ELS
Chapter 8
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    :
Archive Entry   : "ELS" Chapter 8/?
Classification  : SRA MSR
Chapter Rating  : R (Violence)
Story Rating    : NC-17 (Violence)
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm
Summary         : Scully and Mulder travel to a maximum security prison to 
		  discuss aspects of the case with convicted serial
		  torturer & murderer James Lee Dysan. Meanwhile, Captain
		  Alex Cahill, and Detectives Sam Cross and Daryl Hicks
		  receive some interesting vistors that shed some light
		  on the continuing investigation into the King/Wagner
		  murders.
Spoilers        : None that I can think of, but up to US5 to be safe.
Casting         : Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree"
                : Helen Hunt, "Captain Alex Cahill"
                : Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross"
                : Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks"
                : Robert Beltran, "Detective Chavez"
                : Joe Pantoliano, "James Lee Dysan"
                : Clancy Brown, "Deputy Williams"
                : Kevin Dunn, "Deputy Evergreen"

NOTE: Yes, I am aware that the character Jimmie Lee Dysan appears in
my unfinished novel "Stalkers." The only thing that is the same is
the character's name. None of the character traits that appear in
"Stalkers" are present in this character. I just think it's a good name 
for a serial killer, that's all. 

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Portland Police Headquarters

        The elevator ride was pure torture. Mulder studied the panel
lights, watching as they slowly incremented. Scully was on the other
side of the car, arms folded, leaning against the wall, staring at the
ceiling.
        Mulder chewed on the inside of his cheek, an absurd thought
running through his mind. From day one, he thought, from day one,
every single goddamn time we've been in an elevator, she was close
enough for me to touch. Now...now we're in a 'relationship,' and she's
on the other side of the car.
        "I was just thinking," he said gently, "that we might have to
break up to get close again."
        Scully's head came down. She stared at him for what seemed to
be a full minute before smiling softly. "Mulder..." She stepped
closer, her hand reaching out for his. He took it, feeling her fingers
lace with his.
        "What floor are they on?" she asked.
        "Sixteen."
        She glanced at the panel lights. They were just passing
twelve.
        Turning her head back to face him, Scully reached up and
brushed an invisible piece of lint off of his lapel. "There are times
I want to kiss you and there are times I want to slug you, Mulder."
        "Which is this?" he asked, allowing his eyes to defocus for a
minute to take in the panel. Thirteen.
        "I'm not sure, Mulder, and that's why I'm scared. Why I'm
confused. Why I'm sending mixed signals. I don't mean to do it." She
glanced over her shoulder again. Fourteen.
        "Before, it was easy," she continued, speaking quickly. "We
both knew where we stood, on opposite sides of a line that divided us
clearly. Now, we've crossed the line...a little."
        Mulder nodded, reaching down to quickly cup her face in one
hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. "We'll talk about this later,
Scully. As long as we keep talking..."
        She nodded and pulled away smoothly as the ding! announced
they had arrived. When the doors slid open, Scully was standing
slightly in front of him. Her usual cool, professional expression
fixed firmly on her face, Scully stepped into the Homicide Task Force
squadroom.
        Scully and Mulder entered the bullpen and immediately noticed
the increased level of activity.
        "We're going out to the crime scene," Chavez announced.
        "Where and who?" Mulder asked.
        "About ten miles west of here, a heavily wooded area. We don't
know who yet. We're not even sure it's one of ours. It's just a
deceased naked female, and the body positioning is the same. So we're
pretty-"
        "Scully and I have somewhere else to go," Mulder announced.
"Please call us when the body's been transported to the morgue."
        Chavez's face grew red. "Where the hell else do you have to
go?" he asked.
        "To visit a monster," Mulder said softly.
        Scully bit her lip, silencing the question on her lips.
        "James Lee Dysan," Mulder explained, both to Chavez and to
Scully. When he looked at her, his eyes begged her understanding.
        Chavez's eyes widened. "What the hell do you want with that
psycho?"
        "His MO was very similar to our UNSUB's," Mulder explained.
"I'm hoping that he can give us some insight."
        "Mulder," Chavez said loudly, "we need you here, helping us,
not off gallivanting around the state playing kissy-face with a
convicted serial murderer. That's what VICAP is all about, Mulder!"
        Mulder's face went flat.
        Uh-oh, Scully thought.
        "No, Detective Chavez, that is _not_ what VICAP is all about.
VICAP was founded on the concept of interviewing convicted criminals
to gain an insight into the minds of UNSUBs. I'm just continuing a
grand tradition, Chavez. Get over it."
        With that, Mulder spun on his heel and left. After a moment,
Scully followed him.
        In the elevator on the way down, Scully turned to her partner,
arms crossed. "Do you really think Dysan can help?"
        "Can't hurt," Mulder muttered.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Kawukanatuk Maximum Security Penitentiary
Kawukanatuk, Maine

        They were met at the visitor's gate by the Deputy Warden, a
huge, florid-faced man whose nametag read "Watkins." He wore a
portable radio in a holster on one side of his belt, and a PR-24
through a ring on the other.
        Things did not get off to a good start.
        "I don't know who the hell you people think you are," he
began, "but I do not appreciate having the FBI show up unannounced and
ordering my people around like waiters."
        Scully glanced at Mulder, wondering if he wanted her to handle
this. The entire ride over had been spent in silence, and Scully knew
that Mulder was trying to get inside another monster's head.
        And succeeding.
        "Mr. Watkins,"
        "WARDEN Watkins," he corrected her.
        Sighing, Scully tried again. "Very well. Warden Watkins, we're
not just two random FBI agents that get a thrill out of making demands
from local law enforcement or the penal system. We're part of the
VICAP Response Team Squad, and we have a hot case right now. My
partner is a VICAP Profiler, and he needs to talk to Dysan, and needs
to talk to him now. The lives of nine women may ride on this."
        Watkins, who had a plug of what was obviously chewing tobacco
jammed between his cheek and gum, worked his lips, turned to the side
and spat a stream of brown saliva at the ground.
        "Just so's you don't forget...when it's time to give credit
where it's due, don't you forget how we helped you."
