. From that, we get a block of text so many columns wide. I put all three five ELS sequences through all three texts. If the theory of uniform character distribution holds-" "Uniform what?" "Ok...the letter "E" appears more often than any letter in English, right? And then "T" and so on. Given two texts from approximately the same period, using the ELS generated, similar words should appear in the matrix close to each other." "You've lost me." Byers grunted, stroking his beard with one hand. "Ok, try this on for size. Take two movies, say..."Con Air" and "Leathal Weapon." With me so far?" Mulder nodded. "Ok...start them at exactly the same moment. You'll notice that in both movies, even though they have different plots and screenwriters and directors and so forth, have the action spaced evenly throughout the movie, roughly in seven-to-nine minute increments." Mulder thought about the two movies and realized that Byers was right. "Why is that?" "Because someone figured out that the average attention span of the average moviegoer is about that long. So even though you have two different...texts, if you will, the two movies adhere to the same psuedorandom distribution of "words," if action scenes were words. The statistical probability exists that within seven to nine minutes of any given action movie, something will explode, get shot or die. "The same theory holds true with the written word from the same approximate time period. Certain words and phrases will repeat and line up correctly given the same ELS sequence just by that same random distribution; if not on the same exact ELS seperation, then it should only be off by a dozen or two. "The FBI mainframe has reported back that both Caroll and Dickens, when run though this analysis, have no common words or phrases that are mapping. Not even close." Mulder walked to the couch and stood, staring down at Langly, thinking. "Not in English," he finally said. "That's one possibility. Or we're just picking the wrong time period." "Ok, keep on it. New business," Mulder announced. "If you are contacted by a reporter named Casey Tan, you are to get ahold of me immediately. You all have my cell number, as well as Scully's. Call one or both of us. Do not speak to this woman, do not answer her questions. If you are approached by anyone except myself, Scully, Cahill, Cross or Hicks, you are to play as dumb as possible. Questions?" "What happened?" Frohike asked. "Your cover was blown. Probably by that Stoltz character that drove Byers to the hospital." "What does this mean?" Byers asked. "Just that we have to be extra careful. I've taken some steps to try and control the situation. She thinks she's on the inside. In reality, we're boxing her out. Scully and I have to head over to the NYPD lab...so keep an eye out, OK?" All three nodded. "Frohike, anything on that file the asshole left at St. Lukes?" The little hacker was studying his computer screen, his forehead cupped in one palm. "I'm not sure what it is, Mulder. But what I do know is that it's not encrypted." "How do you know that?" Scully asked. "Forgive me, Agent Scully, but it would take too long to explain. There's a certain...signature, if you will, of encrypted files. There's no keyspace in this file, no markers, no checksums, none of that." "So what is it then?" Frohike shrugged. "I have no idea." "If it makes no sense, doesn't that mean it's encrypted?" Scully asked. "I mean...isn't that _what_ encryption is?" "There's a difference between encryption and encoding," Frohike explained. "For example...a sound file. If you were to open a sound file with a word processor, it looks like gibberish. To someone who didn't realize what it was, it would look encrypted, but it's not. It's encoded. You don't need a decryption key to read it, just the right decoder." Mulder nodded, understanding. "Maybe it's simpler than that." "Such as?" Frohike asked. "You've tried all known file encoding schemes?" Scully interjected. "Yes. Everything I can think of." "How big is the file?" Mulder asked. "If you were to print it out?" Frohike tapped a few keys on his computer. "Thirty six pages." "Six by six," Mulder said. "What?" "The only evenly-distributed matrix you can make from the number thirty-six is six squares by six squares. Print it out." "Why?" "Maybe, if we lay them down on the ground, they'll look like something." Frohike shrugged and began typing again. A minute later a small laser printer spooled up and began issuing pages. It took just over five minutes. Mulder took the stack of paper and moved to one of the empty bedrooms. There was only a bed and a small dresser in the room; enough space to work. Dropping to his knees, he began carefully laying out the pages. It took less than two minutes. Finished, Mulder stepped up on the bed and looked at the picture he'd created. "It looks like..." "Nothing," Scully said from the doorway. "Nice idea, though." "Thanks," Mulder said, distracted. Walking back to the living room, Mulder began pacing, running one hand through his hair again and again. "Ok, how's the attack on the Marshals computer coming?" "Slowly," Langly said from the couch. "But I'm working on it." Scully cocked an eyebrow; he hadn't moved since they had arrived. "You look hard at work," she observed dryly. Shooting her a hurt look, Langly climbed off the couch and went to his work area. Hitting the power switch on the monitor, he stepped back, waiting for it to warm up. The diagram that appeared was impressive. If what was on the screen could be believed, Langly was using no less than six separate commercial sattellites to hide his attack. Anyone attempting to trace the line would hit dead end after dead end. In the lower right corner of the monitor, a small box displayed what appeared to be a random sequence of characters; they changed on the average of about ten times a second. "As soon as we get a nibble, I'll let you know." "Picture," Frohike muttered, staring at the screen. "Picture." "What is it, Frohike?" Scully asked. "I think Mulder may be on to something," he said. "We looked at the printout," Mulder protested. "It was garbage." "But you're using your eyes. You need to use a computer." Langly forgotten for the moment, Scully and Mulder moved to Frohike's computer. "Explain," Mulder demanded. "Hold on..." Frohike said, his eyes staring at the monitor, lips moving as he read. "How many possible colors with 16-bit hardware?" "What resolution?" Langly asked. "Figure...six forty by four eighty." "On the order of twenty-four million," Frohike replied. Frohike counted digits on the screen. "Holy shit." "What?" Mulder asked. "This may be an image file," Frohike said. "A what?" "Like a GIF or a JPEG." "I thought you said-" Scully started. "I said everyone I thought of. It's not a known image file format, but the header detail is right for an image file. I'd just have to break the encoding." "How long will that take?" "I won't know until I get started. Most of it can be automated." "Get started." Mulder turned to leave. Stopping at the doorway, he faced his three friends. "In case I never mentioned it before... thanks." As Scully passed him, Frohike said quietly, "Take care of him." "I always do," she said, patting his arm. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= NYPD Forensics Lab On the drive over, they'd held hands. Once there, Mulder had kept his distance, greatly relieving Scully. Inside the lab, they were all business. Two of the CSU technicians were in front of the FINEST computer, watching as it slowly ran prints. "Anything?" Scully asked. "Two hits, both of them...classified," one technician reported. "Classified?" He nodded. "Both got hits off NCIC, not FINEST. We tried to RTA them, but they both came back with a DOJ block on them. Probably the victim's prints." Scully and Mulder exchanged a glance. "What makes you say that?" "Protected witness, right?" "How do you know that?" Scully asked. The CSU tech shrugged. "For 36,000 members, the NYPD is a small department, Agent Scully. We hear things." "Just as long as you aren't _saying_ things," Mulder said. "No, sir." "Who told you?" Scully asked. The tech glanced between the FBI agents and then shook his head. "Sorry." Scully cocked an eyebrow. She stepped away from the lab bench and reached for her cellular. Mulder hid a smile behind a hand, knowing what was coming. Five years had taught Mulder one thing: When Dana was in "Scully" mode, you didn't tell her _no_. "Alex, Dana. A Detective..." She glanced back at the tech. "Marcus," he said. "Detective Marcus thinks he knows more about this investigation then he really does, and does not desire to share with me the identity of the person that shared the information with him." Scully paused. "Of course." She disconnected the call. It took perhaps four minutes. A uniformed Captain appeared from nowhere. "Where's Marcus?" he asked. "Here, sir." "Come with me, Marcus." "Where am I going?" "You're to report to the CofD forthwith." Detective Marcus glanced back at the two FBI agents with hatred in his eyes. "I thought you guys were cops," he said. "We are," Scully said simply. "And we don't have time for the usual brotherhood nonsense. Tell me who told you. Now." "Fuck you," Detective Marcus said slowly, carefully. "I'll call the DEA and get my delegate in on this. You can't do this to me." "I just did," Scully said shortly. "And the Detective's Endowment Association isn't going to be much help, I'm afraid." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The CSU techs hadn't turned up much else. Before going over to the hotel to interview Sidney, Mulder and Scully swung by the Major Case Squad bullpen to see if anything interesting was going on. Alex wasn't in her office, and Scully asked a passing MCS detective as to her whereabouts. "She went to the CofD's office about half an hour ago," the detective said and shrugged. Scully almost felt sorry for Detective Marcus. Almost. As Mulder conferred with Detectives Cross and Hicks about the search for information about the high-capacity .45 magazine recovered at the Strimnovitch scene, Scully took the opportunity to check hers and Mulder's voice mail. She was in the process of clearing out the usual "call me when you get back" messages from her mother when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she saw a youngish uniform officer standing there, nervously holding his hat in his hands. "Ma'am? Are you Inspector Cahill?" "No, I'm not," Scully said. "I was...uh, told to report to her. Forthwith." "And you are?" Scully asked. "Officer O'Hara," he said, smiling. Scully saw the dark hair and blue eyes and thought the name fit him well. "Do you know what this is about?" she asked. O'Hara shook his head. At that moment an obviously and extremely pissed-off Alex Cahill pushed through the doors leading into the MCS bullpen. Spotting O'Hara, she stalked over. "Officer Jason O'Hara?" she demanded. "Y-yes, Ma'am." "Come with me. Dana, Mulder...you're with me." Alex stood just inside her office, holding the door as O'Hara, Scully and Mulder filed in. She shut the door with a slam and turned to face O'Hara. "You were the first officer on the scene of the Silver shooting, is that correct?" "Yes ma'am." "I am going to ask you this question once and once only. If you give me the incorrect answer, you will spend the rest of your career walking a foot post in Brooklyn South. Are we clear on that?" "Yes, ma'am." "What is your relationship with Detective Marcus?" O'Hara hesitated. "Uh, ma'am, may I ask why you're asking that?" "Answer the question!" Alex barked. "We're...friends," O'Hara said. "Did you tell him anything about the shooting? Anything at all?" O'Hara glanced at Mulder. Mulder's face was carefully expressionless. "I might have." "Might have? Shit!" Alex said, moving behind her desk. "This man," she said to Scully, "overheard you, Mulder, myself, Cross or Hicks at the scene. Someone mentioned the fact that Silver is a protected witness. This man told his friend, who as you know until about ten minutes ago was assigned to the Crime Scene Unit." "Was assigned?" O'Hara asked. Alex slammed both palms down on her desk. "Yes, Officer. WAS assigned. He has recently been reassigned to the Academy until such time as I can find a really SHITTY assignment for him. Maybe Auto Theft or something equally horrible." "Ma'am...is...is there anything I can do to reverse your decision?" "You seem awfully concerned about your friend," Alex observed. "I don't want him jammed up off my big mouth." "He's already jammed up, O'Hara. He won't tell us if he told anyone. He's already asked for his delegate. He goes through with that union bullshit, and he will spend the rest of his career filing stolen car reports." "Ma'am, I know I shouldn't have told him." "When did you tell him?" "Last night. At home." Mulder, Scully and Alex exchanged a look. "You're in a relationship," Alex said, not unkindly. O'Hara nodded. "So you didn't shoot your mouth off to anyone else?" Alex asked. "No, ma'am." "Can Marcus be trusted?" "I think so." "How did you find out?" "I overheard one of your detectives talking to you, ma'am." "Very observant," Scully said. O'Hara looked like he wanted to thank her, but chose to remain silent. Alex threw up her hands. "Jesus, save me from overeager cops!" She looked at Mulder. "What do I do with him?" "How long you been on the job?" Mulder asked. "Five years May." "What color was the carpet at the crime scene?" "Burgundy," O'Hara replied immediately. "How many bloodstain circles inside?" "Seven." "What time did the first Detective sign off in your log book?" "Three-thirty two." Mulder glanced back at Alex. "Please excuse us, Officer O'Hara. Please wait outside." O'Hara let himself out quickly and sat at a desk. "What do I do with him?" Alex asked. "Take him out of the bag, give him a gold shield and assign him to us. We need a gofer, and he's obviously got a good head on his shoulders. If he pays attention, he just might learn something." "Promote him?" Alex asked. Mulder nodded. "He's a good cop. He just...pillowtalked. I'm sure you've done it." Alex opened her mouth to reply and then shut it. She had. More than once. "Oh, shit," she said. She picked up the phone and dialed four numbers. "Chief, it's Alex. I need you down here right away." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Zolinski was not happy, but he went along. The look on O'Hara's face when Zolinski stormed through the MCS bullpen and into Alex's office was priceless. "You want to WHAT?" he shouted. Alex explained Mulder's reasoning. Zolinski spun on the FBI agent and tried to stare him down. It didn't work. Mulder smiled and shrugged. "If nothing else," Mulder explained, "since he's close to the investigation, we can keep an eye on him. I'm sure that Scully and I can come up with enough little jobs for him to keep him busy." "I don't fucking believe this," Zolinski fumed. "He opens his mouth to his LOVER, another cop, opens his goddamn mouth about the most sensitive case this department has had this YEAR, and we're going to PROMOTE him?" "He's a good cop," Mulder said. "They're ALL good cops," Zolinski pointed out. Mulder fell silent. "Fuck it," Zolinski said. Turning to Alex he asked, "Do you have a spare?" She nodded. "Get him in here." Scully pointed at O'Hara through the glass and crooked her finger. Nervously, O'Hara entered the office, shutting the door behind him. Zolinski walked up, hands on hips. "You listen to me, son. I don't agree with what's about to happen. You open your fucking mouth about this case one more time, and I'll have your ASS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!" O'Hara nodded, too scared to speak. Without looking, Zolinski held out his hand. Alex slipped something into it. With his other hand, Zolinski grabbed one of O'Hara's hands and slapped the gold shield into it. "Congratulations, _Detective_," he said, contempt filling his voice. Moving around the stunned officer, Zolinski tore open Alex's door and stormed into the bullpen. "Anyone opens their FUCKING mouth, and I'll have their ASS!" he shouted. Scully shut the door. "Before you celebrate," Alex said, a warning in her voice, "you have to understand a few things. First, this is highly unusual. You are on probation for six months. You don't fuck up in that six months, you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, you might learn a few things. You do all right, that shield is yours to keep. You fuck up -- you're back in the bag. Understand?" O'Hara nodded. "You are assigned as of 0800 tomorrow morning to the Major Case Squad as a Detective/Third. You report to Agents Mulder and Scully. You are their shadow, understand? Where they go, you go. They want anything done, you do it. Coffee, lunch, any errand... you do it. You are on 24-hour call as of right now." Opening a drawer, Alex rooted around and found a pager. Tossing it to O'Hara, she continued, "Give that pager number to the wheelman, to these two agents, and to Central Radio. You are relieved for the rest of the day. If you have a suit, get it cleaned. If you don't...go buy one." She paused. "Now get out of here." O'Hara turned and fled. "Now what?" Cahill asked. "Mulder and I are going to talk to Sidney. Cross is coming, too." "Wonderful. Keep me informed." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Staten Island Yuki was perfect. Dupree sat in the rental car and peered at her through the viewfinder of his digital camera. A slim cord trailed out of the back and into the laptop perched on the passenger seat. His target moved with the grace of a cat, working in her garden, smiling at the sun. Whore, he thought. She was Chosen. She was perfect in every way for his needs, for his purposes. Six hours into the surveillance, Dupree realized something. Yuki Tanaka was beautiful. She was model-gorgeous. Her classic Asian features were... Interesting. Arousing. Dupree knew that he was punishing these people, his Chosen. Taking their lives, opening them up, letting the evil out. He had a reason and a purpose, a divine task given to him by God. He had been sent to kill her. And she had been sent to be killed. That was the equation, an equation Dupree was both familiar and comfortable with. Until now, he'd felt little desire to change it. But Yuki changed that. He found himself wondering how many other ways he could cause her pain and suffering, and before long he knew what he could do to make sure that Yuki suffered for her sins. He wondered what it would be like to slit her throat as he raped her. The thought was exciting, dangerous. Arousing in the extreme. He felt himself harden as his fantasies took over. The ultimate dominance, he thought. The ultimate in control. Think, he commanded himself. If I rape her, what can the FBI learn? What evidence will I leave? Semen. From semen, they could type his blood. But only if he was a secretor, and he didn't know if he was. And the police already had that information from the blood found at the last scene. Pubic hairs could reveal what color hair he had, and his approximate age. Dupree was not stupid. He knew that he fell within a specific category of...the kind of people that did what he did. He knew that they had already guessed his age. Transference, he thought. If she scratches me, they'll get skin. Dupree went over all the pros and cons and in the end decided to play it by ear. If he managed to surprise her, to get control of her before it happened, before the hunger took over... He would do her. Giggling, Dupree turned to his computer. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Four Seasons Hotel Suite 1201 Casey Tan rolled over and sighed deeply. Just as she'd imagined, Tim Everett had been a remarkable lover. It was just something about cops, she thought to herself. He'd been wildly energetic, eager to do anything she asked. She was tempted to ask him some questions about the MrKnife case, but she knew that would tip her hand. Mr. Everett was under the mistaken impression that she had slept with him out of some uncontrollable lust she had felt towards him; nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. Casey knew that her face and her body were tools, just as the camera, microphone and notepad were. During her rise to the top, Casey had learned that it took four or five or six sessions of frenzied, sweaty lovemaking before her sources were under her thumb enough to be manipulated. And this was only session number two. Tim Everett, at once deeply satisfied and deeply ashamed, lay next to her on the bed. His quickly wilting erection sagged against his thigh. He thought that he'd never had a better screw than Casey Tan, and the thought that she'd made it more than clear that the only thing she was interested in was a series of afternoon delights -- no long-term commitments, no home-wrecking, just energetic, no-holds- barred lovemaking -- was making him feel pretty damn good about himself. Then his pager went off. And then it went off again. Swearing, Tim moved to his pants and dug around, looking for the offending device. Pulling it free, he turned it over in his hands and read the four-line alphanumeric display. "Shit," he said softly. Reaching for his cellphone, he took it and went into the bathroom, closing the door. He dialed a number from memory. "Dave, this better be good." "Hi, Tim. Our daily sweep of the lines detected a higher than normal ambient traffic flashback." "And exactly what the fuck does that mean?" "That someone is trying to break into the system, and doing a very good job of it." "Can we trace it?" Everett asked, thinking quickly. "No." "Why not?" "Too technical to go into over the phone. Basically, the guy is a shadow. Any attempt to trace will trigger what amounts to a collapsing circuit. We'll pull up short at the first satellite link." "Can we stop it?" "Not without shutting us off from the rest of the world." "What can we do?" "Padded cell," Dave said. "What...?" "We reroute all incoming traffic through another box so that when this guy breaks in, he thinks he's in the real system. In reality, we'll have him trapped in a fake system. It's an old NSA trick." "What will that gain us?" "Time, not much else." "Who do you think it is?" "Honestly?" "Of course." "NYPD. Or FBI. I think they're going after the list." Everett bit his lip, thinking furiously. Alex, if she was behind this, was taking a huge chance. Goddamn it, _he_ was taking a huge chance. Sitting naked in a hotel bathroom, cheating on his wife, fucking a _reporter_ of all people (a gorgeous reporter, but a _reporter!