ELS Chapter 2 By Dawson E. Rambo 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. Posting Date : October 21, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 2/? Classification : SRA Chapter Rating : R (Violence, Language) Story Rating : NC-17 Casting : John Ashton, "Detective Boyle" : Steve Buscemi, "Laslo Moran" : Barbara Barrie, "Estelle" : Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree" : Alec Baldwin, "Tony Littleton" Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm Summary : Scully and Mulder arrive at Quantico Barracks, Virginia, to start their temporary assignment with ISU. Spoilers : Squeeze, Tooms, Lazarus, Never Again, Pilot, Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose, Syzygy. Content Warnings: Violent content, adult language. 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. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 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." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 2