        Scully nodded, finally beginning to see the problem. "Very
well, Warden Watkins. I'll be sure to mention your...cooperation in my
report, and to the press, if I'm lucky enough to speak to them."
        Watkins smiled, his teeth stained brown from years of tobacco
use. "Well then, we don't have a problem, I guess."
        They checked their weapons with the gate guard and followed
Watkins inside past several checkpoints. At each one they were
examined closely by the guard on the other side of the bars. Each time
they were found acceptable, and the doors would slide open on greased
tracks, only to slam shut behind them with a deep, bone-jarring clang!
that shook Scully to her core.
        She hated prisons.
        They ended up in a visiting area. There was a long room
divided in half by two-inch-thick Plexiglas with chairs on either
side. Convicts on one side, friends, family members, lawyers and other
visitors on the other. Communication was accomplished via a two-way
radio system that used telephones.
        "We've got you set up in Interview Room C," Watkins said. "Mr.
Dysan will be brought down shortly."
        Mulder glanced around the room and nodded. "This will be fine,
Warden. Thank you."
        Watkins grunted and waddled off.
        Mulder and Scully stood there for a moment, neither one of
them very eager to enter the room.
        "Listen," Mulder finally said, "I need to tell you a couple
things." He glanced down the hallway, his eyes far away. "I'm going to
have to say and do some things in there that are going to shock you,
Scully." He paused. "Aside from Boggs and Roche...how many prisoners
have you...been around...inside?"
        Scully shrugged. "I'm not sure."
        "Well...there's a code of conduct among prisoners. Certain
things you do and don't do, no matter what. The way I'm going to get
inside this maggot's head is to push all his buttons. Every last one.
I'm going to need your help, Scully."
        "Anything, Mulder."
        He sighed. "Listen to me, Scully..." He reached out his hand,
finding her left bicep and squeezing gently. "Listen carefully. If I
do, or say something that you just cannot handle, please just get up
and leave. Don't try and correct me, don't make any faces, don't roll
your eyes. These guys are cobras, Scully. Snakes of the highest order.
They sense even the smallest bit of division between us, he thinks you
don't trust me, that you're not with me a hundred and ten percent, and
our time here is wasted. Just follow my lead. If you can't, I'll
understand. This is going to get..."
        "Ugly," Scully finished, finally beginning to understand what,
exactly, that word meant. She glanced around. No one could see them.
"Mulder," she said softly. His eyes found hers. "You're the expert in
this. I trust you. I'll do whatever you want, as long as you promise
to explain to me after it's over why we did anything that I don't
agree with. Can you understand why I need to know?" Mulder's head
bobbed once, twice. "Fine. One last thing...if you get in too deep, I
want you to give me a signal so the guards can get him out of there. I
remember Clay, Mulder. It was only a few days ago. I want to be able
to protect you, too."
        He smiled. Scully had never seen that smile on his face
before, and it made her uncomfortable.
        "Scully...if it will make you feel better, I'll tug my left
ear if I get in too deep. But you won't see that signal." He paused.
"If anyone screams to get out of that room, it's going to be Dysan,
not me."
        Scully took a step back, frowning at her partner.
        "Let's go in," Mulder said. "It's very important that we set
the stage for this."
        They went inside, Scully opening her briefcase and removing a
few case files. She opened one or two of them, spreading the contents
on the narrow table. Mulder found a few crime scene pictures from
Dysan's portfolio and moved them around as if he'd been studying
them. "Find a legal pad. Make notes. Anything that Dysan says that
sounds like he's bragging, make notes. I don't care what you write,
but don't write shit unless he's in his 'Look at how evil I am' mode.
Look at him with the most cool, detached expression you can manage.
No matter what he says, no matter how disgusting it is, just ignore
him. He will try to intimidate you, to gross you out, to make you feel
scared and humiliated. Don't let him." Mulder took off his jacket and
rolled his sleeves up as he spoke. "Remember this: First, you're
leaving here today, and he isn't. Second, he's the scum of the Earth,
a monster in human form. He's not a person, Scully. He's a thing.
Third...no matter how dirty you feel after this, and you <will> feel
dirty, Scully...no matter how dirty you feel...I'll always-"
        Mulder broke off as the door opened.
        James Lee Dysan, lead by Deputy Warden Watkins and another
guard, slowly shuffled into the room. He was wearing handcuffs and leg
irons. He glanced around the room with intelligent eyes, and Scully
pursed her lips. There was something wrong about his eyes, and it took
her a moment to realize what. James Lee Dysan had one blue eye and one
brown eye.
        Like a Husky, she thought.
        "Mr. Dysan," Mulder said politely. Dysan nodded and hooked a
chin at Scully.
        "Who's the bitch?"
        "That," Mulder said slowly, pointedly, "is Special Agent Dana
Scully, MD. You will address her as Dr. Scully, or in the alternative,
Special Agent Scully. If you call her 'bitch' again, I will instruct
Warden Watkins to break one of your fingers."
        Dysan laughed. It was an evil, hollow sound, but he nodded.
        "Ok...tough guy, huh?"
        "Tough enough," Mulder said slowly.
        Dysan grinned, lifted his hands the three inches the handcuffs
allowed. "Awfully easy to be tough when you got me trussed up like a
Christmas turkey."
        "Remove the restraints," Mulder said slowly.
        Watkins looked like he was about to argue, but he clamped his
mouth shut and went about removing Dysan's hardware.
        "You are excused," he said to Watkins and the other guard.
Again, the Warden looked as if he was about to argue, but instead he
nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
        "Who'n fuck are you?" Dysan asked.
        "I am also a Special Agent of the FBI, and I am also a doctor.
You have a choice, Dysan. You can call me Agent Mulder, Mr. Mulder,
Mulder, or Dr. Mulder. Anything else will result in punishment. The
severity of that punishment will depend on the nature and severity of
your offense. Is that clear?"
        "Fuck-"
        "Yes or no, Mr. Dysan. I am trying to be polite and
professional."
        "Yes, Mr. Mulder," Dysan parroted.