_) and actually thinking what he was thinking. "Ok, Dave...who else knows?" "Just me. I ran the scan myself." "You haven't told anyone else?" "No, and I don't plan on it." "Why not?" "Because I think we both know that you're about to order me to let them in and get the list, and THEN cut the connection." He was good, Ted admitted to himself. Very good. "Ok, since we're both on the same wavelength -- how long before they get in?" "Two, three days, max." "Can we make it easier...and not leave a trace when the audit comes down?" Dave thought about it for close to two minutes. "Sure," he said. "Do it," Ted ordered. "Quietly. If anyone else finds out, we're both going to be up to our respective asses in deep, deep trouble." "Done, Ted. And if it helps...I think you're doing the right thing." "Will you testify for me in front of the Senate Judiciary Committie when this blows up in our face?" "Sure, if you'll do the same for me." Ted could hear the smile in his friend's voice and smiled in return. "Ok...how soon before you let them in?" "Two hours. I'll do some magic, and they'll be in. I'll leave the file in an obvious place and only lightly encrypt it. It should take them about an hour or two to break the code. Once they're in, I'll wait forty-eight hours, and then "find" the hole and close it." "Deal," Tim said. "I gotta go." Tim Everett tried to calculate the odds. If the person or persons attempting to break into the USMS computer were not, in fact, the NYPD or FBI, and they got the list, and it got out that they had the list, and it was discovered that by actions undertaken by himself and Dave that they had gotten the list... Spending the rest of his life at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas was not out of the realm of possibility. "Where are you calling from, anyway?" Dave asked. Tim was about to answer when a knock came at the door. "Tim?" Casey asked. "Gotta go," Tim said, hanging up. Casey pushed the door open and stood there, hands on her hips, completely naked, eying Tim hungrily. "I wanna go again," she said softly, licking her lips. "I don't think I can," Tim said. "Oh, I think you can," Casey said, slowly falling to her knees. She crawled across the bathroom floor and promptly buried her face in Tim Everett's lap. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Sidney hadn't had much more information to give. Dejected, Mulder and Scully were in the process of returning to the MCS bullpen when Mulder's cell rang in the car. "Mulder." Frohike, obviously excited. "We're in." Mulder glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= For the first time in recent memory, Mulder got to use the light AND the siren. Traveling with Scully all over the country usually meant rental cars, and there were no little red bubble lights and no cool electronic sirens in rental cars. About six blocks away from the safehouse, Scully touched his arm. "Might want to kill that," she said, nodding towards the flashing light on the dashboard. "Don't want to call attention to the safehouse." Mulder nodded and unplugged the light, and then killed the siren. They drifted the last quarter mile in silence. They parked and got out, all but sprinting to the safehouse. Frohike was staring at the monitor, licking his lips, an absurd look of adolescent satisfaction plastered all over his face. "Give it to me in a nutshell, guys," Mulder said. Byers looked at Frohike, who was busy typing on his keyboard. "Basically, the security was a little less complex than we were led to believe. We got in about thirty minutes ago. Frohike took a quick look around, located the encrypted file we've been searching for, and downloaded it. It's about the right size, and according to the transaction history files on the machine, it has been rather heavily used." "If it's encrypted, how do you know it's the right file?" Scully asked. "Because it's the only file that is encrypted of its size and location. We're fairly certain that it's the file, and judging by the size of the keyspace in the file header, it's only using a 20 or 40 bit key. It should take us less than two hours to-" "Got it," Frohike said. "...crack it," Byers finished, smiling. With a deep bow and a wave towards the computer, John Byers said, "Mulder, Scully...the Lone Gunmen, at your service." Mulder moved in close, peering at the monitor. Names, dates, faces. Real names, cover names, lists of conviction dates and other. The list of names was staggering. "How many?" he asked. "Over two hundred," Frohike said after a moment. "But they're not all active." "Why not?" "Well," he said with a smile, "we know of at least five that aren't active any more." "That's sick," Scully said. "Sorry," Frohike said, and she saw that he was. "That's ok," she sad, touching his arm. "Are those the only inactive ones? "No, ma'am. Some of them busted security by themselves. Sam Gravano, for example." Mulder and Scully nodded, understanding. Sammy "The Bull" Gravano, the number-two man under John Gotti in the Gambino crime family, personally responsible for the death of eighteen people ('personally responsible' in the sense that he himself had pulled the actual trigger,) had been arrested on racketeering and murder charges. Faced with life behind bars, Sammy was eager to break Omerta and turn government's witness. He sang so well some of the boys down at Federal Plaza had taken to calling him "The Fourth Tenor." After three separate trials (the first two resulting in hung juries amid cries of tampering,) the third and final trial had resulted in the conviction of John Gotti on all charges. Mr. Gotti was currently spending life in prison. Gravano, chafing at the limits living inside the WITSEC program brought with it, had busted his own security and gone public, complete with his surgically altered face. He lived in an undisclosed location with his wife, and made regular talk-show appearances. Not 'undisclosed' anymore, Mulder thought, looking at Gravano's records. "Ok, how many active?" he asked. "About a hundred and sixty," Frohike reported, "if I'm reading this encoding scheme correctly." "Ok...here's what we do next. Print me out the raw file just as fast as you can, front to back. Everything. Then, get all this information into a database so I can search and sort. I'll want gender, age, race, crimes committed, crimes convicted, date they entered the program, and date they left, for whatever reason. You work on this until it's done; forget everything else. All three of you. Any questions?" "No, sir," Byers said, slightly mocking. Mulder flashed him an annoyed looked and then smiled. "Sorry." "Don't be, Mulder. You forget, we know how you get." "Then what are we waiting for?" Mulder asked. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Two hours later, it was done. Frohike borrowed Scully's laptop and carefully transferred the information. He showed them both how to search and report on the information. Finished, Frohike asked the next question. "Now what?" "Set a trap. Figure a way to find out if this asshole gets in and alert us. Pager, cellphone, I don't care...carrier pigeon. I want you to trace this asshole." "How?" Frohike asked aloud. "Set it to check the file access statistics once every half hour or whatever -- if it changes, track who did it and email or page someone with the information. When we sense a pattern, we can go from there." Byers nodded, impressed. "Good idea, Mulder. You've done this before." "No," Mulder said, gathering the four hundred pages of printed data, "I've been hanging around you guys too much. You've been a bad influence on me." "Us on YOU?" Langly said, laughing. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= They didn't call Alex; they didn't want to take the chance that they might be overheard. Instead, they went to Kinkos, and with the judicious use of a black-magic marker, lined anything on the pages that would make it obvious that it was a USMS printout. Then they fed it through the copier twice. Taking the originals to a document processing service, they flashed their ID and politely requested access to a industrial-strength shredder. Half an hour after that they walked out with a plastic bag full of confetti and two full copies of the data in a cardboard box. They disposed of the bag in a random dumpster along the way, and then headed towards One Police Plaza. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza Major Case Squadroom MrKnife was not the only case the MCS was dealing with; being a citywide unit in a town with over eleven million residents, as well as thirty-six thousand police officers, Alex found herself juggling priorities and personnel. Six of her sixteen day-shift detectives were assigned to the MrKnife case full time, to the exclusion of all other duties. The remaining ten detectives, then, had been assigned the overflow, the open cases that those six had been working, as well as all "new" cases. She tried to send as many as she could back to the Borough commands, and deferred some of the ones that were not directly related to the four "big" crimes: Murder, rape, arson and extortion. She looked up as a very smug-appearing Fox Mulder strode into her office. They had found a Christmas bow somewhere, and had stuck it on the side of a copier-paper box. He laid the box on her desk with a wave of his arm. "What the hell is this?" she asked. "Open it," Scully suggested, coming in behind Mulder and closing the door. Alex removed the top and saw two stacks of paper. Taking an inch-thick section from the left-hand stack, she began reading. Her eyes got big and she flipped through the pages quickly, smiling. "You got in?" she asked. "They got in," Mulder corrected. "On this gig, we're just the messengers." Alex dropped her pages and stood, coming around the desk. She stepped into Mulder's arms and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Startled, Mulder pulled back, shooting a startled glance at an amused Scully. "Oh, don't worry," Alex said, dropping her arms and moving towards Scully. "She's next." And to Scully's (and Mulder's) utter amazement, Alex did exactly as she promised: She stepped into Scully's arms, leaned down and kissed _her_ squarely on the lips. An utterly flabbergasted Scully stepped back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Mulder looked amused, and he shrugged at Scully as Alex returned to her desk to summon Cross and Hicks. Feeling the tingle of the unexpected kiss on her lips, Scully realized what a...robustly sexual woman Alex Cahill was. Cahill's star detective team entered the office. "You wanted us, boss?" they asked. "We have the list. Sam, Daryl, cull the names and addresses from the list. Break it down by borough and then by precinct. Once you have that, make about six or seven dozen blind copies. Just names and addresses. I'll put the gears in motion, assemble the troops. It's..." she glanced at her watch. "Two-thirty in the afternoon. I want that information no later than three-forty-five. Do whatever it takes to get this done by then. Overtime for all day-tour and four-to- midnights. Questions?" They vanished with the list that Alex handed them. "Now what?" Mulder asked. "I'll use my officers to notify everyone on that list we can contact." "I'm going to take the raw list and see if I can... figure out who is next," Mulder said softly, frowning. "What's wrong?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged. "Remember when Alex found me banging my head against the wall?" Both women nodded. "Well, I'm going to have to go that deep inside this maggot's head again if I'm going to have half a chance at figuring out the next target. "And I must say...I'm not looking forward to it." Chapter 22 +=+=+=+=+= God, Dupree hated the rain. It was wet, it was cold, it was depressing. Yuki hadn't been outside in four hours, and if WINS-1010 could be believed, the rain not only wasn't going to let up for the next six to ten hours, but in another twenty or so minutes the first thunderheads were going to appear. Dupree twisted in his seat and played with the keyboard of his laptop, looking at the digital images he had captured so far. Yuki working in the garden, Yuki collecting her mail, Yuki eating her lunch on the pool deck, shot obliquely through the trees surrounding her back yard. Not enough, Dupree decided, but it was going to have to do. Then an idea occurred to him. The laptop had come equipped with a cellular modem. Quickly connecting the hardware together, Dupree dialed his home computer and waited for the connect tones. Once a session was established, he began accessing some of his files. He ran his customized search engine and found the sixty or so images he was looking for. Then he launched a slide-show program and began scanning them, immediately classifying them as either keepers or rejects. The final tally was around sixteen or so images. Setting the software to play them continuously, Dupree sat back and studied the screen, letting the pictures wash over him. Each one would display for just about five seconds, and then it would dissolve into the next. They were crime scene photos. Close-ups of the victims. All female, all Asian. All Yuki's approximate size and shape. Computers, Dupree thought, what a wonderful invention. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Computers, Mulder thought, what a wonderful invention. It was probably the invention of the computer that made units like the ISU possible. Without a computer it would have been next to impossible to search through the indexed and cross-referenced databases that most major police departments kept, and beyond impossible to tackle the NCIC. A fast call to Assistant Director Skinner had resulted in a very special user ID and password being issued to Mulder; he now had the ability to search the special, classified "offline" database stored on the NCIC system. Mulder was sure that there were a pair of eyes at the other end of the system watching every single thing he did, ready to pull the plug if he wandered into an area he wasn't supposed to be. Mulder was classifying potential victims, trying to narrow the pool down. Five files had already been researched and then carefully set aside. The digital photo printer attached to the terminal had already whirred and clicked and issued the official United States Marshals Service mug shots; they were tacked to the wall in the order the murders had occurred; Leon King first, Strimnovitch last. Mulder had decided to go on instinct. There was no way to program his gut feelings into the laptop; he would have to review all one hundred and sixty-whatever cases by hand, immediately classifying them in his mind as either possible, likely, unlikely or out of the question. He'd convinced Alex Cahill to hold off notifying witnesses for the next five hours so he could generate a list of the liklies and possibles. She hadn't been happy, but she'd understood. It made sense; if Mulder could narrow the list to ten or twenty possibles, the NYPD could concentrate efforts in that area, rather than trying to spread their resources across a hundred and sixty-odd potentials. The good news was, a hundred and sixty was a lot less than eleven million; the bad news was that a hundred and sixty was still a hell of a lot, more than the sixteen detectives of the Major Cases Squad could handle. Even if you took into the count the five Borough MC squads, the five borough Homicide Task Forces, and the Special Victims Squad...it was just too many people to cover. And so they had decided to take a calculated risk. A risk that Mulder was uncomfortable with, but a necessary risk, one that had to be taken. And he was wasting time. He was putting it off, he knew, and he knew why. A hundred and sixty lives were in his hands, and if he made a mistake, one of them would die. Mulder sighted, stood and walked around the table, running his hands through his hair. Focus, he reminded himself. Focus on the problem. Why did he choose them? How did he choose them? The basic issue had been decided; it was obvious that he had access to the system, and that he was choosing witnesses. That much we knew. But why? Mulder stopped. No, that wasn't the right question to ask. Why will come after we find out who. How...that was the question. How was he picking them? What formula was using to narrow the pool? That was the question. Mulder remembered the word he'd used. Whores. People selling themselves, selling their souls. Mulder began searching. He quickly eliminated forty possibles. They were all true witnesses, honest people caught in the crossfire of criminal activity. Relocated, new names, new faces, new identities. Not whores. That still left over a hundred names. Mulder frowned. Getting up, he left the interrogation room, looking for Scully. He found her in Alex's office, standing before a map of the city. They were obviously discussing how to deploy the available manpower once Mulder generated the list. "I have a question," Mulder announced. "That was fast," Alex observed, glancing at her watch, her meaning clear. Mulder grinned. "I just got started, Alex." "What's your question?" "When you and Alex went to the Marshals office and they did a computer run, what was the number they gave you?" "Thirty two," Scully said automatically, and then frowned, getting it. "But the guys gave us a hundred and sixty names." "Exactly," Mulder said. "How is that possible?" Alex asked. "I really don't think Tim lied to us." Scully pursed her lips, thinking. "What makes you think he didn't lie?" Mulder asked. Alex shook her head. "Not the type, if you know what I mean. He's a stand-up guy. As much as a Fed can be stand-up, that is." Realizing her audience, Alex quickly added, "Present company excluded, of course." "Of course," Scully said wryly. At that moment, Mulder's cell chirped. "Mulder." "It's me." Frohike. "What's up? Any progress?" "No, but I have some...interesting news." "Lay it on me." "Langly double-checked my work with the...target?" The WITSEC database, Mulder thought. "Ok..." "We think it was a setup." Mulder's eyes rose from the floor to find Alex's. "You think the Marshals set you up? How?" "Langly thinks...well, to boil it down, that they let us in. That they loosened security in order for us to find the file, and then they clamped down again." "How sure are you about this?" Frohike was silent for a long moment. "Once Langly pointed it out to me, it was obvious. I agree with him. John agrees. As far as it goes for us, Mulder, we're in unanimous agreement. It's a setup." "Thanks. Talk at you later." Mulder hung up and swore loudly. "Frohike thinks the Marshals let us in to grab the file." "So that means..." Alex said, making a "go on" motion with her hand, "Exactly what?" "Two things. Either the file we grabbed up is bogus, and we're going to make a fool of ourselves using it to generate any kind of data, or the Marshals know a hell of a lot more then they are telling us." "How so?" Scully asked. And then she got it. "Of course. If they gave us a number that's a subset of the total number, then they have an idea of how this asshole is picking his victims. The thirty-two number represents the number of victims that the Marshals think are in this guy's pool." "Exactamundo, Scully." Alex sat down, covering her face with her hands. "Shit," she said. "Ok, let's cut to the fucking chase." Reaching for the phone, Alex dialed quickly, punching each button angrily. "United States Marshals Service," a chirpy voice answered. "Chief Deputy Tim Everett," Alex requested. "Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill calling." "Please hold, I'll see if the Chief Deputy is in." Six seconds later, Everett was on the line. "Alex!" he said, the cheerfulness obviously forced. "No shit time, Tim. This is an unsecure line. You know what I'm calling about." "Yes." "Is it bona fide? Don't fuck with me on this. Lives are at stake." "Yes, it's bona fide." "Why are the totals different? You gave us a much smaller number a few days ago. Our number is almost six times that number." A short pause. "We have some ideas. The short list was the list of potentials that we're convinced are...on his list." "Be careful, Tim. Remember, the walls have ears. Can you give us the names?" "Which?" Alex sighed. "The smaller set, obviously." "Not on an open line, for obvious reasons." "What then? Do you want me to come there?" She cocked an evil eyebrow at Dana. "Maybe a midtown hotel? A...lunch meeting?" Scully turned away, hiding a smile. Mulder glanced between them, wondering what private joke they were visibly sharing. "No!" Everett said, a bit too forcefully. That's interesting, Scully thought. "Do you have an encrypted fax?" he asked. "Intelligence does," Alex said, snapping her fingers at Scully. Understanding immediately, Scully exited Alex's office and pointed at Officer O'Hara and crooked her finger. He quickly joined her in Alex's office. "Go to Intelligence," Scully said softly. "Stand over the encrypted fax and wait for something from the United States Marshals Service. Bring it back here. Show it to no one. If anyone hassles you, tell them to call Inspector Cahill." He nodded and vanished. "Ok," Ted was saying on the speaker phone. "I'll have the short last faxed over. What are you going to do with it?" Mulder pointed at his chest. "The FBI is going to take that list and try to pick our asshole's next victim." There was a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. Mulder shrugged. "One last thing, Ted. And I mean it this time," Alex said slowly. "Do you have any idea on the perp? Any idea at all? Gut feeling? Suspicion? Anything?" A very long pause this time. "No," he finally said. "I've been wracking my brain. We already did some quiet checks on some ex-Marshals, especially people in the systems security divisions. Everyone has alibis for the times in question. As far as I can tell, we're clean." Alex studied Mulder's face. The man was a human lie detector. After a moment, Mulder nodded. "Ok, Tim, thanks. I'll be looking for that fax." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Federal Plaza Tim Everett hung up the phone and gently placed his forehead on his desk. "Shit," he moaned. "Shit. Shit. Shit." He should have known. He'd made the decision to release the files to the FBI hackers in a hotel bathroom with a naked, sweaty reporter on the other side of the door. Not the best time to make intelligent, well-thought-out decisions. So now what? The first temptation was to kick the problem upstairs. When he had been the Assistant Chief Deputy Marshal, "upstairs" had been the man that sat behind the desk that Everett himself now occupied. Now he was "Upstairs," because the idea of kicking this problem to Washington was laughable. Everett could just the discussion. "Yes, sir, I allowed the hackers employed by the FBI to enter the most secure law enforcement database in the country, and not only that, released the full list of protected witnesses in New York City and the surrounding counties. Now...there's a teeeeeeeeeny little problem." As if. Talk about a career-limiting-move. More like a prison-inviting move. So, the only thing to do was print the list. Shit. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Back at the house, Dupree was in front of the computers, having given up on staking out Yuki for the day. A man in a car on a sunny day didn't attract nearly as much attention as that same man in that same car on a rainy day. Dupree was in the WITSEC database. Which is why he saw Tim Everett's job running in the job list. Dupree felt his heart freeze in his chest when he saw the parameters Tim was using to select records from the database. They knew. Somehow, they knew. There was only one option. Dupree began typing. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Federal Plaza "What the...?" Everett asked. He looked at the screen. On it, a small gray box was centered on the screen. "Error 47:Unable to retrieve record. Retry?" Beneath that were two buttons, one labeled "OK," and the other "Cancel." Tim clicked OK. The message vanished for a moment and then reappeared. Everett clicked OK again. Again the message vanished only to reappear. Tim yanked the phone to his ear and punched four numbers. "Campion," Dave answered. "It's Tim. What's an error 47?" "What file?" Dave asked distractedly. "WITSECDB1," Tim answered. "WHAT?" Campion shouted. "Hold on!" There was the sound of furious typing in the background. "Oh shit...shit shit shit shit," Campion muttered. "This is NOT good..." "What?" "Get down here, Tim. Now." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= One Police Plaza The phone interrupted the discussion between Alex, Scully and Mulder about the coverage patterns they would employ once Tim Everett faxed over the list of potentials. "Cahill," Alex said, punching the speaker phone. "Uh..Alex?" Ted. "What's up, Ted? Send that list yet?" "Uh...there's a problem." Alex turned away from the map and faced the phone, hands on hips. "What of problem, Tim?" "The bad kind." Is there a good kind of problem? Mulder wondered. "Who's in the room with you?" Everett asked. "Mulder, FBI profiler, Scully, who you met and myself. No one else." "We have a serious problem. The intruder is in the system as we speak, and he's deleting the database." Mulder's hand flew to his phone. He dialed the safe house number quickly and began giving instructions to Frohike. "So?" Alex asked, "restore from the backup." "That's not possible," Everett said woodenly. "Why not?" "Well...it is, and it isn't. Here's the problem, as far as I can make sense of it. My systems guy, Dave Campion -- you met him, remember? Anyway...what's happened is that the intruder, the UNSUB, I guess, has put something in the system. Whenever we try to restore from backup, it automatically starts deleting the records." "So use a clean machine," Alex said. "We tried that, Alex! Don't you think we tried that?" "So what happens?" "There's...a fail safe, I guess. Some kind of semaphore-" "What?" "Ok, like the flags? A semaphore is fancy way of saying a flag. Think of it as a light switch. It's either on or off, right? Well, the software has been...altered. As far as we can tell, the way he did it is this...if the flag is present, and it's in the "on" state, then nothing happens. If it's NOT present, OR it's in the "off" state, then it starts deleting records. Since we don't know what the flag is, we can't change it. It's a Trojan horse program. We'll be able to track it down...but not for a while." "What's a while?" "There's over two hundred thousand individual files on the system in question, totaling about sixteen gigabytes. As far as my system guy can figure, only one bit of one byte needs to be different. We'll have to do a bit-by-bit comparison and analysis before we can uncover the problem." Scully sighed and shook her head. This idiot was always one step ahead. Mulder was still on the phone. Alex nodded at the speaker phone. "Fine. Do you have any paper records of the thirty-two?" "No. No names. Just the selection criteria, the formula we used to narrow the list." Mulder waved his hand frantically, trying to get Alex's attention. He pointed at the phone and then at himself. "Can you fax that selection criteria over?" Alex asked. Mulder nodded furiously, smiling, glad that Alex had understood. "Sure...you've got the master list," Ted said, getting it. "Do me a favor, Alex. Guard that list with your life. As of right now, that's the only functioning copy of the data." "Got it," Cahill said, disconnecting the call with a punch of a finger. "Ok, once we get the selection criteria, we can have your people run it against their database. It'll slow us down a bit, but not much." Mulder had a finger in his ear, struggling to hear Frohike. "Holy shit," he said. "Do you guys have a secure fax? Encrypted?" He hesitated. "Sorry," he said. "I should have known." He covered the phone. "They broke the image. It's a picture." "Of what?" Scully asked. "The suspect," Mulder said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Safehouse Alex's unmarked screeched to a halt outside the safehouse, the red bubble light still flashing. Three doors opened as Cahill, Mulder and Scully poured out and pounded up the steps. Frohike was waiting for them. "This is what we found," he said, pointing at the monitor. A man stared back at them. He was seated behind a desk, squinting at the camera. The picture was fuzzy, but there was something about the picture, something that Mulder couldn't quite put his finger on. "This is our guy," Mulder said, nodding to himself. "How can you be sure?" Scully asked. "It could be the next victim." Mulder opened his mouth to argue and then closed it. He took a breath and then nodded. "Ok, let's be sure. My gut tells me this is our guy. Call Tim Everett and see if he has a photographic database of the-" "We do, and we did," Frohike announced. "He's not in the database." Glancing at Scully, obviously not eager to disagree with her in front of anyone, he added, "I'll have to go with Mulder on this one. This is our guy." Alex nodded. After a moment, Scully smiled. "OK. He's our guy. Now what?" "Television, newspapers-" Alex started. "No," Mulder said. It was his I-will-be-obeyed voice. Alex stopped, obviously annoyed. "Ok, Mr. FBI Man...what?" "This," he said, pointing at the screen, "is our secret weapon. We have the thirty two names. We know who the Marshals think he's going to strike next. We have his picture. We can stake him out and grab him. We have sixteen detectives, plus Scully, myself, you, and these three. That's twenty two. We only need ten more detectives, good ones, to stake out the rest. Use the Major Cases First Grades from Manhattan North and Manhattan South. That will let us cover every potential. We find him, we trail him, we grab him up. If we broadcast this, he'll go deep, and we'll never find him in New York." "What makes you say that?" Alex wanted to know. Mulder shrugged, shook his head and then shrugged again. "I don't know how to explain it...it's just..." He was unable to finish. Scully put a hand on his arm. "How long," she wanted to know, "will it take for you to figure out who's next from the thirty-two possibles?" Mulder shrugged. "Depends on how long it takes for me to get through the files." "Well," Alex said, "time to get to work." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Mulder paced the small room, his mind whirling. Hungry, on the prowl, looking to get fed, he thought. The monster is stalking the populace, hungry, eager, watching. Has he picked a victim yet? Yes. After Strimnovitch, he would want to make sure this time. Make sure that he had the time and the privacy to do what he needed to do. Which meant that the next victim would somehow be isolated. No close neighbors. Which meant a private house. Which ruled out Manhattan. Eleven names came off the list of thirty two. Mulder placed their folders in a neat stack on one corner of a long table. Twenty one-names left. Male or female? Nine female names, Twelve male. White? Black? Asian? Hispanic? Other? Other was removed -- there were no witnesses classified as "other." There were fifteen white, four black, two Asian. Leon King and Danielle Jones were both black. Jack Nelson and Strimnovitch were white. Tony Montoya was Italian/American, white if you wanted him to be. He needed another woman, Mulder thought, moving the twelve men aside for a moment. Nine female names left. White or black or Asian? Two Asian, three black and four white. Mulder sat down and began examining the nine files in detail. He was halfway through the first file when Scully quietly let herself into the room. Moving over to the table, she wasn't surprised that Mulder didn't notice her. He was making notes on a yellow legal pad, chewing his bottom lip in concentration. "Hey," she said softly. He straightened and stretched, smiling at her. "Hey." "How's it going?" "Got it narrowed down to nine." Scully nodded. "Which nine?" "The women." She paled. "You think he's going to take a woman next?" Mulder nodded. "But don't ask me why. I just do." Scully shrugged. "I trust you, Mulder." And not just about this case, she thought. "I'll leave you alone," she said, turning towards the door. "Stay," Mulder said, surprised that he had. Equally surprised, Scully stopped. "Are you sure?" "Yeah," Mulder said after a long moment. "I could use someone to bounce some ideas off of." Someone? Scully thought. "I could use you," Mulder finished, as if reading her mind. "Sure," Scully replied, taking a seat. "I don't think it's going to be a black woman. So that takes four women off the list. Two Asians, four white women." "He hasn't done a white woman or an Asian woman yet," Scully observed. Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I know. That occurred to me. But Jack Nelson and Strimnovitch were both white, so he has repeated himself that way. And King and Jones were both black, so he's repeated that way, too." "Montoya was white." Mulder see-sawed his hand. "We can go both ways with that. If you say Montoya is white, then Strimnovitch could be classified as a White Russian. My gut tells me that Montoya is...somehow outside of all the other classifications --- or Strimnovitch is." "Either way," Scully said, grasping his logic, "he's going to do a woman that's not black." Mulder nodded. "So, a white woman or an Asian woman. That leave us with six possibles. That's a hell of a lot less than eleven million, and a bit less than thirty-two." Mulder turned his attention back to the file he'd been reading when Scully had arrived. Scully grabbed one of the free files and began reading. +=+=+=+= "Well, we're down to two. Yuki Tanaka and Crystal Lowry." "What's Lowry's deal?" "Girlfriend of a crystal meth and weapons dealer." "Tanaka?" "Wife, excuse me, widow, of a Yakuza gangster that tried to arm half the gangs in Los Angeles and Chicago with enough heavy-duty armament to start World War Three." "Specifics?" "Yuki lives in Staten Island, on a rather large lot with a big house. Lowry is living in the upstairs of a two-family house in Queens, working as a medical transcriptionist. Yuki is living off life insurance money from her late husband." Scully nodded. "Coin flip?" "No," Mulder said, deciding. "Yuki. Don't ask me why. I feel it in my bones." Scully stood, palms flat on the table. "How long?" Mulder shrugged. "Tonight, tomorrow." Scully nodded again. "Ok, let's get moving." +=+=+=+= It was finally decided to approach Yuki as obliquely as possible. Having ESU's Five-Truck, six REPs, squad cars by the dozen and a few unmarked cars assaulting a quiet Staten Island neighborhood was considered bad form by many, except Chief Zolinski who favored the overwhelming-force approach. Detective First Grade Sam Cross dressed as a Consolidated Edison meter-reader; an NYPD-owned panel truck that had been painted ConEd blue for such eventualities was requisitioned from the Central Vehicle Yard. Sam Cross drove to Staten Island and parked the van. Beginning six doors away, he strode up the front walk and knocked on the door. Five seconds later, he realized the mistake he'd made. "Yes?" the woman of the house asked. "ConEd, Ma'am," Cross said. "Here to read the meter." She frowned, moving behind the door as if to block his entry. "I don't understand. ConEd was here a week ago." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree spotted the ConEd van the moment it had turned the corner. It had stopped raining four hours ago. After deleting the WITSEC database, Dupree had decided to take Yuki as soon as possible. Frowning, he turned to the laptop on the seat next to him and quickly began typing keys. In moments, he had his answer. According to the ConEd computer, all the meters in this subdivision had been read nine days ago. Which meant that unless there was an open repair order for a house on this block, or an active trouble-ticket for a gas leak or something of that nature...the van was a decoy. No open trouble-ticket, and no repair orders. Dupree had the car started and moving seconds later. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Can I see some identification?" the woman asked. Cross heard the engine start behind him and resisted the almost overwhelming temptation to turn around. He knew it was Dupree, and he knew that they blown it. "Police," Cross announced, carefully showing the woman his shield and ID Card. "NYPD, Ma'am. Can I please come in?" "Of course," she said, stepping back. Cross smiled and stepped inside, allowing the woman to close the door behind her. "Can I use your phone please?" he asked. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "GODDAMIT!" Cahill screamed. They were in her unmarked unit, parked twelve blocks away in the lot of a Dunkin Doughnuts. She covered the cell with her hand. "He made us. We forgot about the computers! The damn computers!" "What?" Mulder asked, and then got it. "Goddamit." He paused. "Ok...pull Cross back. Tell him to meet us at the house." Cahill nodded. "Sam, 96 us back at One PP." "Ten-four, boss," Sam said, and hung up. "Next. Put someone, preferably two teams, on Yuki, twenty-four- seven until further notice. Better yet, move her if you can." Cahill nodded. "You think he'll come back for her?" "Only as a last resort," Mulder said after a moment. "If he has no other choice, he'll come back for her. But by that time, he'll be so far on the edge that there's no telling how many more people he'd take at the same time." Cahill grunted. She could feel things turning to shit. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= A badly shaken Mark Dupree drove aimlessly around Staten Island, wondering how far the police's penetration of his identity had succeeded. Had they decrypted the image file? Did they know his name? His REAL name? Think, he commanded himself. Think the problem through. Problems, he amended. More than one. Fact: The NYPD, in conjunction with the FBI, had managed to identify his next chosen. That meant not only that they had the list, but they had some insight as to how he was picking them. Maybe not the exact formula, as it were, but enough to narrow the list down. That was not good. Fact: They had tried to surround him and arrest him. Once the detective in the ConEd uniform had made him, it would have been impossible to get off the Island in the rental car. Every police car, marked and unmarked, van, truck, helicopter, boat and any other possible description of a police vehicle would have been looking for him in an instant. And once they had you from the air -- they had you. That was also not good. His mind still churning, Dupree returned the rental car and hailed a cab. Taking the cab to midtown, he spent the entire ride going over possible scenarios in his head, desperately trying to determine his next move. A thought occurred. He opened his laptop, connected the cellular modem, and quickly logged onto a system that he knew had a trusted relationship with another, far more secure computer. He exploited the security hole and was soon scanning expense reports. FBI expense reports. He found several that looked interesting and started to take notes. After viewing half a dozen of them, it was obvious that the FBI forced their agents to use their own credit cards for hotels, rental cars and meals, and then reimbursed them at a later date. Which meant that the sixteen-digit numbers that appeared on these credit cards belonged to either Special Agent "F. Mulder" or Special Agent "D. Scully, MD." Quickly disconnecting, Dupree dialed another computer and began scanning recent charges to those particular accounts. Which is how he was able, in a manner of minutes, to obtain the name of the hotel that Mulder and Scully were staying in. Perfect. Time to up the ante. Dupree spent almost an hour circling his block in the cab, looking for signs that he'd been made, that his house was under surveillance. Finding none, and realizing that his built-in antenna for trouble was not signaling him, he paid the cabbie and quickly entered his house, triple-locking the door behind him. He had plans to make. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Yuki Tanaka was approached by six very burly NYPD ESU officers and two very nice, very gentle, very diplomatic Major Case Squad Detectives from the Staten Island Borough command. Alex had realized that if she wanted to make full Inspector (and later, Chief,) she had to pay certain political prices, and one of those prices was not to operate on other people's turf without a) notifying them, and b) when possible, letting them play along. So the six burly ESU officers were from Five Truck, the major ESU unit assigned to Staten Island. Shortly after the call to the Borough commander for ESU, another one went out to the Captain commanding the Staten Island MCS, and a quick discussion was held. Yuki was transported to Westchester County. All eight NYPD officers accompanying here were in plainclothes. Two of the six ESU officers carried silenced, short versions of the traditional Heckler and Koch MP5 automatic rifle; another two were armed with Witness Protection Shotguns, and the final two were each armed with high-capacity .45 caliber pistols. They had each undergone the Executive and Diplomatic Protection Training offered by the Secret Service and the Diplomatic Protection Service of the US State Department, and were eager to put their training to use. Not many dignitaries visited Staten Island. With that taken care of, Mulder breathed a little easier. It would frustrate his UNSUB, and that was good. Sitting in Cahill's office with Detectives Cross and Hicks, as well as Cahill herself, Chief Zolinski and Scully, Mulder was staring at the map of the city on the wall opposite Cahill's desk when he had a sudden thought. "Do we have any female Asian officers, preferably detectives, or failing that, uniformed members of at least ten years service?" "No," Zolinski said. "And if we did, I wouldn't tell you. We are NOT doing a decoy operation." "Chief," Cahill said, a warning tone in her voice. She was more than aware that Zolinski was highly pissed at Mulder. Zolinski blamed the handsome FBI agent for blowing the arrest of the UNSUB. Zolinski had wanted to swarm Yuki's house with as much ESU muscle as could be spared. Mulder had overridden his decision, and Zolinski wasn't about to forget it. "Yes," she said to Mulder. "We have female Asian officers. Do you think a decoy operation is a good idea?" "Not sure. It depends on how close the UNSUB got to her. Have the Staten Island MCS guys interrogate her...gently, please...and find out if anyone has come to the door in the past...oh, seventy-two hours. If so, get a sketch artist down there pronto. Do NOT show her the sketch we have under any circumstances. I don't want your guys prompting her to give an answer that isn't truthful. If we get a hit on that, then the decoy operation is a waste. If he just sat and watched, which is what my gut is telling me, we might be able to pull it off." "How?" Zolinski asked pointedly. "This UNSUB, as you call him, I call him an asshole...anyway, this made Cross sixty yards away. I know Cross. Cross is a good cop. A great cop. If he can make Cross that far away, what's to stop him from spotting the decoy operation and the backup?" Mulder turned, the smile on his face cold, hard, distant. "Two things," he said. "First, there will be no external support. No unmarked cars parked on the block. No communications van parked six blocks away. No helicopters hovering off the house or over the water with FLIRs pointed on the target. There will only be three backups, all inside the house, and all inserted in the dead of night with the help of the US Government." "Putting aside for the moment the fact that I will absolutely forbid the plan you just outlined, how on Earth do you intend to insert three officers into a house in the...what did you say... dead of night?" Mulder looked away, out the window at the street below. "Chief," he said softly, "perhaps you and I should speak privately." Zolinski glanced at Cahill and her two detectives, and then at Scully. Then he nodded at Mulder's back. "Perhaps we should," he said, standing, moving to the door. "I believe interrogation room "C" is available?" Mulder, hands on hips, turned and followed Zolinski out of Cahill's office. Scully and Alex glanced at each other, both of them aching to follow Mulder. They waited for the door to close behind Mulder and then began talking. "Ok, talk to me," Alex said to Dana. "What does Mulder have up his sleeve?" Scully shrugged. "I don't know for sure. He hasn't discussed it with me." "What's your gut say?" Alex asked. Scully took a deep breath. "If Zolinski keeps giving him shit, Mulder will federalize the investigation, effectively removing you both from the chain of command and the decision-making process. Once that's done, he'll alert FBI HRT and have them insert you, me and him into the house via a UH-60D Blackhawk helicopter from the Special Missions Wing at Langly Air Force Base." "A what?" Scully shrugged. "Basically, a very quiet helicopter. If you weren't looking out the window, you wouldn't know that one had landed in your driveway. Very quiet." Alex sighed and slumped. "Shit. If he threatens Zolinski with that, this is all going to go to shit in a heartbeat. Zolinski is really, really sensitive to turf and jurisdictional issues. He's not above calling in favors from some judges he knows." "If they're not federal judges-" Scully started. "They are," Alex said, interrupting. "He's spent a lifetime, a career, gathering favors. He could have an injunction with a phone call barring the FBI from...God only knows what." Scully doubted that. Mulder would call Skinner, and Skinner... Skinner would do what had to be done, as he always did. It would turn into a local-federal pissing contest, and as always, the feds would win. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Zolinski slammed the door shut and turned to face Mulder. "Listen to me, you little-" Mulder stepped into his space, backing the Chief up against the door he had just slammed. "No," Mulder said, his voice low, dangerous. "You listen to ME, Chief. There is no fucking way I'm going to allow a jurisdictional bullshit pissfight from arresting this asshole. Call around. Ask about me. I don't care about making a huge stink. I don't care about my career. You can't threaten me, because you can't take anything away from me that I haven't already had taken. You keep fucking with me, and I'll federalize this investigation in a heartbeat, and that will cut you and your department out of the equation neatly and cleanly." Mulder pointed a finger at Zolinski's chest and jabbed. "Do NOT fuck with me on this." He stepped away, giving the man some space. "You'd do that, wouldn't you, you son of a-" "Go ahead, say it. I've heard it all, and I've probably said worse about her." Zolinski chewed his lip and wondered if he should play his trump card. Fuck it, he decided. "So...what? You call your bosses in Washington and some magical piece of paper appears telling me and my men to get fucked? That the all-mighty FBI is taking over the investigation?" Mulder nodded. "What do you think your superiors would say if I showed them evidence that you were fucking that pretty little partner of yours." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Zolinski knew he'd made a mistake. Zolinski had been a NYPD officer for close to forty years. He'd started as a street cop, breaking up drunk barfights. He'd served in almost every single division of the department, including Homicide, ESU, Intelligence, the Detective Bureau and Organized Crime. He'd seen killers before. He knew the difference between some poor asshole who had gotten caught up in something he didn't understand and the real, true, hardcore killers. He'd seen the Chinese Tong warriors imported from Beijing and Xi Xang, kids barely into their teens with the flat, dead eyes of the true sociopathic killer. He'd seen Organization guys, button-men who made their money waxing people at the slightest whim of some capo. He'd seen it all. None of that had prepared him for Mulder. Pinning Zolinski with his eyes, Mulder stepped back into his space. "First of all," he said softly, almost whispering, his hot breath teasing the fine hairs on Zolinski's face, "we call it making love, not fucking. You may fuck your wife, Chief, but I make love to mine." "You're not marr-" Zolinski started to say. Mulder's head moved a fraction of an inch to the side, the annoyance at being interrupted and corrected obvious on his face. He held up a single finger as if to say, "Ah!" "Second," Mulder continued, "You may not be used to dealing with the VICAP RT squads. And I know you're not used to dealing with Special Agent Scully and myself. Do you know that our solve rate is almost ninety percent?" "That's impossible!" Mulder shrugged. "And our closure rate is almost ninety-five percent. Do you know what that means?" Zolinski shook his head. "That means that the FBI not only knows that Scully and I are... the way we are...but that it's condoned at the highest levels. The FBI is just like any other federal agency, Zolinski. They feed at the trough of the almighty federal appropriation. As long as Scully and I continue to solve cases, we could screw on your desk and they wouldn't say boo." Zolinski felt his stomach knotting, felt the moist, liquid sensation in his bowels and realized that he was actually afraid of Mulder. Very afraid. Zolinski was nothing if not a political animal, and a astute one at that. "What do you need from me?" Mulder stepped back and shrugged. "We're going to back into Alex's office. You're going to scream and yell at me, tell me you don't like it, it's dangerous, it's not policy. In front of the entire squad, you're going to ream me a new asshole. And then, and only then, after you have...preserved your ability to command this squad and this department will you capitulate to my desires. Scully, Cahill and I, depending on the results of the interview with our potential victim, will be inserted into Tanaka's house late tonight. After you leave here, Chief, I'd appreciate it if you'd expedite the matter of locating a suitable Asian officer for this assignment. That's one less thing for us to do." Zolinski nodded, grateful that Mulder was tossing him the chew-out bone. And he hated himself for being so grateful. "You'd have made a great cop," Zolinski said. Mulder's eyes zeroed in on Zolinski's. "I a great cop, Chief. I just wear a suit." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The chew-out went as planned. Alex watched with wide eyes as Zolinski ranted and raved, pacing back and forth, shouting and waving his arms. It was an Oscar-caliber performance. In the end, as everyone in the room knew he would, he gave in and granted Mulder's wishes. "All we need now is a call from the Staten Island guys and a suitable cop," Cahill pointed out. She was already planning her promotion ceremony. She knew that if she pulled this off, if she were the lone NYPD arresting officer when this asshole went down, the Sixteenth Floor would have no choice but to promote her to full Inspector. "I'll get you a body," Zolinski said, storming out of the office. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Two hours later, the deal was done. Officer Amy Chin, who was almost an exact double for Yuki Tanaka, was selected from the rolls of active NYPD officers. Assigned to the Sixth Precinct in the East Village, she received a radio message to report forthwith to One Police Plaza, in civilian clothes, with her sidearm for a special assignment not to last longer than 30 days. Mulder called Skinner and explained his needs. Skinner called the DLO, Defense Liaison Office, and explained that a classified project within the FBI required the assignment of one UH-60D Blackhawk from the Special Missions Branch of the 222nd Special Operations Wing, United States Air Force. It was agreed that the helicopter and its crew would transit immediately from Langly Air Force Base, Virginia, to the New York State Police Heliport in Armonk, New York as soon as possible. A follow-up call was made to the Commander, Areo Support Division, New York State Police in Albany, requesting the cooperation of the New York State Police. Access was approved, and the helicopter departed Virginia for its three-hour flight North. A KC-131E tanker was scrambled out of Olmstead Air Force Base to refuel the chopper in flight. Officer Chin was brought up to speed. Yuki Tanaka had been adamant than no one had knocked on her door or approached within 500 feet of her house in the last seventy-two hours. It was decided that the UNSUB had been watching her from afar and had not made his approach yet. The decision was made to insert the team of four. Scully, Mulder, Cahill, Chin and Cross drove up to Armonk to wait for the USAF UH-60D. It arrived just past seven at night. Cross and Mulder loaded the chopper with the equipment they would need: night vision goggles, body armor, automatic weapons, the works. It was decided that instead of making the four rappel out of the helicopter, the STABO harness would be used, allowing the pilot to gently place them in the backyard of the house with equal parts skill and precision. At eight O'clock, Mulder decreed that it was time to move out. The four cops loaded themselves into the chopper for the nineteen-minute ride to the target. It was further decided to fly without running or collision lights, a violation of FAA peacetime regulations. Mulder noted in the pilot's logbook that he was taking personal responsibility for that decision. At six minutes after eight, the UH-60D lifted off the pad in Armonk, turned south and sped towards Staten Island. At seven minutes after eight, Mark Dupree picked the lock on the door of the hotel room currently registered to Special Agent D. Scully, MD, FBI, entered, shut the door behind him, and sat down to wait. Chapter 23 +=+=+=+=+= Mark Dupree closed the door and stood against it, glancing around the room. The first thing he noticed is that housekeeping had already visited for the day; the bed was made and turned down. Two small foil-wrapped chocolates rested gently on the pillow. Two drinking glasses rested next to a plastic ice bucket on a tray next to the television. Good, he thought. Very good. He moved through the room slowly, his eyes drooping closed, breathing in the scent of the woman, her presence, her energy. He moved to the end of the Queen-sized bed and sat. He frowned. Something was wrong, out of place, odd. Pursing his lips, Dupree looked around again, searching this time for what was missing instead of what was present. The room felt...abandoned. He looked at the bedside table. No pens or pencils, loose change, no discarded receipts, none of the flotsam and jetsam that he would have expected. Surely she couldn't be that obsessive-compulsive? Even the most die-hard neatnik left _some_ sign of habitation. He moved to the bathroom. Leaning down over the tub, he examined the complimentary bar of soap and tiny bottle of shampoo. Reaching out a finger, he wiped the soap wrapper. His finger came back dusty. Something was going on. Dupree returned to the room and stood, his senses alert, trying to feel if it was a trap. He spotted the connecting door and saw that it was slightly ajar. He walked over and stared at it. Drawing his pistol, Dupree used his free hand to gently nudge the door open. The connecting door on the other side was wide open, revealing the other room. And that was when Dupree put it all together. The other room was a shambles. Housekeeping had been there yet. The bed was mussed, there were clothes piled on the chair, and most significantly, a simple cotton bra was lying in a soft fabric ball at the foot of the bed. They were sleeping together, he realized. Lovers. Partners. Friends. How utterly perfect. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Staten Island The insertion was flawless. The USAF pilot came into a short hover and deployed the STABO harness, gently placing Scully, Mulder, Cahill and Chin in Tanaka's back yard. They hit the harness buckle releases and the chopper quickly, silently pulled away, leaving them alone. They moved into the house slowly, quietly, clearing it as quickly as they could. When they were sure they were alone, Mulder used hand signals to indicate what he wanted. Chin was to play the lady of the house. Mulder would situate himself in the living room, Scully in the bedroom, and Cahill in the upstairs hallway. They would only break noise discipline if they had a confirmed sighting of the UNSUB. Mulder had explained on the way over that it wasn't inconceivable that the UNSUB had the house under audio surveillance. They settled in to wait. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree wondered where the hell Scully and Mulder were. It was past midnight, and there had been no sign of them. His plan was simple yet direct; when they entered the room, he would shoot Mulder with the silenced ParaOrdnance, and then take Scully. She was small, petite, and would probably go without much of a struggle. As the wait mounted, Dupree felt himself growing antsy. The incomplete taking of Strimnovitch, and the bungled attempt on Tanaka had shaken him badly, had thrown him off his game. He needed to take a victim soon, and although the Scully woman was not a Chosen, she would relieve some of the stress he felt. He needed her. Badly. And she was nowhere to be found. He began exploring. Starting with the closet, Dupree went through everything. He found Scully's business suits hung neatly on the hotel hangers. Leaning close, he breathed her scent, bathing himself in it. The process had an unexpected effect; he was looking forward to taking the Scully woman more than he would have thought. The fact that he was in her room, touching her things, invading her space...it was arousing. He decided then and there to change his method of operation; in the future, when he picked a Chosen, he would get inside their houses, their apartments first and wait for them. He would do what he was doing now, going through their things, touching their clothes, running his fingers over their possessions. It would make the Taking that much the better. He found Scully's underwear drawer and ran his fingers through the silk and the lace, realizing with a thrill that these garments had been next to her, next to her naked body, against her fair, pale skin, touching the most intimate places she had. The image was wildly exciting. He moved to the adjoining room, needing more. He found what he was looking for in the bathroom, on the vanity next to the toilet. A small, wispy pair of panties. With trembling fingers he lifted them to his face, letting his breath out through his mouth before inhaling deeply with his nose. Her scent, her raw, female scent filled his nostrils. She had worn these recently, probably yesterday, and judging by the pungent odor, she had been highly aroused at some point while wearing them. Without thinking, Dupree stuck them in his pocket. Later, after the Taking, he could use the panties to remember this moment, this delicious anticipation. He would also take the panties she was wearing now. After all, he reasoned, she wouldn't be needing them anymore. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The sun peeked over the East River and bathed Gotham with pale, cold light. Mulder glanced at his watch and saw that it was just past six in the morning. He'd been wrong, he realized. The UNSUB wouldn't come back to Tanaka's house. He had sensed the trap, the danger, and had moved on to greener pastures. He might have a next victim lined up, and he might be stalking them now. He walked into the living room and called to Scully and Cahill. "We're done here." "You sure?" Cahill called. "Quite sure," Mulder said. "I underestimated him. I overreacted. I'm sorry." Cahill came down the stairs, cradling her MP5 carefully. "No problem," she said. "It was worth a shot. What next?" "Lowry," Scully announced, joining Cahill and Mulder downstairs. "That was Mulder's next choice for a victim." "Yeah," Mulder said. "But I may have been wrong about that." "Why? You were right on the money about Tanaka." He nodded. "Yes, but this asshole is so...good at what he does he might have figured out how I figured it out and he might have changed his selection process. That...or..." He trailed off, not wanting to give voice to his deepest fear. "What?" Scully asked. "He's an animal, Scully. He's hungry. He needs to feed. He might not be so discriminating for the next day or so. He may just take the first victim he can find that he thinks is safe. He needs to relieve the pressure." "Victim of opportunity," Cahill said. Mulder nodded. "It's possible. Hell, it's probable. And there's no way to predict what kind of victim he would chose." "So what now?" "Sleep," Mulder said. "I need about six hours, and then it's back to the files. I think you should get copies of the image Frohike cracked ready to go for the four-to-midnight roll call. Don't distribute them until I tell you to, but I think we may just have to resort to good, old-fashioned police work and hope some lucky uniform puts the arm on him." "You really think that's likely?" Scully asked. Mulder's expression answered her question. "Fine," she said, "let's go get some sleep." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree sat on Scully's bed with a Bible he'd found in the bedside table drawer. He had a highlighter he'd found in her briefcase in his other hand, and was busy underlining specific passages. He glanced at his watch. He had no idea where they were, but he'd had enough of waiting around. He needed to... Take someone. He felt the need, the hunger burning inside him and knew that if he didn't take care of it soon, he'd go insane with wanting. There would be time to take the Scully woman. He closed the bible and replaced it in the drawer, and then carefully put the highlighter back where he found it. Stopping at the door, he pressed his ear against it and listened for voices in the hallway. Hearing none, he opened the door, exited the room, and shut it carefully behind him. Turning right, he headed for the elevator. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully was incredibly tired. The adrenaline rush of being inside Tanaka's house was wearing off, and fast. All she wanted to think about was wrapping herself around Mulder for the next six hours and sleeping. They exited the elevator and turned left, heading towards the room. Scully stopped. Something was wrong. Mulder stopped beside her, his tired face asking the question he was too exhausted to voice aloud. Scully held up a hand, asking for silence. What was it? She'd heard a door shut just as the elevator doors had slid open. But...it was a hotel. Why would a shutting door set off her alarms? Because it didn't sound like a normal door, of course, she thought. So what was different? She glanced down the hallway and realized that the door that she'd heard shut was the door leading to the stairs. Why would someone use the stairs on the sixteenth floor? Shrugging, Scully continued walking towards Mulder's room. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree, gasping for breath, exploded through the door leading to the lobby. He glanced around, wondering if anyone had noticed him. No one seemed to pay him any attention, so he straightened his shoulders and headed for the exit. That had been close, he thought. Very close. Sure, it might not have been them, but the odds that someone returning to the hotel at that early hour being anyone but them were too close to risk. Dammit! So close, he thought. If I'd waited another five minutes... He shuddered with the thought of what might have happened if he'd been patient. Then he began to plan. What would they do next? Go to bed, get some sleep. They'd obviously been up all night, and with a sudden flash of insight, Dupree realized where they'd been. At Tanaka's. Waiting for him, probably with a decoy officer. Interesting. All sorts of interesting possibilities began running through his mind. Dupree stepped outside, hailed a cab and gave the driver an address six blocks from Tanaka's house. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully stood under the shower, running her hands through her hair. Mulder had declined her invitation to join her, and she was feeling more than a little grouchy that he had chosen instead to slip into bed instead of into the shower with her. Deciding that she was clean enough, Scully shut the water off and got out, reaching for a towel. Again, she froze. Something was wrong. She stood on the bathmat, naked and dripping, her eyes darting around. What was wrong? Her eyes rested on the vanity for a long, lingering moment. Nothing came to her. Shrugging, Scully realized that she was probably just tired, just imagining things. She dried herself quickly and slipped naked into bed with Mulder, gently curling herself around him. He mumbled in his sleep and turned to face her. They slept. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Staten Island Dupree stood back from the wall and studied his handiwork. Perfect, he thought. The hooker hadn't been that hard to find, and she hadn't minded accompanying Dupree to Tanaka's house. She had looked bored and distracted as Dupree had picked the lock. He'd explained to her that he'd lost his keys. She hadn't cared. But she had screamed. She was naked, tied to a chair in the living room. @ She had been gutted from her throat to the arch of her pubis. Her abdominal contents sat in a wet, bloody pile at her feet, the fat, moist loops of her intestines trailing down one leg. Her throat had been slashed from ear to ear. Had Dupree not been afraid of HIV and AIDS, he would have taken great pleasure in raping her before he'd killed her. # Written in blood across the living room wall was the message he wanted to send to the NYPD and FBI. It needed something more, Dupree decided. He stepped to the corpse and dipped his finger in her blood, then moved to the wall. He touched the wall three times with his finger, making two eyes and a nose. Then, dipping his finger again in her blood, Dupree drew a half-moon shape beneath the nose. A perfect smiley face. Moving to the kitchen, Dupree washed his hands, checked his clothes to make sure he didn't have any telltale bloodstains on them, and left. Heading back to Manhattan. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully turned over in her sleep, casting one arm around Mulder's back. He snuggled into her, mumbling in his sleep. Always a light sleeper, working on the X-Files had made that condition slightly worse. Scully was sensitive to the smallest sounds, and they always caused her to wake. Which is why she heard her hotel room door opening. Housekeeping, she thought, and sighed. She listened with half an ear, wondering what they were going to do, since she hadn't slept in the room in days. Three minutes later, Scully woke up with a start. Something was wrong. She realized two things almost simultaneously. First, what had been wrong in the bathroom. Her panties. She had placed them there earlier yesterday, just before getting into the shower with Mulder. They were gone. Mulder might have had a lot of faults, but she thought stealing her panties was a bit beyond him. And the second thought, right on the heels of the first, was that the "housekeeper" next door was moving very quietly. Almost too quietly. And there weren't any cleaning sounds; no vacuum cleaner, no movement noises, no sound of the sheets being changed. Nothing. Scully rolled out of bed, took four steps to the dresser and reached for her pistol. An odd thought ran through her mind. I'm going to have to actually put in my report that I arrested a serial killer stark naked after sliding out of my partner's bed. should raise some eyebrows at the Hoover building. Scully took a step towards her room, and felt the hair on the back of her neck standing up. Without knowing why, she threw herself down and to the right, away from the door, towards the bed. Four shots exploded through the door. Forty-five, Scully thought. It's him. "FBI!" she called, popping up, bringing the front sight blade of her pistol up and centering on the door. "Freeze!" Mulder was awake in an instant, rolling out of bed and reaching for his own pistol at the same time. They heard the door to Scully's room slam shut. Scully had taken two steps towards Mulder's door before he caught her. "Whoa.." he said. "You're not dressed." She looked down at herself and blushed. "Goddamit!" Mulder reached for the phone, punching "0." "Front desk," a voice answered. "Security, please. This is an emergency." "Sir, can you hold? I'm getting a lot of-" "Put me through to security, NOW!" Mulder demanded. "Yes, sir," the operator said, snippily. The phone rang seven times before a sleepy voice answered. "Security." Mulder realized that there was nothing that Hotel Security could do. If he gave them a description of the UNSUB, and they tried to put the arm on him, the UNSUB wouldn't hesitate to shoot them dead. "Never mind," he said, reaching down and disconnecting the call. He dialed Alex's home number from memory. "Cahill," she answered sleepily. "It's Mulder. Our UNSUB just paid Scully a visit." "WHAT THE FUCK?" "Calm down," Mulder said. "He didn't know that she was sleeping with me in here. He shot through the connecting door. We're both fine. We need a crime scene unit over here ASAP, and you might want to send someone to Tanaka's house just to be sure he hasn't gone there." "What makes you think he has?" "I would," Mulder shrugged, and hung up. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= There is perhaps no finer forensics unit in the world than the New York City Police Department's Crime Scene Unit. They went over Scully's hotel room with the proverbial fine tooth comb, vacuum cleaner, videotape camera, tweezers and magnifying glass. It took them no time at all to find the Bible in her bedside table. Bagging it, they brought it into the next room where Mulder, Scully and Cahill waited. "Did you underline these passages?" the technician asked, offering the book to Scully. She took it and shook her head. "No, I haven't opened a Bible in ages." "I need a breakdown of all passages highlighted, as soon as possible. I want it by page number, line number, starting character number, character widths minus spaces. Questions?" Mulder asked. "No, sir," the technician said. "It might take a while. It looks like he did quite a bit." "Put as many men on it as you need," Cahill ordered. "Yes, ma'am," the CSU tech said, vanishing back into Scully's room. Mulder grabbed his cellphone and dialed. "Yo," Frohike answered. "Start using Bibles against the ELS code," Mulder ordered. "Every version you can lay your hands on. Other sacred texts, too, but only the major ones. Get on it." He hung up without a further word. "You think he's using the bible?" Mulder nodded. "Religiously motivated murders are not exactly unheard of as far as serial killers go. I think he may be using a..." He trailed off. "Mulder?" Scully asked. "Bible code," Mulder said. He smacked his forehead. "I don't fucking believe it!" he shouted. "What?" Cahill asked. "The Bible Code!" Mulder said, glancing between the two women. "Don't you get it? The BIBLE CODE!" "What is the Bible Code?" Cahill asked. Mulder sat down on the bed, his mouth open in abject amazement. "Ok. See, about five or six years ago these Israeli mathematicians noticed that if you do an ELS search on the first five books of the old Hebrew bible, certain...things appear. According to them, predictions about the future were made in those books." "That's absurd," Scully said. "Well, no, Scully. This time I'll have to disagree." "This time?" Scully teased. "Anyway...here's the deal. See, the Bible we all use...or, anyway, you Christens use...different churches use different versions, different interpretations. And those have been edited, changed, updated over the past few thousand years. But this is the important part, the reason that makes the Bible Code so important...the first five books of the Bible, in the original Hebrew...haven't changed for over six thousand years. Every word, every character, every symbol is exactly as it appeared from the beginning. Not a single word has been changed. And according to the experts, it predicted Hitler and the Gulf War and Nixon and all kinds of other things." "Predicted the Gulf War?" Scully asked. "Not by name, but by year." "Year?" "In Hebrew, numbers are...just like letters. They use words for numbers in ancient Hebrew. The year and the location of the Gulf War were predicted in the Hebrew Old Testament, Scully. I read the reports myself." "And this is...accepted?" "A NSA cryptologist ran a statistical model against the logic that the Israelis used. He wouldn't vouch for the accuracy of the predictions, but he did say that the math was perfect. They weren't cooking the books, pardon the pun, or playing with the numbers. The math was solid." "Is it like a Magic Eight Ball?" Scully asked. "You know, like a horoscope? Vague enough to be interpreted as you see fit?" "How about this?" Mulder said. "The fall of Russian communism was predicted." "That's insane," Scully said. "There were no such things as communists when the Bible was written." Mulder held up a finger. "Remember, Scully...ELS. The words were encoded like a crossword-puzzle. The only time the word "Communist" appears in the Bible, "the fall of" and "Russian" is encoded with it. It's there. I've read the report." Scully frowned, obviously still needing convincing. "See," Mulder said, "Look at Jerusalem. The most fought-over city in history, from the time King David conquered it and the Babylonians burned it, and the Romans destroyed it, and Crusaders laid siege to it, down through 3000 years of bloody history until Israel took it back in 1967. "Only one world capitol is encoded anywhere in the Bible with either the words "World War" or "atomic holocaust." And that word is "Jerusalem." "But-" Scully said. Mulder held up his hand. "The name of the city is hidden in a single verse of the Bible. "Jerusalem" is encoded within God's threat to punish Israel down through history." Mulder closed his eyes, remembering. "I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sins of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me." Impressed, Cahill watched as Mulder continued to explain. "Your city is to be destroyed by an act of terrorism" crosses "atomic holocaust," Mulder said. "And the target is confirmed in an ancient prophecy of the Apocalypse, one found intact in the Dead Sea Scrolls." "The Dead Sea Scrolls are over twenty-five hundred years old!" Scully protested. Mulder snapped his fingers. "Exactly, Scully. In the Book of Isaiah, it says, "Woe to you, Ariel, Ariel, the city where David settled!" Ariel is an old Biblical name for Jerusalem. The siege that reduces that city to quote "dust" is pretty...extreme," Mulder said. "Suddenly," he quoted from memory, "in an instant, the Lord Almighty will come with thunder and earthquake and great noise, with windstorm and tempest and flames of a devouring fire." "You...remember all that?" Cahill asked. Scully nodded. "Photographic memory," she said absently, studying Mulder's face. "You're amazing," she announced. "Only if I'm right," Mulder replied. His phone chirped. "Mulder." "Frohike. You're amazing." "I keep hearing that," Mulder said. "You got a hit?" "Old Hebrew Bible. All five, although some are stretches. Tanaka was a biiiig stretch. So was Strimnovitch, but not if you accept his name as John, the Anglo version of Ivan. The rest...Mulder, more often than not the ELS crosses the name of the victim with either "whore" or some variant of it, like "harlot" or "prostitute" or "thief." Mulder closed his eyes. "I was right," he said softly, to the room. "The victim's names are crossed with other words, significant words." Scully shook her head. My mother, she thought, always told me that I'd meet and fall in love with an interesting man. If she only knew... "So now what?" Cahill asked, impatient. "How can we exploit this?" "Lowry," Mulder said. "Frohike, find the name "Crystal Lowry" in the Bible and find me everything you can on it. Call me when you do." He hung up. "We're going to Lowry's house. We're going to get her out of there, and then we're going to leave a message for our little UNSUB." "Like what?" "We're going to leave his little ELS code on the wall with a print of the image he sent us tacked right next to it." "Is that wise?" Scully asked, concerned. "It's our only move. And we're also going to leave another message," he said, dialing the phone again. "Frohike, Mulder. I have a big one for you. I want you to find an ELS in the bible that has my name, or Scully's name, or Alex's name, and the message "KILLER" and "CAPTURE" or "ARREST". Send me the ELS details when you do." He hung up again. Cahill's radio came to life. "M-Mike ...Eight," she radioed back, still unaccustomed to her new call sign. "M-Mike Two, Eight. You and your two friends need to respond here forthwith. We have a...package." "Is it spoiled?" Alex asked, knowing that Cross would understand what she meant. "Ten-Four on that, Eight. VERY spoiled." "We're on the way," Alex radioed back. "They found a body in the Tanaka house," she explained. "Aw, shit," Mulder said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Staten Island They surveyed the scene. "My God," Alex said softly. "He butchered her." Mulder nodded, distracted, reading the message on the wall. He dialed the phone. "Frohike, Mulder. Yeah, yeah, I know you're working on it. Do you have a spare machine to run one through?" Mulder read the ELS code the UNSUB had written on the wall. A moment later it came back. "MURDER" and "FOX" right off...and below that, on the right "RED DEATH." "Thanks, Frohike," Mulder said, and hung up. "Well, he's obviously pissed off, and that makes him even more dangerous." "More dangerous than this?" Alex said, indicating the victim. "Yeah, I'm sorry to say. He's...evolving." Mulder paced the living room, taking care not to trample evidence. "He was obviously in Scully's hotel room while we were at Tanaka's house. He...really enjoyed being inside the kill zone before the victim arrived. I can almost bet he's going to make a run at Crystal. If he feels it's safe, he'll go in and take a look around. He's going to need a day, maybe two or three, to get this killing through his system. He's going to spend next twenty-four, forty-eight hours reliving this one. We don't have a hell of a lot of time to prepare for him." "Prepare how?" "We're going to set a trap," Mulder said. "A series of traps, actually." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Interrogation Room "C" Two Hours Later "See," Mulder explained, "this is what we're going to do. At Lowry's house, we're going to leave an ELS that indicates that we've broken his code. The picture will tell him that we know his face, if not his identity. We're going to pull the remaining thirty possibles from the City and move them. I've already alerted the Marshals to do that. They're in the process of very, very quietly moving all of them as we speak. Frohike is generating a series of ELS messages to this asshole that we're going to leave at each house, apartment, whatever. Every time he enters a place to find a victim, he's going to find a note telling him that we were there first, and we took his toys away." "Goddamn, Mulder," Zolinski said, "You're playing a dangerous game." "Sure am," Mulder said. "But number one, I'm fucking good at it. And number two...I intend to win." "Then what?" Cahill prompted. "Towards the middle...around the seventh or eighth house, we're going to start leaving clues of our own. Clues as to where Scully is going to be. We're going to taunt him to come get her." Scully felt herself pale; Mulder hadn't mentioned his plans to her. But then she saw his logic. There was no other way to approach it. No other way to trap this bastard. She nodded, just as Mulder knew she would. "So how do we catch him?" Cahill insisted. "You're not going to set Scully as bait for are you?" "Yes," Scully said. "We are." "Just you and him? One on one?" "No," Mulder said. "Two on one. I'm going too." "But if he senses you in there-" Zolinski said. "He won't," Mulder said. "Why not?" Zolinski asked. "Because...I am him, Chief. Just as he's able to vanish without a trace, just as he can slip in and out of buildings...so can I. I'll be waiting for him, and when he moves on Scully, I'm going to take him out." Zolinski and Cahill exchanged glances. "You mean-?" "Yes," Mulder said flatly. "The only way I can guarantee Scully's safety is to...respond with terminal intensity." "That's murder," Zolinski observed. "What's your point?" Mulder asked. "You're depriving him of his due process," Cahill said. "Fuck that," Mulder said. "This asshole has butchered six people! We know it's him. He's signed his own death warrant. If we arrest him, he's going to spend the rest of his life behind bars, filing appeal after appeal and jerking off to the crime scene photos that he has the right to access by that same due process." "The NYPD cannot be a party to this," Zolinski said. "If the ACLU got a hold of this...or, God forbid, the press...we'd all go down in flames. No way." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but Zolinski cut him off. "NO, Agent Mulder! No goddamn way! Didn't you people learn anything from Ruby Ridge? From Waco? You can't just deprive suspects of due process because they're not nice people! We don't deal with bankers and priests and choirboys in this profession, Mulder! We deal with the scumbags and the assholes and the lowest, vilest scum on this planet! But they have RIGHTS, Mulder. I know I sound like a goddamn preacher right now, but I didn't go to Vietnam and back to protect the rights of everyone in this room to have YOU put them asunder because YOU don't want to deal with the paperwork or because of some personal vendetta you have against this guy." Zolinski stood from his chair and moved into Mulder's face. "Listen to me, you...fuck! We will use whatever plan you want. You're the expert on tracking and arresting these assholes. I grant you that point. But we WILL attempt to arrest him. If, and ONLY if he leaves us no choice will we resort to deadly force." Zolinski paused. "Do you understand?" he asked quietly. "Chief," Mulder started. "DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?" Zolinski erupted. Mulder nodded. Zolinski stepped back. "Scully is my partner, and my friend," Mulder said softly. "As you just said, I'm the expert on these assholes. I know this guy, Chief. I know him better than you ever will, better than you could ever understand. If he gets close enough to Scully, close enough to hurt her, I will take him out. And you know what, you sanctimonious son of a bitch? It will be perfectly legal." Zolinski said nothing, waiting for Mulder to explain. "Presumption of Guilt in association with an overwhelming evidentiary finding that he would assault and attempt to murder Scully. If the life of a Federal Officer is in danger, I am authorized to use deadly force to protect it, and use that force presumptively. The only way anyone will enter any of these houses is if they break the ELS code. And the only person besides the four of us and our three assistants that knows the code is the killer. "Don't talk to me about due process. I'm giving him his due process. He will know exactly what's going to happen if he shows up, and he will show up because he wants to get caught. He wants to get caught and go on TV and be a big, famous celebrity, the serial killer of the week. He wants the books and the movies and all of it; he wants the public to KNOW how he ran circles around the NYPD and the FBI. If he surrenders, fine. If he gets to within ten feet of Scully, I'm going to take that as a presumptive violent act and take him out. And there's not a fucking thing you can do about it." Mulder spun on his heel and left the other three alone. "He's right," Alex said slowly, to Zolinski. "I remember the entire Deadly Force lecture from the FBI Academy. "Fuck that. He'll have to federalize the investigation before I'll let him do that, and if he does federalize it, I'll go public." "That would be the end of your career, Chief," Alex said. "You'd resign in disgrace. Are you sure you want that?" Zolinski stood again. "No. But I don't want that fucking KILLER operating with this department! He's talking about cold-blooded MURDER!" "No," Alex said. "He's talking about the real world, Chief. We can sit here and argue arcane legal theory all afternoon, we can argue about due process and civil rights. But the Founding Fathers never even considered a serial killer when they framed the Bill of Rights. Times change, Chief-" "FUCK THAT!" Zolinski roared. "Don't talk to me about the Real World, Alex. I like you. You're a good cop, and a great commander. But you've never been in a war zone. You don't know DICK about the real world." Alex stepped up to her boss, raising her chin. "As far as THAT goes, Chief, FUCK THAT! I know about the Real World! I work for the NYPD, in case you forgot! When's the last time you were on the street, Chief? When's the last time you took a door down with your men? When's the last time you held a crack baby in your arms, a baby that's shaking so hard from cocaine withdrawal that it breaks its own NECK? Don't FUCKING TALK to me about the REAL WORLD!" Zolinski held his hands shoulder high, palms facing Alex. "We obviously disagree," he said gently. "But the fact remains that I am your commanding officer." Alex stepped back, tossing her head. "Goddamn it, I knew that was going to come up eventually. What is it, Chief? The fact that I happen to possess a vagina? I can't make decisions because I'm a woman?" Zolinski's face showed confusion. "No, not at all, Alex. I'd say the same thing about a male commander that was proposing what you are. That has nothing to do with it. You know better than that." "Yeah," she said, nodding. "I do. Sorry." She sat. "But I agree with Mulder. We can't let him get close to Scully. He's too quick with the razor, too good." "Well, we have to come up with something we can both agree on, or this isn't going to happen," Zolinski said. "I have an idea," Scully announced. Both NYPD officers swung on her; they'd forgotten she was even in the room. "I'm listening," Zolinski said. And so Scully told him. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill's Office Scully found Mulder in Alex's office, sitting behind her desk with his legs up. Entering the office, she shut the door and leaned against it. "You'd really do that?" she asked. "Do what?" "...kill him?" "In a heartbeat, Scully," he said, closing his eyes and leaning back. "Why?" He shrugged. "Lots of reasons. It's what needs to be done. Don't you get it yet? Part of ISU...part of VICAP is...cleaning these scumbags out. Removing them from the herd. Did you ever take a look at the mortality rates of suspects apprehended by VICAP? Christ, Scully, it's less dangerous juggling sticks of dynamite with the fuses lit." She chuckled softly. "But you would have hated yourself," she said softly. "Being forced to do...that." He nodded at the ceiling. "Yeah. I'd like to think I have what it takes...but I'd have a problem killing the poor bastard unless he was threatening someone directly." "So...?" "The thought of losing you overrides all normal control issues," he said softly. "The thought that this bastard was in your room, going through your things, touching your stuff..." "I know," Scully said. "I want to burn all my clothes." "I can understand that," Mulder said. "And to think that he took your panties...that he knows...." He trailed off, obviously embarrassed. "Knows what?" Scully asked. "It's crude," Mulder hedged. Scully waited, her expression making it clear she expected an answer. "The fact that he knows what you...smell like...bothers me a lot." Scully felt herself blushing. "God, this is just the strangest case," she observed dryly, walking to the window and peering at the city below. Quietly, more to the window than to Mulder, she said, "Yeah. It bothers me, too. A lot. I haven't shared that particular part of me with many people, and the fact that he...took what should have been given...infuriates me." Mulder stood, joining her at the window. "If he makes a move towards you, I'll take him," he said quietly. "My hero," Scully said, meaning it. Mulder chuckled. "Let's get this bastard," he said. Chapter 24 +=+=+=+=+= Whitestone, Queens Home of Crystal Lowry The Marshals had come and gone. Crystal Lowry was safely tucked away, being watched over by three very large, very jittery Deputy Marshals. There had been only one other problem: Crystal Lowry's downstairs neighbors, her landlords. A very nice husband and wife, he retired from the Transit Authority, she still substitute teaching in the public schools to augment his pension. They had insisted to the Marshals that anyone having that came looking for Lowry would be informed that she had moved and left no forwarding address. Without wanting to alert them to the potential hazards, the Marshal had failed to convince them to leave. Mulder had taken them into the kitchen and had a quiet word or two with them. They'd remembered a trip to Atlantic City they'd been planning to take and were gone within fifteen minutes. Mulder, Scully and Cahill went right to work. Mulder taped the ELS message and the copy of the digital image to the east wall of the living room. There was no way the UNSUB could miss it; Frohike had used a 72-point font and the entire message took two sheets of paper. Scully left her present on the arm of the couch. She had discussed it with Mulder, and after a moments disquiet, he'd agreed that it probably would help matters along. Cahill watched with an eagle eye, there at the behest of Zolinski, making sure that everything Mulder and Scully did was if not exactly by the book, at least it wasn't a gross violation of the killer's civil rights. Cahill's heart wasn't really in it, though. She knew in her heart that if it came down to a shoot-no-shoot situation, and the only pair of NYPD eyes on the scene were hers, she'd testify in open court and under oath that the UNSUB had posed an immediate, deadly threat to Special Agent Dana Scully, and that sadly, Special Agent Mulder had little choice but to exercise deadly force...legal, deadly force. Alex also knew that if Zolinski even suspected that she was lying, she could kiss her Inspector's shield good-bye forever, and her next command would probably be in facilities maintenance or traffic or something equally exciting. Personnel, she thought with a shudder. "We done?" she asked quietly. Mulder stood in the entranceway to the living room, hands on his hips, glancing around. "Yeah," he said, "I think so." "Wait," Scully said. She moved to the couch and reached for the item she'd left. Adjusting it, she stepped back and looked down. The very image it presented raised goosebumps on her arms, but she had to admit that if she was an obsessed serial killer, little present was probably enough to send him after her. Which was the plan. She stepped back and nodded at Mulder. "Better, you think?" she asked. Mulder's lips pursed as he thought about it. "Not too obvious?" She shook her head. "He's not thinking that way, I think." Mulder thought about it for another moment and then nodded in agreement. "I think you're right." She joined him at the entranceway and looked over her shoulder one last time as they left. There, perched on the top edge of the couch, were another pair of her panties. They were a twin of the pair that the UNSUB had taken. The message was clear: You took one pair...here's another. Do you have what it takes to get to the wearer? The ELS on the wall had been specially crafted by Frohike. Once decoded, it had Dana's name, the word "HUNTED" and the word "PREY" all crossed. The only question was...who was the hunter, and who was the prey? +=+=+=+= Mark Dupree stalked his basement office like a caged animal. Once again, he'd underestimated his quarry. The Scully woman had almost killed him. Only by the sheerest of lucks had he managed to escape the hotel room. And he'd yet to take another Chosen. The need was strong now, controlling, obsessive. He could see their faces in his mind; all he had to do was close his eyes and they paraded across his internal vision, their faces smiling, mocking him, taunting him, daring him to come after them. Thumbing their noses at him, and at justice, at the crushed bodies and ruined lives they'd left in their path. One half of his mind was screaming for control, begging him to take his time, to think it out, to make sure that the next victim was ready and waiting. That part of his mind was the same part that was trying to keep him out of jail, the part that wanted to go on, wanted to continue taking Chosen until there were no more, until all accounts had been settled, until all debts had been paid. But the hungrier, animal part of Dupree's brain was slowly wresting control away from logic and thought. Dupree stopped and glanced in a mirror. His teeth were bared, his nostrils flaring. He could see the mad, evil gleam in his own eyes and he welcomed it, wallowed in it, moved towards it, embracing it. "Yes," he whispered. "Oh yes..." He felt the madness sweeping him away, taking him along and opened his mouth, sighing as he felt it wash over him in soft, undulating waves of insanity. He had to take a Chosen. There was no choice. Lowry. It had been down to her or Tanaka, and Tanaka was now in the clutches of the Marshals. He began pacing again, thinking. If they had cracked the ELS, that meant they might have cracked the digital image; if they'd cracked the image, and they showed it to anyone at the Marshals Service, especially that little ferret Campion or that worm Everett, the jig would be up. And they already had the list. That much was obvious. The 32 names. Dupree stopped, sadness washing over him as he realized that he would be unable to take any more Chosen. He could feel this Mulder man in his bones, could feel how he thought, how he moved, could feel what he would do next. Because it was what Dupree himself would do next if he were Mulder. A trap. A sudden wave of anger flashed through Dupree's heart. If this Mulder had never showed up, none of this would be happening. It would have taken the NYPD months to accomplish what Mulder had in a matter of days. For a moment, Dupree thought that Mulder was the enemy, not the Chosen. Mulder was who needed killing, not the Chosen. Mulder. No, Dupree thought -- that makes it easy. Hating Mulder was easy, taking him would be easier still. But there was no pleasure in such a hollow victory. Dupree thought about it, about the dozens of different ways he could take Mulder if he wanted; a long shot with a rifle as the man left NYPD headquarters, a bomb in his car, poison in his room service food. A letter bomb. But that would be too easy. If he killed Mulder, Mulder wouldn't be alive to know Dupree had won. And winning was all that was important. So what did that leave? Four victims, Dupree thought. Four perfect victims. Cross, Hicks, Cahill...and that little redheaded bitch. +=+=+=+= It took Dupree only an hour to assemble what he needed. Ten minutes of that time was spent hacking into the NYPD personnel computer. Armed with the home addresses of Detectives First Grade Daryl Hicks and Sam Cross, Dupree gathered the other tools he would need quickly, planning as he went. Surprise was on his side. Mulder would be expecting an attempt against the other victims. He probably had men waiting at every location, eyes peering through binoculars and telescopic sights, fingers stroking triggers, muted voices whispering back and forth over secure radio frequencies. No one was looking for this. And that was why it was perfect. There were just a few minor details left. +=+=+=+=+=+=+= In the confines of the 102 Precinct 0231 hours Mulder sighed and glanced at the dashboard clock. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, but every time he reached for it, it flitted away, gossamer tendrils of a thought not fully formed. It was annoying, but Mulder had learned to live with it over the years. Sooner or later the thought would pop to the forefront of his consciousness, and he would deal with it then. "He's not coming, is he?" Cahill asked. She was sitting behind them, in the back seat, and was obviously antsy. "Probably not tonight, no," Mulder said, distracted. Alex snorted and reached for her radio. "M-Mike four, five, on the air?" "Five," Hicks came back. "Four," Cross responded. "Ten ninety eight, gents. See you back at the house at the start of tour." "Ten-four," Hicks replied, the relief evident in his voice. A moment later, Cross concurred. The car with Mulder, Scully and Cahill fell silent. "Are we going to sit here all night?" Cahill finally asked. "No," Mulder said. "I was just waiting for someone to complain so we could go home." He hesitated. "Just to be sure, have a radio car sit on this place until we get back tomorrow, ok?" Alex radioed Queens Central Dispatch and requested an anticrime car. "Drop me at the house?" she asked Mulder. +=+=+=+=+= Dupree smiled when he heard Cahill relieve Cross and Hicks. He did the mental arithmetic. Cross lived in Westchester, in New Rochelle. It would take him perhaps forty minutes to drive from One Police Plaza. Hicks lived in Long Island, about thirty minutes from the city. Hicks first, then Cross. And then Cahill. +=+=+=+=+= Home of Alex Cahill Manhattan Alex slammed the door and then waved at Mulder and Scully as they drove away. All she wanted to do was go upstairs, take off all her clothes and descend into a hot bath for the next twelve hours. Reality, however, was going to intrude once again; all she was going to have time for was a quick shower and a few hours of fitful sleep, tossing and turning in a cold, lonely bed. Alex Cahill lived in a three-family townhouse; she had the top apartment. She dragged herself up the outside stairs, her mind a thousand miles away, mulling over the details of the case, wondering if the new day was going to bring another victim, a victim that Mulder hadn't thought of. She was very much aware that her relationship with Zolinski was on shaky ground, and if Mulder fucked this case up... "Hey." Startled, Alex moved without thinking. She dropped and spun away from the sound of the voice, her hand digging under her jacket, finding the smooth plastic butt of the Glock in its holster. Drawing it with a single smooth motion, Alex came up in a two-handed shooters stance, the sights aligning themselves automatically. When she let her eyes focus on what she was aiming at, she found the face of Tim Everett staring at her. "Whoa! Alex...it's me, Tim! Chill out!" Slowly, Alex lowered the pistol. "Jesus H. Christ, Tim! You scared the shit out of me!" Reholstering it, Alex stood. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" Tim looked around as if worried that what he was about to say might be overheard. "Can we go inside?" "What do you want, Tim? It's almost three in the morning!" He paused. "Listen...I did something stupid. I need some advice." Alex, knowing Tim as well as she did, knew that whatever the stupid thing he had done was, it more than likely related in some way to a woman. "What's her name?" Alex asked as she reached for her keys, a smile on her face. Tim's next words made Alex's blood run cold. "Casey Tan." +=+=+=+=+= Home of Daryl Hicks Long Island, New York Detective First Grade Daryl Hicks glanced at the clock in the microwave on his kitchen counter and tried to count. If he took his shower now, he could sleep in for half an hour in the morning. Otherwise, he had to get up in... He didn't want to contemplate it. Having decided to take the shower now, Daryl walked into his bedroom and began stripping. His shoulder holster was the first thing to come off. The phone rang. Rolling his eyes, Daryl lifted the phone. "Hicks." "Detective Hicks?" "Yes. Who is this?" "Central radio. I have a rather odd message for you, Detective. It's from Captain Cahill." "Go ahead," Daryl said. "She said that the package you were expecting did show up after all, just a little late, but they have it. She wanted to know if you'd be interested in examining the contents." What the fuck? Daryl thought. Then he understood. Alex and Mulder and Scully had caught the bastard...the "package"...and Alex was offering him the chance to interrogate him. "Sure. But let me guess. She needs me there right now, right?" "Yes, sorry, detective. But she ordered me to send a car to pick you up since you've not had any rest. It will be there in the next ten minutes or so-" "No, I'll drive," Daryl said, reaching for his holster. "Detective," Mark Dupree said, "the Captain was very insistent. I think you'd better listen to her." "Fine, whatever," Daryl said, shrugging into his holster. "Show me notified." "Very well," the voice said, and hung up. Daryl stared at the receiver. Alarm bells were ringing in the back of his mind, but he was too tired to make heads or tails of it. There was something wrong with the whole deal. What was it? +=+=+=+=+= Home of Alex Cahill "You what?" Alex repeated. "I slept with Casey Tan," Tim said again, slowly, looking very much like an eight-year-old boy who had gotten his hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. "Oh good Christ, Tim. What the hell were you thinking? I know what you were thinking !" Tim flushed. In anger or embarrassment, Alex couldn't tell. "What have you told her?" "Nothing," Tim said. "But I know she's going to press me. I know she's going to use...what happened...against me at some point." Alex spread her hands, shrugging. "Tim? Hello? What the hell did you think was going to happen when you slept with her? That she'd thank you for being such a great screw and offer to feed information instead of the other way around? C'mon, Tim. You're not that stupid." Everett nodded. "To tell the truth, the first time it happened, I didn't really think about it, and that was my problem. She ambushed me outside headquarters. Right after I gave you the first report. She asked me some very serious questions, the answers to which were the standard party line. Then she asked me if I wanted to go out for dinner, and I accepted. She's a smart, funny, intelligent, sexy woman, Alex." "You," Alex pointed out," are a married man." "Don't you think I know that?" Ted wailed. "I just wanted to make sure," Alex said. Her eyes caught the clock on her mantle and she moaned. "God, Tim, it's almost three-thirty. All I want to do is go to-" She saw the look on his face and recoiled. "Oh, no, not here, not now." "You weren't saying that down at Headquarters when you wanted that list..." he said. "Of course not, and you knew I was playing you and you let me play you. So put your cock back in your pants and go home to your wife, Tim. I won't make a bad decision worst." "What am I going to do about Casey?" "I'll figure something out, Tim. Just...go home." He stood and moved towards the door. "Any progress? On the case?" he asked. "Some," Alex said, hedging. "We have some stuff." "Like?" he asked, interested. Alex waved a hand through her hair. "We managed to break the code, we have a picture, we're close, Tim. Real, real close." Tim's eyes lit up. "Can I see the picture?" She shook her head. "I already washed it through our system and the NCIC. What are the chances that you'll recognize him?" "Zero, but let me look anyway," Tim said. Giving in, Alex went to her briefcase and found a copy of the picture. "We think this is him," Alex said, offering it to Tim. Chief Deputy Marshal Tim Everett took one look at the picture and promptly felt all the blood drain from his face. "Oh my God," he whispered. "Tim?" Alex asked. +=+=+=+=+= Home of Daryl Hicks Long Island, NY Daryl closed his front door and clumped down the steps. The dark-colored late-model sedan was idling at the curb. It had the requisite antennas on the trunk and the typical slouched posture of the driver; it could only be a NYPD unmarked car. Hicks climbed in the passenger seat and closed the door, nodding at the driver. Closing his eyes, Daryl leaned his head back for the ride into the city. At that moment, he realized three things almost simultaneously: First, the phone call. The "dispatcher" had used Alex's old rank. There wasn't a single person at headquarters that didn't know by now that Alex had made Deputy Inspector; and since using the incorrect rank when referring to a senior officer was one of the most glaring mistakes someone could make, it simply never happened. And when Daryl had told the caller to "show him notified," the voice had said "very well," instead of telling him the official time that the notification would be entered into the log. Which meant the call was bogus, just as the caller was. And the third thing that Daryl realized was that the driver of the car had a face that matched the one in the photograph that was neatly folded into fourths in his jacket pocket. "YOU!" Daryl said, opening his eyes. He felt something sharp at his neck, a plunging sensation, and then... Nothing. As he slid into unconsciousness, Daryl thought: Needle. +=+=+=+=+= Hotel Room of Special Agent Fox Mulder 0344 Hours The phone jarred Scully from a deep sleep. She woke with a start, lifting her face from Mulder's chest. She didn't have time to comprehend (again) what she was doing in bed with him. She reached for the phone. "Scully." "It's Alex. We got an ID on our guy. You and Mulder, at my house, now. I'll call Daryl and Sam." The phone went dead in Scully's ear. +=+=+=+=+=+= Home of Alex Cahill Groggy, yawning loudly, Mulder parked the borrowed unmarked car across the street from Alex's apartment. Together, he and Scully got out of the car and trudged across the street and up the stairs to Alex's front door. Alex opened it on the first knock. Over her shoulder, Scully could see someone she didn't expect. Alex stepped back, allowing them to enter. "I don't think..." Mulder started. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, Chief Deputy Marshal Tim Everett," Alex said. The men shook hands. "What's up?" Mulder asked. "I'd rather wait for Daryl and Sam so I don't have to go over it four more times," Alex said. Scully nodded tiredly, accepting this logic. "Coffee?" "Kitchen," Alex said, pointing. +=+=+=+=+= Undisclosed Location Daryl Hicks came around slowly. He mumbled something, and then tried to swallow. Dry, he thought, smacking his lips. My mouth is so dry. Then the headache came. And then the ice-cold fear. Once, as a teenager, Daryl had broken his arm, a nasty compound fracture. The ambulance guys had given him a little IV Morphine for the pain. He remembered waking up from that; the same dry mouth, the same slight headache, the same coming-off-a- drunk feeling. He'd been drugged. By the UNSUB. Slowly, Daryl tried to move. He couldn't; his hands were cuffed behind him, and judging by the position he was in, he was tied to a chair. "Ah, my good Detective Hicks. So good of you to join us," a voice said. Daryl opened his eyes and found himself staring at the man he'd been tracking. "What happened?" he asked, stalling for time. The man's eyes unfocused. "Don't be coy with me, Detective. You know exactly what happened. You fell for my little subterfuge and now I have you exactly where I want you." "Who are you?" Daryl asked. "I mean -- what do I call you?" "Dupree," the man said. +=+=+=+= Apartment of Alex Cahill "Mark Dupree," Tim said. Daryl had never shown up, and Alex was on the phone, paging him for the sixth time. Mulder had insisted that Tim tell his story. "What's his story?" Scully asked. "He was...sort of a customer of ours, in a way." "He's a witness?" "No. But we came into contact with him through official channels." Mulder sighed. "Tim, just give us the damn story. Don't worry about covering your ass." Everett nodded, glancing at Alex. She knew about Casey; the other three didn't. "Mark Dupree was a consultant for us on some new systems we installed about six years ago. He's not an employee, he never was, and he was never near any sensitive systems. That's why his name never came up in our internal audit when we suspected that the killer had the access that he did. "About a year after the contract ended, Dupree's wife...was attacked." "Attacked?" Scully asked. "Murdered. After being assaulted. Sexually assaulted." Tim fell silent. "There's more, isn't there?" Scully asked. "The perp," Tim said, "was a WITSEC protectee." +=+=+=+= "And they let him go," Dupree finished, smiling at Daryl. Hicks thought he'd never seen a colder, more crazy smile in his life. The man is completely out of touch with reality, Hicks realized. He's insane. "The...bastard left her to die in her car. He slit her throat from ear to ear after raping her." "So what happened to him?" Daryl asked. +=+=+=+=+= "You LET HIM GO?" Scully shouted. Tim nodded. "It wasn't our decision, not locally, at least. The US Attorney...he said he got pressure from Washington. From the Justice Department. And that usually means the Attorney General. I don't think it was the AG; probably one of the Deputy Assistant Attorney Generals. But he was relocated to another district. Texas, I think." "And then what?" "About nine months ago, he was killed." "How?" Mulder asked, already knowing the answer. +=+=+=+=+= "I slit his throat," Dupree said, smiling thinly. "It wasn't that hard to break into the WITSEC system. I found him in a matter of days, living high off the hog, at taxpayers expense, in Austin. A new name, even a new face this time. He'd been a Level 2 security risk, watched only two days a month. After that, he was moved to Level 1. He had 24/7 security." "How did you get to him?" Daryl asked. "Easily." +=+=+=+=+= "We never announced what happened. We told the families of the three Marshals that they were killed on a classified overseas assignment. Every once in a while, if the DEA gets a hold of some cartel asshole, we go down and take him into custody and transport him back. So that's what we told the families. Not that someone...we never put it together...someone managed to gain access to the house in Austin, waste three Marshals and then wax the protectee." Mulder stood and began pacing. "Oh shit," he mumbled, stopping in his tracks. "This...this changes everything." "What do you mean?" Alex asked. "We were having...I was having...a huge problem understanding his underlying motivation. The stressor event that set him off. That, sometimes, is the key. And it certainly is in this case." "What are you talking about?" Tim asked. "See, he wasn't killing the witnesses so much to get back at them as he was at you. By that I mean the Marshals Service. He was, at first, trying to show you up, to make a point, I suppose. But, as it always does, that changed, I think. He got a taste for it. He likes it. He was doing the Lord's work, I suppose, in his own sick, twisted way. Sometimes...these guys get a moment of clarity late in the game. They understand a lot more at the end then they do at the beginning." "And you think that's happened here?" "I think that's where Daryl is," Mulder said softly. "I think Dupree figured out what we're up to, and he's taken Daryl." +=+=+=+=+= "So what happens now?" Hicks asked. "Well, I have to go do something, and when I come back, you and I are going to have a little fun." Hicks shuddered to think what the little