ELS Chapter 7 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 : November 8, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 7/? Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : R (Violence) Story Rating : NC-17 (Violence) Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm Summary : While Scully and Mulder have some sharp words for each other over the state of their relationship, Captain Cahill and Detectives Cross & Hicks continue the investigation into the mysterious King and Wagner/ Nelson murders. Spoilers : Pilot, Deep Throat, Irressistable Casting : Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree" : Helen Hunt, "Captain Alex Cahill" : Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross" : Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks" : Robert Beltran, "Detective Chavez" 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. Enjoy! +=+=+=+=+===+=+= 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." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 7