        "Very good, Mr. Dysan." Mulder moved to sit down across the
table from the prisoner. Without looking, he reached over to his right
and drew several photographs towards himself.
        "Do you know why we have requested an interview?" Mulder
asked.
        "I have no fucking idea," Dysan replied.
        Mulder chose to ignore the obscenity.
        "Mr. Dysan, in certain circles within the FBI, you are
somewhat famous. You were an extraordinarily hard man to catch. It
took us less than six months to identify that a serial murderer was
working in this part of the country, but almost two years to narrow
our suspect list down. And when the State Trooper happened to stop
your truck for running a stop sign, you had already been eliminated as
a suspect. If that Trooper had not caught you, it is quite possible
that you would have been able to continue killing for a long, long
time."
        Dysan said nothing.
        "How does that make you feel?"
        "What? That the pig caught me?"
        "That," Mulder said slowly, "and the fact that he took all the
fun out of your life."
        Dysan looked like he was about to answer, but at the last
moment he changed his mind and remained silent.
        "That's what it was...fun, right?" Mulder pressed. "I mean,
you obviously enjoyed your work." He glanced down at the crime scene
photograph. "I mean, judging by your fourth victim, you certainly had
a taste for your work. A skill, one might say. I mean, using a field
telephone to send an electrical charge through your victim's body by
connecting the leads to both breasts and her anus...that shows a
certain inventiveness. A certain...elan, if you will."
        "I don't know what that word means," Dysan admitted.
        "It means, sir, that you have a certain flair for
administering pain before you murder your victims. During your trial it
became clear to us at the FBI that you were not a serial murderer. You
were a serial torturer who murdered to cover up your other crimes. In
other words, sir, you were not a killer, per se. You were forced to
kill by circumstance. You took no joy, no pleasure in killing your
victims. For you, the joy, the pleasure, the fun of it was in giving
them pain."
        Dysan's eyes slid off Mulder's face. He stared at a corner of
the room.
        "So...I guess I have a few questions for you."
        "I ain't gonna answer shit," Dysan said.
        "Sure you are," Mulder said slowly, gently.
        "Says who?"
        "Me," Mulder said. His voice was quiet, soft.
        "What's in it for me?"
        "Well, for starters, I'll get you moved into another block,
Dysan. I hear that you...made some friends in your current situation."
        Dysan's head snapped around. "What the fuck you talking
about?"
        Mulder grinned. "I heard you turned bitch."
        Dysan swallowed and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front
of him on top of the table. "I will kill any man that says that about
me," he said slowly.
        "I heard," Mulder continued, "that you get down on your knees
for any man on the block. That you like it. That you beg for it."
Mulder shrugged, making a 'what can you do?' gesture with his hands.
"I mean, I can understand it. Locked away for the rest of your life,
no women to rape, torture or kill. Gotta do something to pass the
time. I guess sucking cock _could_ be considered a hobby."
        Dysan was out of his chair in a flash, his hands coming down
flat on the table, hard. "I'll kill you," he whispered.
        Unfazed, Mulder made a 'sit-down' gesture with his hand.
"Down, or I'll break your arm," he said gently.
        Slowly, Dysan sat.
        "And besides, you won't kill me," Mulder continued. "I'm not
your speed. I mean, I must have five, six inches on you. And I'm not a
woman." Mulder pulled another sheet from the file towards him so he
could read it. "I'm not a short, weak little woman. I can struggle. I
can kick your ass. Not like your victims." Mulder glanced up at Dysan.
"I'm not a weak little woman like Agent Scully here."
        Magnetized by Mulder's words, Dysan's eyes were drawn to
Scully. She stared back at him, her eyes flat, hard.
        Dysan licked his lips.
        The snap of Mulder's fingers was loud in the room. "Over here,
Dysan."
        Dysan sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. Scully knew what was
happening: The worm was reliving a torture-murder in his mind. He was
remembering his hands on the body, touching, twisting, causing pain,
ecstasy.
        Scully felt as if she would vomit.
        "And that's not all I'll do for you, Dysan."
        The killer's eyes fluttered open. "What else?" he croaked.
        "Well, in this case, it's what I won't do. See, Watkins knows
which hacks and cons are in the shit together. Who's moving what,
where and when. He may not know exactly how, but I won't need that,
will I? All I need to do is drag your ass through the block, stop at a
cell, look in and ask you if he's the guy you mean. Only thing lower
than a punk on the block is a rat punk." Mulder hesitated. "You wanna
be a rat punk, Dysan? Or you want to help me and my partner?"
        Dysan swallowed.
        "Or maybe you'd like that. I mean, word gets out that you
snitched, you won't be wanting for friends. You'll be swapping warm
spit in the shower with the entire population, I'd imagine. Nice,
upstanding white boy like you...you'll be very popular, word gets
out."
        Dysan swallowed again.
        "That's blackmail."
        "Well, duh," Mulder said, shaking his head, his eyes wide.
"What, you thought that since we caught you, we gotta play by the
rules? VICAP doesn't have any rules, Dysan. You know that. You know
what they call us."
        "...The Jedi Knights," Dysan muttered.
        "That's right, Dysan. The Jedi Knights. The rules don't apply
to us. There's no recording device running in this room; there's no
one behind the one-way glass. It's you, me, and my partner. No
witnesses." Mulder leaned across the table, looked deeply into Dysan's
eyes and smiled. "I can do anything I want to you."
        A moment later there was a crack!
        Mulder's hand had moved faster than Scully could track it. One
moment both of his palms had been flat against the surface of the
table; the next, Dysan's head was turned to the side, a red mark of
palm against face blooming on his left cheek.
        "I can kick the shit out of you, no one will say dick. You
call your lawyer. Shit, I'll let you use my cellphone. Guards,
Watkins, even my partner will say you got into a beef with another con
and it turned ugly." Mulder sat back down, snorting. "Shit, I could
make you vanish, if I wanted to."
        Dysan raised a hand to his face. "The last man that touched me
like that...regretted it," he said carefully.
        Mulder stood, using his fingers in a come-here motion.
"Bring it on, Dysan."
        The killer didn't move.
        After a minute, Mulder retook his seat. "That's what I
thought. Punk."