fun would be. +=+=+=+=+= 45 Minutes Later The phone rang, startling everyone in the room. Alex moved to answer it. "Hello?" "Good evening, or should I say, good morning, Captain?" "Who is this?" Alex asked, although she knew. "You know my face, if you don't know my name." "Dupree," Alex whispered. Mulder dashed towards the kitchen; he'd spotted the extension in there when he'd gotten a coffee refill ten minutes ago. Carefully, he lifted the receiver. "Very good, Captain. I don't use your new rank because I still like to think of you as the Captain of the ship, so to speak. Responsible for the men and women under her command, Hmm?" "What do you want?" Alex asked. "I've left something for you," Dupree said. "On your doorstep. I think I'd like...oh, Detective Cross to go and retrieve it." "What is it?" Alex asked. "A computer. A laptop computer...with some attachments. And if you want to know what happens to your Detective Hicks, I'd suggest that you listen to me and do as I tell you." Click! Alex lowered the phone, thinking. Mulder reentered the living room. "Do you have a vest?" he asked Cross. "Why?" "Because there's a laptop computer on the doorstep. Dupree left it for us. Which means he has Hicks, and I think I know what he's trying to do." "Enlighten me," Alex said. "I think he's going to try and take Cross out when he goes for the computer. And then, we're going to get to watch him take Hicks." "How?" "On the computer. Digital steaming video." +=+=+=+=+= Dupree set the cellphone aside and rolled his head. Right about now they would be discussing the options. He lifted the Remingtion Model 700 rifle to his cheek and peered through the Luepold 7x telescopic sight. And waited. +=+=+=+=+= "We could call ESU," Alex argued. "No," Mulder said. "It's down to us now. If we call ESU, he's going to find out. He's got the phones, he's got the cells, he's got the apartment. We...we have two choices." "We can ignore him, or I can go and get the laptop," Cross said. "And die in the process," Alex pointed out. "We don't know that," Mulder argued. "He may just shoot to wound. A belly shot. A shoulder shot. It doesn't have to be a heart shot or a head shot." "Or," Scully said, "it could be the laptop." "What?" "Explosives. We turn it on, bang -- he gets all four of us." "No," Mulder said. "He wants to watch." "What if..." Alex said. "Screw this," Sam Cross said. "I'll be right back-" "Sam, wait!" Alex called. +=+=+=+=+= Sam Cross stepped onto the stoop and looked down. The laptop was set at the very edge of the stairs. Cross felt the sweat rolling down his neck. He could feel the bullseye painted on his head. He reached for the laptop. +=+=+=+=+= Dupree fired. +=+=+=+=+= Sam felt the impact before he heard the shot. Not like the movies, he thought, feeling his body slam against the door. In the movies, the hero hears the shot in enough time to duck. The bullet had entered his back low, square on the spine. Sam collapsed against the door, his hand twisting the knob at the last minute. His weight pushed the door open and he fell into the hallway, clutching the laptop. Daryl, he thought. I'll be waiting for you. +=+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill's Living Room Scully worked. The bullet hadn't done nearly as much damage as she'd feared. It had deflected off the spine, shattering it, and buried itself in the meat of Sam's right buttock. But the spinal column had been severed. "I can't feel my legs," Sam moaned. "It's ok," Scully soothed. "The ambulance is on its way." Along with all of Manhattan ESU, the bomb squad, the entire MCS squad... "The cavalry," Sam grinned painfully. Mulder was setting up the laptop. Scully glanced at her partner, wondering if he was purposely distancing himself, trying to duck the blame and responsibility she knew he felt. And then she was ashamed for thinking that. All that was on Mulder's mind was Hicks. He knew she was the best one to handle Cross; she was the doctor. Sam had known the risks, and had decided to take them on the off chance that it might help his partner. She knew, in his place, she would have done the same exact thing. The laptop booted and began loading. The program beeped, asking for a modem line. Mulder connected it up. The software continued to load, and Mulder saw that it was making some kind of Internet connection. He reached for his cell. "Frohike?" he asked a moment later. "Time for the big game, pal. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, the whole deal. I need to trace a net connection back to its source, and I need it done yesterday." +=+=+=+=+= Undisclosed location 30 minutes later "I shot your partner," Dupree said gently, right in Daryl's face. "How do you feel about that?" "Fuck you," Hicks gasped. "I thought as much," Dupree replied, standing. "See, when your... client...killed my wife...I felt much the same way. And now you know how I fell, no? Someone you care about, someone you might even love a little bit. Gone. Bang." Dupree snapped his fingers for emphasis. "One moment there, the next...poof." "Is he dead?" Daryl asked. "No. Paralyzed, I should think. I shot him in the spine. He'll spend the rest of his life pissing and shitting in bag and being wheeled around by a pretty nurse." Hicks smiled. "What is so funny?" Dupree asked. "Unless the nurse can bench-press 260 and is hung like a horse, I don't think Sam will notice how pretty she is." "Oh," Dupree said. "I had no idea. He should be...commended. He passes well." "As what?" "A cop." "He a cop, you fucking asshole!" "How...evolved of you, Detective. Did you know your partner was homosexual when you were assigned to him?" Daryl shook his head. Dupree glanced at his watch. "Almost time," he grinned. +=+=+=+=+=+= Cahill's "What now?" Alex asked. "We wait for him to connect on the other side. I have the guys trying to trace it." Mulder's cell purred. "Mulder." "Frohike. We failed on the absolute trace, but I have another idea." "What?" "Sprint owns the major Internet backbone for the city. We could spend twenty hours trying to trace back the absolute address. But, if you are sure it's going to be a streaming video transmission, I have another idea." "What?" "Packet traffic. That kind of traffic...streaming video... uses a compression header that's unique. I'm going to set up a packet sniffer at the inbound end of the net channel. As soon as I see a single video packet go by, the software will trace it back, and then start IP forwarding the images." "What does-" "Basically, it's like stealing cable. I'll be buffering the images. The software works like this...when it sends a packet, it waits until your machine says, 'I got it' before sending another. By buffering it, I can gain ten, twenty seconds. It will slow him down just a bit, and it will look like congestion on the net. Then, I'll be able to trace the physical route of the signal instead of the logical route. Got it?" "No," Mulder admitted, "but I trust you." +=+=+=+=+=+= 10 minutes later The laptop beeped. Mulder glanced at the screen and sighed heavily. Daryl Hicks, tied to a chair, appeared on his screen. +=+=+=+=+=+= Undisclosed Safehouse "Got it," Frohike muttered. He began tracing. +=+=+=+=+=+= Cahill's "Can you hear me?" Dupree asked over the channel. Mulder nodded, and then felt stupid. It was a one-way transmission. "Watch closely," Dupree said. A moment later the killer appeared in the frame. "Daryl Hicks, you are accused of crimes against the people of New York City. Specifically, you are charged with violating the civil rights of the citizens in that you failed to protect them against the monsters that stalk the streets. How do you plead?" "Oh sweet Jesus," Alex muttered. She'd spotted what Mulder had. Dupree was holding a very large, very black pistol with a suppresser screwed on the end. "Not...not guilty," Hicks said. "Oh, that means we'll have to have a trial, I suppose," Dupree said. He stepped out of the frame for a moment, and then reappeared. "But we don't have time. I find you guilty. Your sentence is death. Any last words?" "Fuck-" The shot was loud; the tiny laptop speaker couldn't handle the signal and it came through tinny, distorted. But it was enough to make everyone cringe in horror. A neat, round hole appeared in the center of Daryl's forehead, and he slumped over, dead. Chapter 25 =+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill's Home "Oh, Goddamn that bastard to HELL!" Alex screamed. "W-what?" Sam asked. Alex glanced at him, hatred etched into her features. "Dupree just killed Daryl," she announced. Sam closed his eyes. Mulder's phone trilled. "Mulder." "It's me. We traced the signal." Mulder snapped his fingers, pointing at Alex and making a writing motion with his fingers. "Give me the address." "Uh, Mulder..." "Give it to me!" Mulder demanded. Frohike read the address he'd obtained from the Nynex database. Mulder disconnected without another word. "Time to go," he said to Alex. She caught his eyes, asking a silent question. Mulder nodded. Turning to Scully, he said, "Scully...stay with Sam." "Mulder-!" she started. He took two steps and squatted next to his partner. "Listen to me," he said urgently. "Alex and I have to...go. Something may happen when we try and arrest Dupree. We talked about this once before." Scully remembered the conversation they'd had in Alex's office, about how the ISU tended to...thin the herd. "It would be better for all involved if you didn't have to lie to protect me." Scully felt her anger flare at his presumption that she would even consider- And then she knew that he was right. She would lie to protect him. Now, more than ever. She nodded. "Go," she said softly, handing Mulder her pistol. "Do what you have to." He stood to leave, but she stopped him with one simple word. "Fox..." He turned back to her, his eyes tracking and finding hers. For a moment, Scully was nervous. He didn't look like himself; he looked like a feral animal on the hunt, a predator ready, eager, hungry to feed. And she was afraid for him, she realized. "Make sure you come back to me," she said softly. He nodded and left, Alex on his heels. Scully closed her eyes, trying to remind herself that it didn't count as a ditch. It didn't. She was angry, a little, that he had naturally assumed that she would have a moral and ethical problem with what he was going to do. The moral, rational part of her brain knew that it was murder, cold-blooded assassination. Mulder and Cahill were going to find a way to kill Mark Dupree, and there was nothing that Scully or Zolinski could do about it. But the part of Scully that she rarely admitted even existed was crying out more strongly than she had ever remembered. The last time she had been this angry, this worried about Mulder had been when they had first become partners. Luther Lee Boggs. She remembered standing in his Death Row prison cell, screaming at the top of her lungs at him, wanting him to know that she would have indeed pulled the switch herself. Mulder, she thought...I know why you have to do this. And, truth be told, a small part of Scully's heart was singing in joy that her man was going out to do battle with the forces of evil, that he wanted to protect her from the potential fallout. It didn't enter her mind that he thought her incapable, weak. Not anymore. Never again. Scully turned back to Sam, comforting him, her hand smoothing his hair. "I loved him," Sam said softly. Scully smiled. "I wasn't in love with-" "Shhh," Scully said. "I know what you mean. So did he. He knew, Sam." "How do you know?" "I just do," Scully promised. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= They made it to Dupree's basement hideout in less than six minutes with Alex driving. They entered the basement through the tenant access door, Mulder first, Alex backing him up. They found Darryl a moment later, still in the chair, just as he'd appeared on the monitor. Hoping against hope, Alex placed two fingers against his carotid artery. She held it there for a moment and shook her head. "He's gone." Mulder said nothing. His pistol was up, pointed out, his eyes sweeping the room. "He's not here," Mulder announced. "How do you know?" "I just do," Mulder said. Alex didn't argue. She started searching the basement. Filing cabinets filled three walls, six to a wall, four drawers each. She opened the first one she came to, pulling the drawer completely out, rifling through the contents. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Look at this!" Mulder joined her, his pistol still held at the ready, glancing over her shoulder. "What? It's an arrest report." "Yes...hundreds of them. All with photographs. And they're all..." Mulder took a better look. He saw what Alex meant. They were all vicious crimes, sexual murders, rapes, serial murders, spree killings. The photographs were gruesome, something Mulder had seen before. "What's that?" Cahill asked, pointing at one corner of a photograph. A dry, white film coated the edge. "If I didn't know better," Mulder said, and then thought better of it. He did know better, and it was what he thought it was. "That's semen," he announced. "Gah!" Alex said, dropping the photo. "That's..." "Normal for these guys," Mulder pointed out. "They get off on the violence and control. You know that." She nodded. "Still...it's...gross!" "Disgusting," Mulder agreed. "But well within the psychopathology of these guys." Alex shut the drawer with a slam. "Ok, now what? He's not here." Mulder holstered his pistol. They began to search in earnest. Mulder discovered it first. "Alex, know anything about computers?" "Just enough to know they hate me." Mulder dialed his cellphone. "Frohike," a voice answered. "Get over here," Mulder demanded. "Where?" "The address you gave me. We need your help." "Is-" "He's gone, Frohike. It's safe to come out and play." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The trio made it over in less than twenty minutes. "What's up?" Frohike asked. Mulder pointed at Dupree's computers. "I need those examined very, very carefully. Make sure there's no booby traps or anything, that he hasn't set the damn thing to erase if anyone messes with it. It's evidence." Frohike nodded and went to work. "Mulder," Byers said softly. Mulder glanced at him. "What?" "Shouldn't you call...the medical examiner or someone?" Byers looked over at Daryl's body. The smell of urine and feces was strong. Mulder's adrenaline rush had hidden the stench from his nose. "Not yet," Mulder ordered. "I'm not ready to call anyone yet." "Mulder," Byers said again. "He's...holding something." Mulder moved over to Daryl's body and looked down. Byers was right; Daryl Hicks was holding a small square of paper in his hands. Carefully, Mulder pulled it loose, turning it over in his hands to read it. ALPHA AND OMEGA. I AM THE BEGINNING AND THE END. CATCH ME IF YOU CAN. "What does it mean?" Alex asked. "It means," Mulder said, already moving, "that 10-to-1 I know where he's waiting for us, and if we get there first, we may surprise him." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= En Route Mulder drove as Alex held on, grimacing as Mulder took corners on two wheels, the small red bubble light perched on the roof of the Explorer doing little to move the traffic. Mulder used the horn, the gas pedal, the brake...and when necessary, the sidewalk. "Are you sure about this?" Mulder asked. "About what-?" "What we're going to do. You know what's going to happen if we find Dupree." Alex glanced at the scenery screaming by, her decision already made. "The moment this shithead pulled the trigger on Daryl, Zolinski and the brass stopped being a factor. You just better hope you get the first clear shot, or I'm taking him out for you." "Bet me," Mulder said through gritted teeth. He'd come too far to have Alex take Dupree down. There was no way, no fucking way in hell that he was going to let that happen. Up ahead, a light turned yellow. "Hold on," Mulder said, flooring it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Home of Leon King The first victim; the beginning and the end. It made perfect sense. Mulder had retrieved the red bubble light six blocks ago, and they'd forgone the siren twelve before that. The fact that they weren't driving a department-issue unmarked car was a good thing, they decided, and there was no reason to further announce themselves if they could at all help it. Mulder withdrew his weapon and checked it, then performed the same function on Scully's borrowed pistol. "Let's go," he said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill picked the lock in record time. They pushed through the lobby door and stopped. Stairs or elevator? "Elevator could be a trap," Alex observed. "We'll be winded if we take the stairs," Mulder pointed out. "Elevator it is," Alex said, punching the button. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Nineteen stories above, in the elevator machine housing, Dupree smiled. Perfect. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Home of Alex Cahill The phone shocked Scully to her roots. Thinking it was Alex or Mulder, Scully snatched the receiver from its cradle and lifted it to her ear. "Scully." "Zolinski. Lemme have Alex," he commanded. Scully hesitated that one fraction of a second too long. "She's not here," she finally said. "Where is she?" Scully hesitated again. "Special Agent Scully," Zolinski growled. "What the fuck is going on?" "Sir, you'd better get over here," Scully said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Home of Leon King The elevator lurched to a stop between the sixth and seventh floors. The lights flickered twice and then went out. "Oh, shit," Alex said. They turned back to back, pressing against each other, weapons trained high at the rescue hatch. A moment later the emergency phone rang. Mulder answered it, but didn't say a word. "I could kill you, you know," Dupree said gently. Mulder continued to listen, giving nothing away. "I could drop a grenade down the shaft. I could cut the cable. I could override the computer and release the brakes. It'd all be over in an instant." "You want to watch, Dupree. You want to see Alex and I die. That wouldn't be any fun...that wouldn't be sporting." The laugh was long and hearty. "How right you are, Agent Mulder. But I'm also not going to just allow you to come and kill me. You have to earn that right. And if you are half as cunning as I think you are, then you'll know the correct thing to do. I'll be waiting." The line clicked dead. Mulder dropped the phone, listening to it clank against the floor. "Now what?" Alex asked. "Now we get the hell out of here," Mulder said, holstering his pistol and tucking Scully's in at the small of his back. Crouching, he cupped his hands. Alex tucked her own weapon away and stepped into Mulder's cupped hands, reaching up to punch the escape hatch open. She fell back, drawing her weapon. A moment later a bright beam of light illuminated the shaft, and Alex almost fired. It took her a second to realize that the light wasn't coming from above. She turned to Mulder, amazed to see him gripping a tiny, powerful flashlight. "Never leave home without it," he said, smiling at her. Oh my Lord, Alex thought. I can why Scully is so head over- "Up, up and away," Mulder said, nodding towards the ceiling. Alex took the flashlight from hip, and gripping it in her teeth, once again stepped into the makeshift ladder formed by Mulder's hands. Taking a deep breath, Alex hoisted herself out of the elevator and into the dark shaft. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Home of Alex Cahill The pounding on the door was not Zolinski, as Scully had feared, but EMS. The paramedics entered and quickly took charge of the situation. As qualified as she was, Scully knew that the medics had much more training in prehospital trauma care and so she stepped back, offering only to start an IV when one of them had trouble finding a vein. Zolinski showed up moments later. Seeing one of his best detectives on his side, the bullet wound being tended to by the medics, Zolinski went ballistic. "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED HERE?" he bellowed. Scully moved to him, taking him by the arm and leading him into the bedroom. "The killer made a move on us, sir," she started. "Where's Cahill? Where's Hicks?" he paused. "Where," he asked dangerously, "is Mulder?" "Mulder and Cahill believe they've traced the location of the UNSUB, sir, even though he's not an UNSUB anymore." Zolinski, who had been staring at his downed detective, turned his considerable anger and frustration on Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI. Detective Sam Cross, still very conscious, closed his eyes and gently shook his head. Bad move, Chief. Scully listened to his tirade with her arms crossed for all of about ten seconds. In the middle of his arm-waving, forehead-vein- popping screaming, she simply raised her hand in a "stop motion." Amazing everyone in the room, Zolinski fell silent. "Are you going to stand here screaming at me, which may make you feel better, or are you going to do something constructive besides making sure that everyone in this room knows you are the big dog? Because, if you're going to continue shouting, I can find better things to do with >my< time, including trying to track down my errant partner and Alex Cahill." Scully hesitated and then gave Zolinski an eyebrow lift. "Well, Chief? What's it going to be? Posturing or productivity?" Sam Cross bit his lip. Despite the pain, he had to struggle not to laugh. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Leon King's Apartment Building Mulder grunted and groaned and finally succeeded in hoisting himself out and into the elevator's roof. Cahill glanced up. They were stuck directly between floors. The doors opening onto the seventh floor were more than ten feet above her head. Leaning down and peering at the doors leading to six, Cahill saw that they were just as far away. "Up or down?" she asked. "Down," Mulder said without thinking. "We'll never make it up. The only way to do it is to inch up that greasy cable and then swing over. We'll break our necks trying." "How the hell do we get down?" Cahill asked. "Follow me," Mulder said. "Didn't you ever see `Speed?'" Walking to the edge of the car, Mulder leapt onto the supporting frame of the shaft. There was perhaps eighteen inches between the edge of the elevator car and the wall. Pressing his hands and toes against the car, he slowly inched his way down. Moving as slowly as he dared, Mulder ended up facing the bottom lip of the car. Just as he suspected, there were thick cables and wires leading from the bottom of the car. He reached out and grabbed the first metal cable he could reach. Taking a deep breath, he let go with his feet. Don't look down, he thought. Don't look down. He looked. And immediately regretted it. Six and a half stories of elevator shaft greeted his terrified gaze. The shaft started swaying and then spinning, and Mulder was sure he was going to be sick. "How is it?" Alex asked. "Whatever you do," Mulder gasped wetly, "Don't look down." Mulder took a lungful of air and closed his eyes. Just get down, he thought. Just get down. Hand-over-hand, he inched his way through the cables and wires to the other side of the car. It was a nine-foot drop to the ledge of the sixth floor. Mulder concentrated, slowly swinging his legs back and forth, keeping his knees tightly pressed together. He began picking up momentum, and at the precise moment he was afraid that he would overshoot and drop, Mulder let go. His feet hit the doors to the sixth floor and slid down, screeching. His hands flew out and captured the lip on either side, instantly arresting his descent. "Mulder?" Alex called. "Just...a...second," Mulder gasped, praying that his sweaty hands would hold on. Struggling to find purchase, Mulder closed his eyes and concentrated, willing his fingers to grip the suddenly slippery metal. Slowly, his body began to cooperate. His body stopped vibrating, his muscles slowly ceased throbbing. Ok, Mulder, he thought, all ya gotta do is slide your foot over, hit the door release and pry them open. Piece of cake. The moment he moved, Mulder's hands slipped. He saw the doors to six flying by his nose and screamed, knowing that this was it, that Dupree had won, that he was going to end up as a bloody pile of goo at the bottom of the shaft. Oddly, time slowed to a crawl. He noticed several things at once. First, the loose, liquid feeling of his bowels. God no, he thought. Don't let me shit my pants in fear. That's the last thing he wanted Scully's final memory of him to be: A bloody, broken pile of bones that had crapped its pants. The jarring stop almost made Mulder scream. His fingers had somehow found the bottom lip of the sixth floor entrance. For the moment, at least, he wasn't falling. Mulder had a sudden thought. "Oh, God, Alex...I'm so sorry," he cried down the shaft. Above, Alex heard what Mulder had said and opened her mouth to reply before thinking better of it. She had an idea where Mulder was going with this, and decided to play along. "She's dead," Mulder said, his voice louder than it should have been in the shaft. He's playing to an audience, Alex thought. Does he see Dupree? Mulder, still gripping the bottom edge, realized that his fingers were only inches from the door release. Only one chance to get this right, he thought. Levering his left hand over, he gripped the ledge with the pinky and ridge, cocking his elbow and using his toes to inch himself up. At the last moment, Mulder reached over with his right hand and punched the release lever. He heard the gears unlock, and the counterweight did its work. The doors slid open. Revealing a pair of sneaker-clad feet. Glancing up, Mulder stared into the eyes of Mark Dupree. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill's House The EMS workers had transferred Sam Cross to the scoop stretcher and were carefully lifting him onto the ambulance gurney. Scully had given Zolinski the details of what she knew. "So where are they?" Zolinski demanded. "I don't know," Scully admitted, shrugging. "Well, who DOES?" Scully grabbed her cell and dialed. There was no answer. Digging into her pocket, Scully found the small case she carried everywhere she went. She was one of the few women she knew who didn't carry a purse, and since her FBI credentials served very well for identification in most cases, she had all but stopped carrying a wallet. The small vinyl case held six credit cards and a small, business-card sized sheet of laminated paper. It was a list of phone numbers she might need from time to time, numbers she called so infrequently that they were not in her speed dial. She found Byer's portable number and quickly dialed it. "Byers," his voice answered. "It's Scully. I need the address." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Too bad Inspector Cahill couldn't make it," Dupree sneered. "I was looking forward to killing her." Mulder didn't say a word. He was concentrating on not falling. "Just as I'm looking forward to killing you," Dupree added. "What? Don't you want to tell me your evil plan for ridding the world of criminals that shouldn't enjoy the protection of the government? The same criminals that killed your wife?" Dupree's eyes darkened. "You don't know anything about that," Dupree said. "You don't know-" "The hell I don't," Mulder wheezed, trying to lever himself up a little more. If I can just get my hands up... "You don't know dick," Dupree said again. "My partner..." Mulder gasped. "Scully..." "The redhead," Dupree asked. Mulder heard a noise behind him and realized what was happening. Alex Cahill was following his path, inching down the far side of the car, completely out of Dupree's view. Be careful, Alex, he thought. Please. I need you. "Scully was kidnapped a few years ago...by men in power, Dupree. I know exactly how you feel." "What?" Dupree sneered. "Powerless? Helpless?" "Hardly," Mulder grunted, lifting himself another inch. "Betrayed." Mulder heard a soft grunt behind him and prayed that Dupree hadn't heard it as well. "You put your faith in these men, in their rules of civilized society. The good go free while the bad, the evil get punished. Only it didn't work that way for your wife, and it didn't work that way for Scully." "What happened to her?" Dupree asked. "She came back, unlike my wife." "That's true," Mulder said, trying to remember if Alex was left or right handed. He needed to move to the side to give her a clear shot. "So what happened to her?" Dupree asked again. "They returned her after three months. She had no memory of her time away." "That's science fiction," Dupree said. "I know it sounds like bullshit, but it's the truth. She was gone for three months. When she got back, she had no memory of her time." "I wish I could have been so...lucky," Dupree said softly. "But every day I remember my wife as she was. Before. How wonderful she was, how much we loved each other. And they took that from us!" "From me," he added. "You got yours back," Dupree continued. "Your partner came back. It's not the same as a wife anyway. You got yours back. I WANT MY WIFE BACK!" Dupree stepped back from the edge and drew his pistol. Mulder heard the ratchet of the slide as Dupree chambered a round. "IT IS THE SAME!" Mulder screamed. Dupree paused. "Why?" "Because Scully and I...we're more than partners," Mulder whispered. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Zolinski had spent six years as a Sergeant assigned to the Highway Unit of the NYPD. Highway cars are not the same blue-and-white marked units that are assigned to precincts. They have high-performance pursuit-quality engines, and the officers assigned to Highway attend the United States Secret Service EVOC (Emergency Vehicle Operators Course) after joining the unit, and every two years thereafter for as long as they are assigned. This guy, Scully thought to herself, knows how to >drive<. Mulder had taken her on more than once chase in their time together, but Zolinski drove his car like it was an extension of his body. He seemed to be able to >will< the traffic to move around him. He used the siren sparingly, depending instead on the blip-blip of the electronic air horn. They made it to the location of the Leon King murder in less than six minutes. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree squatted next to Mulder's hands. "You...and that pretty little redhead?" "What about us?" "You're in love?" Mulder nodded, glancing down. He immediately regretted it. He could see Alex Cahill's dangling feet. She was to the middle of the elevator car. Just a few more seconds, he thought. "How cozy," Dupree said snarmily. "It has it's good points," Mulder said reasonably. God, my fingers are tired. "I'm sure it does, Mulder. But that's neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is, you have come here not to arrest me, but to kill me. And I was only doing what was necessary, what was ordained by God." "An eye for an eye?" Mulder asked, stalling for more time. "How can you ask me that? Your own government uses the death penalty. This country has a soft spot in its heart for revenge. Every time some tin-pot dictator pisses off the sitting President, the Air Force sends bombers over to level his tent or his hut or whatever. Don't preach to me, Agent Mulder. I know how the ISU works. You want to kill me." Mulder said nothing. Dupree straightened, leveling his pistol. "Goodbye, Agent Mulder." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Zolinski's LTD Crown Victoria ground to a halt in a collage of screeching brakes and smoking tires. In the distance, Scully could hear the sirens of the responding ESU units. Zolinski had called out the cavalry, and they were coming to beat the band: One of their own was in trouble. Scully reached for her gun and realized she'd given it to Mulder. Zolinski handed her his own backup piece. Pistols drawn, Scully and Zolinski entered the building. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Dupree's head jerked up. "What is...?" he asked. At that moment, Alex Cahill made her move. One hand clutching the wires and cables underneath the elevator car, the other gripping her pistol, Alex swung her legs out, bringing her center of mass over just enough. She had time for one single shot. She saw Mulder's body and realized she was aiming too low. Dupree's head turned back to look at Mulder. Shit! Alex thought. She fired. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Zolinski and Scully were standing in front of the elevator. Zolinski had punched the button sixty times in the last four seconds. Scully, glancing up at the floor display, saw that it wasn't lit. "Chief, I don't think it's working," Scully said. He glanced at the display and grunted. "Shit." From inside the shaft, they heard Alex's shot. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The shot took Dupree low in the shoulder, exiting high. Screaming, he fell back, firing wildly. Mulder cringed, waiting for it, waiting for the bullet to impact against his head or his hands. It wouldn't take much. Just a light grazing and he'd fall to his death. Dupree staggered back and turned to run. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Scully and Zolinski turned towards the fire stairs. Scully went through first. At that moment, the first responding ESU units hit the door. Draped in ballistic body armor and carrying assault weapons, they swarmed over the lobby. One of them pinned Zolinski with his MP-5. "FREEZE!" he shouted. "I'm on the job!" Zolinski screamed, his pistol held high, his other hand digging for his shield. "I'm on the job!" The cop waited patiently, knowing that if the man in front of him returned with anything but a credentials case, the finger wrapped loosely around the trigger of the MP5 was going to take out the four pounds of slack and put three rounds into the man's chest from a distance of six feet. Zolinski's fingers fumbled the case in his pocket once, twice, and then found purchase. He unfolded it with two shaking fingers and held it aloft. "Chief Zolinski!" he screamed. The ESU cop lowered his weapon. "What the-" "Up there!" Zolinski said, pointing at the stairs. "MrKnife!" ESU responded. As a unit, all seven officers turned and assaulted the staircase. They did it the way they'd been taught: One man went through the door and rolled left, the next one right, their weapons pointed at specific coordinates. They moved with jerky, almost robotic movements. A choreographed dance of death. Scully was already on the third landing, heading up. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Mulder heaved himself up and immediately turned, his stomach flat on the floor, leaning out with his hand. "Alex! Take my hand!" he called. Alex realized she was going to have to drop her weapon. She let it go with a soft curse and then swung back and forth, building momentum. At the last moment possible she let go and reached, realizing that she had only one chance, that if Mulder missed she would... He caught her hand, grunting with the effort. He started inching back, pulling her as hard as he could. As soon as Alex had her free hand on the lip of the doors, he heaved and she levered. They ended up in a tangle of arms and legs on the sixth-floor carpet. "Where did he go?" Alex asked, standing. "Fire stairs!" Mulder yelled, tossing her Scully's pistol. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= As any police officer can tell you, things like this tend to happen all at once. One moment, you're chasing a wounded suspect, the next, everything turns to shit. Which, of course, is exactly what happened. Scully was rounding the fourth-floor landing. Dupree, hearing the commotion, realized what was happening and opened the door to the fifth floor and stepped inside. Scully headed up to five, turned, and realize too late that something or someone was behind her. She felt his hand clamp around her neck at exact moment she heard him whisper "BITCH!" in her ear. She heard Mulder and Cahill above her, descending quickly. This was going to shit, she thought. Over the sound of her own breathing, Dupree's labored, painful gasps, Mulder and Cahill, Scully also heard the heavy bootbeats of the ESU team ascending, and behind them, the shouts of Zolinski. "Don't move," Dupree ordered. She felt the press of a pistol against her kidney and froze. "FREEZE!" the lead ESU officer screamed. Mulder spun around the landing, half a floor above, his pistol held in two hands. Alex skidded to a stop on his heels. "Checkmate," Dupree said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Nothing happened for perhaps five full seconds. Everyone stared at Scully and Dupree. Scully stared at Mulder, willing him to do something, anything to get her out of Dupree's grip. "No one moves, or the bitch gets it," Dupree said, and then laughed. What a clich,, he thought. Alex, standing six inches away from Mulder, felt him tense. "Aw, fuck me," he whispered. "Very clever, Agent Mulder. Lulling me into believing that Inspector Cahill had fallen to her death. Very clever. I should have known it was a ruse when the scream didn't sound like a girl's scream." Despite the situation, despite the panic they both felt, Mulder and Scully locked eyes and a pair of conversations held long ago flew through their minds. Are you sure it wasn't a girly scream, Mulder? They smiled each other. And in that moment, Scully knew how this was all going to end. Mulder started down the steps slowly. "I said freeze, Mulder," Dupree said, almost conversationally. He fully expected Mulder to stop where he was and await further orders. After all, that was the way it always happened, wasn't it? He had the hostage and the gun, so he made the rules. Only Mark Dupree never counted on Fox Mulder. It was Roche all over again, Modell one more time. Mulder, sick and tired of playing the game by the rules that the madmen themselves made, chose this one time to ignore them completely. And since he was walking, almost >strolling< down the stairs, not moving quickly, not blitzing him, Dupree had no time to realize what was happening until it was almost over. Mulder simply walked down the last four steps, placed the barrel of his pistol against Dupree's forehead and pulled the trigger. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The shot was loud, abrupt. Everyone watched, gape-jawed and shocked, as Dupree crumpled to the ground. Scully staggered forward and fell into Mulder's embrace, wrapping her arms around his back. Mulder held her for a second and then gently pushed her away, knowing that Scully would be embarrassed to show that kind of emotion in front of all these people. Surprising them both, Scully held on even tighter, burying her face against Mulder's chest. The embrace was broken by the arrival of Zolinski. Pushing past the ESU team, Zolinski hit the landing and stopped, staring down at Dupree's dead body. "What happened?" he demanded. "I killed him," Mulder said softly. Zolinski's eyes flickered to Cahill. He met a jut-jawed stare that defied him to ask any more questions. "Who's in command here?" Zolinski demanded. Everyone exchanged glances. "Uh, you are, Chief," the ESU Team Leader said. "That's RIGHT!" Zolinski confirmed. "And if any of you want to have a career in this department after tonight, no one will say a word about what happened here until I talk to them." He looked in each man's eyes, holding the stare for a long moment. "Is that clear?" Mumbles of assent greeted his demand. "Someone call EMS," Zolinski ordered. "And get the Crime Scene Unit and the Deputy Medical Examiner." "Don't forget the press," someone said quietly. Zolinski ignored it. Together, Zolinski, Cahill, Mulder and Scully made their way downstairs. Emerging into the street, they found a circus. EMS had already responded, answering the calls of the tenants that had overheard the gunfire. Precinct blue-and-whites were parked haphazardly on the street, doors open, bubble lights still flashing. At the corner, a WCBS-TV news truck noses onto the sidewalk, spilling crew onto the street. Zolinski tapped Mulder on the shoulder. "Thanks," he said simply, offering his hand. Mulder shook it and smiled shyly. "Anytime, Chief." Zolinski shook his head. "No more for me, Mulder. This was my last hurrah. I'm retiring." He cocked his head towards Cahill. "Gotta make way for the up-and-comers." Casey Tan pushed her way through the crowds of cops and onlookers, a microphone clutched in one hand. Thrusting it into Zolinski's face, she yelled her question. "CHIEF! DOES THIS MEAN THE REIGN OF TERROR-" Zolinski held his hands up, stopping Casey in her tracks. "I'll have a statement shortly. For right now, all I can tell you is that the man known as MrKnife was tracked to this location by a joint task force of the FBI and NYPD, and in a confrontation with police, was regrettably killed. Other than that, for right now I have no comment." Scully's hand found Mulder's. Tugging on his fingers, she smiled up at him. "Let's go home," she said softly. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Epilogue Detective First Grade Daryl Hicks was given an Inspector's Funeral by the New York Police Department. He was awarded both the Combat Cross and the Medal of Valor, the NYPD's highest decoration. His gold Detective's shield was retired so that no other detective would ever be able to wear it, and the original shield was mounted on a plaque in the lobby of One Police Plaza, surrounded by those of his brother and sister officers who were felled in the line of duty. Detective First Grade Sam Cross was medically retired from the Bureau of Detectives and hired back as an investigative consultant by the citywide Major Case Squad of the New York Police Department. He lectures at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, CCNY, Iona College and Fordham Law School, as well as at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center and the FBI Academy. As a result of the injuries sustained on the night that Mark Dupree was apprehended, Sam Cross will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill was promoted to Inspector, making her the youngest member of the department so promoted in its one- hundred year history, male or female. She retained command of the Citywide Major Case Squad and continues to serve as Commanding Officer. Chief Zolinski retired six days after the capture of Mark Dupree. He moved to Boca Raton, Florida, and serves as the Chief of the Boca Raton Auxiliary Police Force, a volunteer position. Hours before his retirement, Zolinski was interviewed by both the Internal Affairs Bureau of the NYPD and the Office of Professional Responsibility from the FBI. His statement as to the events that occurred in the building previously inhabited by Leon King were immediately sealed. The commanding officer of the ESU team that responded to Zolinski's call for help was similarly interviewed by IAD and the OPR, and his statement (along with the statements of all the ESU team members,) were also sealed. The Manhattan District Attorney's office, after reviewing the statements of Inspector Alex Cahill, Chief Zolinski and the entire ESU team declared that the "death by gunshot" of one Mark Dupree was, in fact, justified use of deadly force by a law enforcement officer under New York State Law and issued a finding that the case would not be presented to the Grand Jury seeing as how the life of a federal law enforcement officer was in clear and present danger and that Special Agent Fox William Mulder acted within the guidelines set forth under law. The OPR found similarly that Special Agent Mulder acted within policy. A note was entered into his personnel file stating such. Special Agent Mulder kept his word to Casey Tan and laid the entire case out for her. Realizing that if she were to air the story that Chief Deputy Marshall Deputy Everett would most likely be terminated with cause, Casey elected to air only a portion of the story, winning her both a local Emmy award for Deadline News Reporting and a New York Broadcasting Association "Newsie" for the same category. Chief Deputy Marshall Tim Everett was promoted to District Chief Deputy Marshall and transferred to Headquarters, United States Marshals Service, Washington, DC. He is still married. Special Agents Mulder and Scully were shortly transferred back to the X-Files. SAC Tony Littleton wrote a letter of commendation and thanks for the services that Special Agents Mulder and Scully rendered with their temporary assignment to the Investigative Support Unit. The Office of Professional Responsibility elected not to pursue what had come to be internally known as "The Tucson Incident." THE END