        Dysan twitched.
        "Cocksucking punk."
        Dysan twitched again.
        Scully looked away, unable to watch Mulder verbally torturing
this man.
        "What do you want from me?" Dysan moaned.
        Mulder sat back, spreading his hands. "I want to pick your
brain. I want you to answer my questions without bullshit, without
bragging."
        "About what?"
        Mulder shrugged. "About anything, Dysan. First time I think
you're lying, this discussion is over. And then what passes for your
life will be over."
        Dysan nodded, his shoulders slumping. "Ask your damn
questions."
        Mulder sat back, cracking his knuckles one by one. "How did
you pick them?"
        "I told-"
        "Dysan...you know the drill. We go over it again and again,
looking for inconsistencies. So...how did you pick them?"
        Dysan closed his eyes, leaning forward, lowering his head onto
his arms. "They picked themselves," he moaned.
        "How?" Mulder asked.
        Dysan just shook his head. "It's...hard."
        Mulder glanced at Scully. She turned away, unable to look at
him when he was this way. He stared at her until she glanced back. He
made a small motion with his head towards Dysan.
        No, her eyes said.
        A look of disgust flitted across Mulder's face.
        Sighing loudly, Scully let the pad she was holding drop to the
table with a loud splat!
        How? her eyes asked.
        Mulder shrugged. You'll figure it out. Go with your instincts.
        Scully, hands on hips, walked behind Dysan's seat and slowly
began pacing. The click of her heels against the cement floor was loud
in the room.
        "Do you know why the walls are green in here?" she asked
quietly.
        "N-no," Dysan mumbled.
        "To hide the blood," Scully answered. "Back when it was still
accepted to beat confessions out of people, the green color hid the
bloodstains."
        Dysan twitched when Scully said "beat confessions."
        "How did they pick themselves, Dysan?" She stopped and leaned
over his back, whispering in his ear. "Did they wear slutty clothes?
Was that it? High heels? Too much makeup? What was it, Dysan? Why did
you...select them?"
        "T-they w-wanted it," he stuttered.
        She straightened. "I doubt that."
        "They did!" he insisted.
        Mulder, silent, watched.
        "How do you know, Dysan? How do you know they wanted it?"
        "They t-told me!"
        Mulder spoke up. "Ah, yes...the tapes."
        "Tapes?" Scully asked.
        "Video and audio," Mulder nodded. "That was one of the things
that helped secure the conviction. That was also one of the things
that the defense tried to use as exculpatory evidence."
        "How so?" Scully asked, ignoring, for the moment, the
quivering form of Jimmie Lee Dysan.
        "Well, while he was torturing the women, he'd make them beg
for it. He tried to use those tapes to show that the sex was
consensual."
        Scully frowned at Dysan's form. She leaned down again. "With
you? Consensual sex? I doubt it, Dysan. I doubt that any woman in her
right mind, any woman with an ounce of self-respect would want your
hands on her body. The thought...the thought of you touching me makes
me want to puke." She paused. "And that was the problem, wasn't it? No
one wanted you, Dysan. No one wanted you. So you had to take them, had
to make them want you."
        Mulder nodded, encouraging her.
        "So you saw a woman you wanted, knew you couldn't have her...
and you took her. Took her to your little chamber of horrors and you
punished her for not wanting you. Made them scream for you. Forced
them to admit they wanted you. But you knew...you knew, you sick
son-of-a-bitch, that they really didn't want you, not deep down, that
you had to force them to say it, that you had to _torture_ them to say
it. And so it wasn't enough. It was never enough. You had to find
another one, and then another one, and before long it wasn't even
about them wanting you or not wanting you...it was about pain. Giving
them pain for not wanting you. Is that it? IS THAT IT?!"
        Dysan was sobbing, wincing at her words.
        Mulder caught Scully's eye and held up a placating hand.
        Winded, Scully stopped, hands on hips and turned to face the
two-way mirror. She ran a hand through her hair, taking a deep,
calming breath. If this was profiling, she thought, Mulder can have
it.
        "Now that we've established exactly what transpired," Mulder
remarked dryly, "perhaps we can continue."
        Dysan continued to sob.
        "Jimmie..." Mulder whispered, leaning forward, "what do you
think the other cons would say if they saw you blubbering like a
four-year-old? Reduced to a pile of tears by a mere woman?"
        "B-bitch!" Dysan hissed.
        Scully spun on him, her hand moving towards his head, fingers
extended to grab his hair.
        Mulder stood, moving to block her.
        She stopped.
        "Dysan!" she snapped. "Answer his questions!"
        Slowly, the man raised his head from the table. "God, I hate
this," he mumbled.
        "Tough," Mulder said. "Now...we're looking for another
monster, another sick son of a bitch. You ever see the movie 'Silence
of the Lambs?' Well, I'm Jodie Foster and you're that Hannibal guy. I
need you to help me catch this prick."
        Dysan nodded, swallowing noisily and then sniffling. "Will you
leave me alone?"
        Mulder nodded, a promise he never intended to keep.
        "What do you want to know?"
        Scully stood behind him, her hands still on her hips,
trembling with rage. "We want to know where to find this guy. We want
you to tell us who to look for."
        "H-how would I know that?"
        "You do, you just don't know you do," Mulder explained. "I'm
going to describe this guy. I want you to tell me where you'd look to
find him. This guy sounds like you and he have something in common. He
likes hurting women just as much as you do. And he has an... obsession
with electricity."
        Dysan's eyes glowed as he remembered. "Yeah," he said, the
word sounding moist in his mouth, the sound someone would make when
the moaned a lover's name.
        Scully turned away, disgusted.
        Mulder slowly read him the partial profile he'd written, and
then went over the crime scene details slowly, one by one. Dysan asked
for a notepad. Scully gave him hers, making a mental note not to touch
it without gloves.
        "So..." Mulder said ninety minutes later. "What do you think?"
        "He's going to be older," Dysan said. "Closer to forty than
thirty. He's taken a long time to build up all this anger. He hates
them. He really, truly hates women."
        "Sounds like you're speaking from experience," Scully snapped.
        Mulder glanced at her, a warning in his eyes.
        She ignored him.
        "He's drugging them. That's the only way he could get them to
come with him. The thing is...when I'd get one...I'd be so eager to
start, so hungry, that I couldn't wait. And I didn't want them to
scream, to make any trouble. So I drugged them."
        Scully shook her head. "I'm a pathologist, Dysan. I did the
autopsies myself. The tox screen came back negative on each one."
        He laughed. "There are dozens of drugs that I can think of
that you wouldn't find unless you were looking for them. Diluted
curare, for one."
        "That'll kill them!" Scully objected.
        "Not if it's diluted enough. One to one-hundred-thousand
should be enough to knock them out and not kill them."
        "What else?" Mulder asked.
        "Morphine," he said with a smile.
        Scully sighed. "How stupid do you think we are? Morphine is an
opiate. We'd see that in a heartbeat."
        Dysan shook his head. "Nope. Not Demerol, either."
        Scully made a "can you believe him?" face at Mulder.
        "Why not?" Mulder asked.
        "Narcan," Dysan said and smiled.
        Scully opened her mouth to say something and then closed it.
"What?" Mulder asked.
        "Give me a minute," she said, thinking. Of course. It made
perfect sense. Perfect evil sense.
        "Narcan is an anti-opiate. It's used by paramedics and ERs to
immediately counteract the effects of any opiate drug. Morphine,
heroin, Demerol, like that. If he uses Morphine, and then later,
Narcan, it's possible it would reduce the effects to such an extent
that the body would flush...breathe...it away."
        "What?"
        Scully continued, thinking aloud. "Opiates are central nervous
system depressors. If you OD, you go into respiratory distress. You
start to breathe slower and slower, perfusion drops, the patient loses
consciousness, and then death. Before Narcan, you had to
hyperventilate the patient to work the drug through their system."
        "With Narcan," Dysan continued, "it's immediate. It's a magic
drug, Dr. Mulder."
        "What's perfusion?"
        "The exchange of oxygen and nutrition for CO2 and waste
products at the cellular level. When your perfusion drops, your brain
doesn't get as much oxygen as it should, and you pass out."
        Scully and Mulder looked at Dysan.
        "You sound like a doctor yourself," Scully muttered.
        Dysan beamed. "I learned a lot about anatomy and physiology,"
he said proudly.
        Scully had a sudden mental image of exactly how he had
learned so much, and she tasted bile at the back of her throat.
        "So, there are ways to drug them without leaving a trace,"
Mulder mused. "Wonderful. So, do we trace morphine suppliers? Is he
stealing the stuff? Does he work for a pharmaceutical company? Can he
get the stuff on the street?"
        Dysan shrugged. "He could use a hotshot of heroin. It has the
same basic effect. He wouldn't use Valium, because it's not an opiate.
Narcan doesn't work on Valium."
        "Is he right?" Mulder asked.
        Scully, mute with shock, just nodded.
        "But the problem with heroin," Dysan continued, "is that
unless he's an able chemist, he can never be sure of the purity. A lot
of the dealers will step on the stuff so hard that the dosage is hard
to gauge. Also, he wouldn't know if the victim is a user herself
unless he was already close to her, or-"
        "He was selling to her," Mulder finished.
        "Any record of them being drug addicts?"
        Scully shook her head. "There was no forensic evidence to
support that. They could have smoked pot or taken recreational drugs,
but none of the three so far showed needle tracks or had any of the
secondary and tertiary internal symptoms of long-term abuse. I'd have
to say no."
        "Ok, so we're back to Morphine or Demerol."
        "But not cocaine, or any stimulant."
        "What about amyl nitrate?"
        "Well, it's a hallucinogen, but I wouldn't count on that.
They could still fight."
        "Ruhipnol," Scully muttered. "Date-rape drug."
        Dysan shook his head. "Can't be given intravenously. Or SubQ.
Has to be ingested."
        Scully nodded, amazed at the man's knowledge of drugs.
        "He's right," she said.
        "Ok, back to Morphine. Is he buying or stealing it?"
        Dysan shrugged.
        "What would you do?" Scully asked.
        "I stole it. Drug stores, dentist's offices, ambulances."
        "Ok," Mulder said to Scully, "we need to tell the Portland PD
to start rousting narcotics dealers, start talking to hospitals and
EMS, drug stores, the usual. See if anyone's reported any kind of
Class II drugs missing, anything. And anything experimental, anything
that would cause drowsiness, anything."
        Scully nodded, unconsciously reaching for Dysan's pad to make
notes. He saw her hesitate and frowned. Carefully, he tore off the
pages he'd made notes on and then used his elbow to slide the pad
closer to her.
        Scully glanced at Mulder without a word, and then took it,
reaching into her pocket for a pen.
        "What else?" Mulder asked.
        "He probably doesn't have a job," Dysan said. "I didn't. I was
living on a small inheritance."
        "Why do you say that about him?" Mulder asked.
        "Because..." Dysan trailed off and glanced at Scully. "Maybe
it'd be better if she didn't hear this," he said softly.
        Scully thought about arguing with him and then thought better
of it. "I'm going to go get some air," she said softly. "I'll call
Chavez with this drug stuff." She got up, walked to the door and let
herself out.
        "Talk," Mulder ordered.
        "I was going to say that...you become obsessed with them. Once
you pick one...she's all you can think about. Night and day, every
single thought is focused on your target. You have enough of your
brain left over to function, but just barely. All I could think about
was getting them, getting them alone and stripping them naked, and
then...doing my things."
        His things, Mulder thought, revolted.
        "You dream about them," Dysan continued. "In my case...I used
to dream about making them scream, about the wonderful music they'd
make as I..." He shrugged, not wanting to say it.
        "When you got them," Mulder wanted to know, "how long did it
take you to...get into it? Get into the groove, so to speak."
        Dysan leaned back, frowning. "You should know that, Mulder.
You of all people should know that. You're a profiler. Don't give me
that. When we started, you asked for total honesty. You even sicced
your partner on me to make the point. Don't bullshit me now, Mulder."
He grinned. "Don't ruin a beautiful friendship."
        Hearing that word come out of his mouth made Mulder gag. He
stood up, walking to the mirror behind Dysan's back, wondering if he
was going to be able to resist the urge to throttle the man.
        "Ok...I understand that you're in the groove from the minute
you select the victim. That's what you wanted me to say, right? What
you wanted to hear?"
        Dysan nodded, and Mulder saw his head move in the mirror.
        Mulder smiled at the mirror.
        On the other side, Scully smiled back, knowing that he
couldn't see her, but knowing that he'd know she was. Mulder pressed
the palm of his right hand against the glass. Touched, Scully did the
same.
        Mulder thought that he could feel the warmth of Scully's hand
through the glass. It gave him strength.
        "So, you think he's got money of his own, right?"
        "He'd have to. Or have a job that no one would notice if he
was gone."
        "Like what?"
        "Cab driver, something like that."
        Mulder turned. "Would that be a way to meet victims?"
        Dysan nodded. "Sure. Anything that brings him into contact
with the world. But, you should know that, Mulder!"
        Mulder nodded. I should have.
        "What else? I mean, besides cab drivers?"
        "Anything like that. Or, like I said, he could have his own
money."
        "Forensic evidence supports that he's using more than one
car. We took some tire tread samples at two dump sites. Different
cars, neither of them typically used for rental fleets."
        "So what's the problem?"
        "Nothing has come back yet. Both sets of tires were the same
type of tires. Both used on trucks, SUVs, like that. But the victims
were last seen getting into a late-model sedan. A Caprice Classic."
        Dysan twisted in his seat. "Don't the cops drive those kinds
of cars?"
        Mulder dropped his hand from the glass at the same moment
Scully reached for her cellphone. She was in the process of dialing
Chavez's number when her hand froze over the keypad. In her limited
reading about the psychology of serial murderers, Scully knew that
often times they tried to insert themselves into the investigation.
        What better way then to head it up?
        She decided to wait for Mulder's opinion.
        "Do you think it could be a cop?" she heard him ask.
        Dysan nodded. "It's hard for me to say that with any kind of
certainty," he said. "Only because it might look like I was trying to
stick it to a cop, seeing as where I'm at."
        "How would a cop get a hold of Morphine?" Mulder wondered
aloud.
        Scully knew the answer to that and was surprised that her
partner didn't. She thought about writing it in lipstick on the
mirror and grinned.
        Sure, she thought. And I'll write REDRUM beneath that.
        Mulder was packing his things on the other side of the mirror.
Finished, he glanced at Dysan and seemed to be considering his next
move. "Thank you," he finally said, offering his hand. "Sorry about
before."
        Dysan looked at it as if it was soiled. "Mulder, if you catch
this prick, make sure to send him here."
        "Why? You want a new cellmate?"
        "Sure. We can relive our murders together."
        Mulder shuddered, knowing that Dysan wasn't kidding.
        "I'll have the guard take you back," he said, withdrawing his
hand. Mulder moved to the door and let himself out. A guard was
standing just outside, a bored expression on his face. "We're done,"
Mulder said.
        The guard nodded and entered the room, a pair of handcuffs and
leg irons clutched in one hand.
        Scully left the observation room and met Mulder in the hall.
        "Evidence locker," she said softly.
        Mulder nodded. "I knew that. I wanted to see if he did. Ok,
call the DEA and find out if there were any large opiate busts in this
area in the last two, three years. If so, find out the case status,
where the evidence is, all that good stuff."
        "Should I call Chavez?" Scully asked. Mulder glanced at her,
smiling at the perfectly enigmatic expression on her face.
        "You're learning, Scully. No. He's not officially a suspect,
but he's not ruled out, either."
        "But you think it's a cop," she said.
        Mulder nodded. "It's very possible. One," he said, ticking the
points off on his fingers, "he has access to the car of the type the
witnesses have reported. Two, he would have access to drugs via the
evidence locker, and finally, most importantly, he would be in a
position to put his victims at ease, to have them respond to his
commands automatically, without thinking. Did you notice any evidence
of handcuff use?"
        Scully shook her head. "No...but restraints were used.
Ligature marks."
        Mulder bit his lip. "Ok, maybe he's not in 'cop' mode when
he's in the groove, as Dysan said."
        "He's an evil little shit," Scully muttered.
        Mulder nodded again. "You got it, partner. As evil as they
come."
        "So now what?"
        "Now we run a make on all dark-colored sedan-type vehicles
registered with municipal police agencies. Four county area. Then we
start quietly investigating who had those vehicles on the days in
question. If we're right, a pattern is going to emerge pretty damn
quickly. I figure....more than three hits, same person in the same car
on the days in question...we got someone to look at a little harder.
Until then, this is just a theory."
        "I guess we should run it out of DC."
        "Good idea. I don't want to alert the local constabulary until
we have to. Bad feelings and all that."
        Scully jammed her hands into her pockets. "You ready to get
out of here?"
        Mulder's head bobbed. "Hell, yeah."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
One Police Plaza
New York City

        Sam Cross and Daryl Hicks entered the squadroom carrying two
large cardboard boxes filled with paper.
        "What's up?" Alex called from her office.
        "Some personnel records. Basically, anyone that was placed
with Omega from the school, and the contents of Wagner's desk."
        "Just what the warrant said, huh?"
        "Not a bit more, boss. You know better than that!"
        Alex smiled. "Any luck tracing the leaseholders?"
        "Not a bit. Every name is a dead end. Mr. Sanders never
existed, according to BCI, NCIC, NYSPIN and FINEST. We drew a blank."
        "Don't worry," Alex said. "Something will break. It always
does."
        As if responding to her words, there was a commotion at the
front of the bullpen. Alex came out from behind her desk to watch as
two very well-dressed men made their way through the maze of desks and
filing cabinets.
        "Captain Cahill?" one of them called out. Every time they
passed a MCS detective, they'd point and ask the same question.
        Finally they came to Sam and Alex.
        "Captain Cahill?" the taller one asked, looking at Sam.
        "Who's asking?"
        "United States Deputy Marshal. Are you Captain Alex Cahill?"
        Sam twisted his mouth into a grin. "No," he said honestly.
"I'm not."
        "Shit!" the shorter one said, looking around. "Where the hell
is he? We were told he was in his office."
        "I doubt that," Sam said.
        "You calling me a liar?" the shorter one asked.
        "No, not at all. What were you told...exactly?"
        "We requested to see Captain Cahill. We were told that Captain
Cahill was in the building, probably in the Commanding Officer's
office."
        "Exactly what was the conversation?" Alex asked.
        "Who are you?" the taller one asked.
        "Answer the question, Deputy," Alex said, an edge creeping
into her voice.
        "I asked the Desk Sergeant if Captain Alex Cahill was in his
office. He said, and I quote, that he would check to see if the
Captain was in. He called upstairs, I assume, and then told me that
the captain was in, probably in the Major Cases Squadroom."
        Alex nodded. "So far, Sergeant Anderson was correct."
        "So where is he?" the shorter one demanded.
        Sam glanced at his boss. "Should we put them out of their
misery?" he asked.
        "Sure, what the fuck?" Alex replied.
        "So is Captain Cahill in the office?" the shorter one asked.
"Or not?"
        Alex took a step back into her office.
        "She is now," Sam said with a smirk.
        They both turned to face her. "You're Captain Cahill?"
        "Alex Cahill, NYPD Citywide Major Cases. And how may I help
the Department of Justice's posse?"
        "Very funny, Captain. If I didn't know better, I'd say you
were a fed."
        "I used to be. FBI. Now..." Raising her eyebrows, Alex asked,
"What can I do for you?"
        The two Marshal's glanced at Alex and then pointedly at Sam
Cross.
        "Detective Cross is the squad whip," Alex lied smoothly.
        "I'm sorry," the taller one said, "but this matter is
classified, Captain."
        "Classified?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow.
        The shorter one nodded. "Very," he added.
        "Very well," Alex sighed, nodding the two men into her office.
She waited for them to pass and then shut the door. Walking around
behind her desk she sat and folded her hands in her lap. "Let me
guess. Leon King and John "Jack" Wagner."
        The two Marshals exchanged a glance.
        "That's...How did you...?"
        Alex shrugged. "Contrary to what you might think, we do some
good work here. Especially in Major Cases."
        "That's obvious!" the taller one gushed.
        "So what have you come here to tell me?"
        The taller agent folded his own hands and leaned forward, an
earnest expression fixed on his face. "We wanted to know what, if
anything, you've developed on the case."
        "You said case, not cases," Alex mused. "Does that mean you
think the doer's the same on both?"
        Another exchange of glances.
        "Yes," the taller one said hesitantly.
        "I see. So we were correct in assuming that both victims were
federally protected witnesses?"
        "Yes."
        "Do you think there are going to be any more murders?"
        The shorter one shrugged. The taller one shrugged and then
added, "We hope not."
        Hope, Alex thought, rarely has much to do with homicide
investigation or serial killers. She elected not to share that
particular pearl of information with her two brothers in federal law
enforcement.
        "I see. I guess the main question, then, is...how is the doer
finding your witnesses?"
        Tall bit his lip and nodded. "I agree. That is the most
important question."
        "You mean aside from the identity of the doer."
        "Yes. Of course."
        "Uh-huh," Alex said, not convinced. She could see where this
was going. It was obvious that the US Marshal's Service was not so
much concerned with the fact that two of it's protected witnesses had
died at the hand of an unknown party, a party that had somehow managed
to break the vaunted security of the WITSEC program. They were more
concerned with image-building and protecting the name of both WITSEC
and the USMS.
        "Do you have any suspects?"
        "What do you mean?" Short asked.
        "I mean," Alex explained, "that since the WITSEC database is
not open to any other law enforcement agency in the world, it
logically follows that the doer is either on the inside, or knows
someone that is. Unless you're telling me that your security can be
breached from the outside world?"
        "No, of course not!" Tall protested. He look shocked that Alex
would even suggest such a thing.
        "Either of you familiar with the systems used to store the
information? I mean, really familiar?"
        "How familiar?"
        "Like what kind of network operating system it's using?
Novell? Lantastic? Is it stored in a Oracle database? DB2?"
        Short shook his head, and after a moment studying his nails,
Tall followed suit.
        "So, neither of you is capable of assessing whether or not an
outside attack would succeed."
        "I can assure you, Captain-"
        "Assurances don't count for shit unless you know what you're
talking about, Deputy...I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
        Tall's face went flat. "I didn't give it," he said evenly.
        "I see. So that's how it's going to be. Well, I'm afraid I'll
have to see some identification, otherwise I'll have to arrest you
both for carrying a concealed weapon and failing to properly identify
yourselves to the police."
        "You can't-"
        "Wanna bet?" Alex asked. "I want your names, now."
        Tall sighed. "Joel Williams."
        Short grinned. "Phil Evergreen, like the tree."
        "Alex Cahill, but you already know that. But you didn't know
that I was a woman, which calls into question your intelligence-
gathering ability."
        "Now see here!" Williams started.
        "I was kidding," Alex said with a smile. "I guess the thing to
do is to show you what we have on Mssrs. King and Wagner."
        "Nelson," Evergreen said.
        "Excuse me?"
        "Jack Wagner was born Jack Nelson. Wagner was his cover name
inside the program."
        "What was King's real name?"
        Short shrugged. "King, as far as we can tell. He elected to
keep it when he entered the program."
        "I see. Detectives Cross and Hicks are the primaries working
the cases. We caught the Wagner/Nelson one first, and then the King
one when we discovered that we had certain...similarities between the
cases." Alex drummed her fingers on the desktop. "Let me ask you
another question. Does the name Omega Productions mean anything to
you?"
        Alex nodded with satisfaction as Williams' face paled.
        "I thought so. You may want to recover some files that my
detectives seized during a warrant execution this morning. We were
trying to track down the leaseholders to ask them some questions. If
you don't mind, I'd like to ask Cross and Hicks to join us so they
can bring you up to speed."
        Both Marshals nodded, so Alex punched a button on her phone.
"Sam, grab Daryl and come on in."
        A moment later Detectives Cross and Hicks entered Alex's
office and shut the door.
        "These are Deputy US Marshals Evergreen and Williams. They
have confirmed our suspicions about Mr. King and someone we now know
as Jack Nelson, not John Wagner. Additionally, Omega Productions was a
front for the USMS, or, if not a front, a dumping ground for WITSEC
clients in the Tri-State area. That about cover it, fellas?"
        Evergreen and Williams nodded.
        "Ok, before I let the four of you go play in the sandbox, I
want to know...what did they do?"
        "Excuse me?"
        "What were King and Nelson in WITSEC for, Deputy?"
        "Uh, that information is not-"
        "Now, Williams. Or you get zero help from us."
        Williams flushed, clearly not used to having to deal with
someone demanding answers from him.
        "King was a major drug dealer in Chicago. Nelson is a
pedophile and a child pornography distributor."
        "Was," Alex corrected without thinking. "Nelson's dead."
        "I'm aware of that, Captain!"
        Alex held up her hands in a surrender gesture. "Sorry."
        "You like anyone for the doer?" Cross asked Evergreen.
        "Excuse me?"
        Cross rolled his eyes at Alex. "Do you have any suspects for
the murderer?"
        "Your Captain just asked us that," Williams said officiously.
"We do not."
        "Very well," Cross said, a trace of a veddy propuh English
accent lacing his words.
        "Either of ya'll know anything 'bout yer systems?" Daryl Hicks
asked, lying his native Southern accent on thick. Williams visibly
winced at his words.
        Alex made a motion Williams couldn't see, and Hicks mouthed
"I'm sorry" to his boss.
        "Again, no. Are those the only two questions you people know
how to ask?"
        Alex smiled, leaned forward, hands clasped on her desk. "No,
Deputy Williams. As a matter of fact, no. My next question is: What do
you hope to get from the NYPD? What can you offer us?"
        "Well, I was planning on calling the ISU and having a
profiling team sent up to consult," Williams said smugly.
        Without looking, Alex reached over and dialed a number by
touch. Twelve seconds later, a female voice answered.
        "Scully."
        "Alex, Dana."
        "How did you get my portable?"
        "When you called me. ANI information was saved on my phone."
        Scully sighed. "What can I do for you, Alex?"
        "How long before you and your partner are free from your
current case, Dana?"
        "Why do you ask?"
        "Because I've got two US Deputy Marshals sitting in my office
making noises like they want to get a VICAP RT up here, and since I
happen to be very good friends with one of the Special Agents
assigned to that elite unit, I thought I'd give her a call and see when she's
free."
        Alex's intended message got through. Williams had been
planning to double-team the NYPD. The FBI, in conjunction with the
USMS, would be more federal firepower than the NYPD would be able to
handle. Requests would not be denied, and cooperation would be
required.
        Not any more, Alex thought with a grin.
        She smiled wider as Joel Williams' shoulders slumped.
        Scully hesitated before answering. "Alex, I honestly have no
idea when we're going to be done up here."
        Alex bit her lip. It had been a gamble, but the point had been
made. She wasn't about to let the Marshals push her around.
        "Understood. Any chance of you or your partner flying down for
a day? Just for a quick look-see?"
        Another long pause, during which Alex got the impression
(although she would be hard pressed to explain exactly how,) that Dana
was completely and utterly annoyed with her.
        "Alex, can I call you back in a few hours? I'm really in the
middle of something here."
        "Sure, Dana. I'll be here all day."
        They hung up.
        "Captain Cahill," Deputy Williams said, "your point is made. I
apologize for trying to strong-arm you, the Citywide squad and the
NYPD. You of all people should understand that we're getting pressure
from Washington to make sure this is handled as quickly and quietly as
possible."
        "Williams, I've got no reason to go glory hunting with you or
your men. The NYPD Major Cases Squad has taken over this case from the
Borough Task Force. It will be handled out of this office. No one, and
I do mean no one but the detectives assigned to this squad, sixteen in
all, sixteen men and women that I hand-picked, will be investigating
this case. There will be no leaks."
        Willams shared another glance with his partner.
        This is getting annoying, Alex thought.
        "Very well, Captain. We're going to trust you on this."
        "What about the FBI?" Evergreen asked. "They..." he trailed
off, looking uncomfortable.
        "What?" Alex asked. "They like to come in to town and take all
the credit for the big arrests?"
        Evergreen nodded.
        "That won't happen in this case," Alex assured them. "For one
thing, I do have a good relationship with the FBI."
        "And for another," Cross interjected. "We know some good
places to dump a body."
        "If it comes to that," Hicks added.
        All three NYPD members smiled evil, dark smiles at the two
federal officers.
        Alex clapped her hands. "Now that we've gotten all the usual
jurisdictional bullshit out of the way, let's get to work. We have one
very bad doer to find. And let's see if we can manage to do it without
the FBI this time, okay?"
        Cross turned to Evergreen. "First question. How hard would it
be to get a list of all the WITSEC clients in the Tri-state area. No,
check that. How about just New York City?"
        Evergreen sighed. "I'd give it to you in a heartbeat," he
said. "But the fact of the matter is that I have to put a request like
that through my supervisory Deputy, and I'm all but sure he's going to
turn it down."
        Cross stroked his chin. "Ok, let me ask you this. Do you guys
at least have a terminal, a computer, something that connects you to
the database?"
        "Sure," Williams nodded. "We've got quite a little setup down
there as far as computers go."
        "And I'm assuming that there's someone down there to run all
that stuff? Maintain it? Fix it when it breaks?"
        "Chet," Evergreen said.
        "How would you describe Chet?" Cross asked. Alex glanced at
her detective; his voice had slid into his Interrogation Tone.
        "What do you mean?"
        "If you had to use one word to describe Chet, what would it
be?"
        "Geek," Williams said without thinking.
        "Nerd," Evergreen added.
        Cross smacked his palm. "Perfect!"
        "I don't understand," Williams said.
        "He'll know how to get the information we need," Cross said.
"I know it."
        "How?"
        Sam drew himself up to his full height of six feet and one
inch and smiled wisely at his federal brethren. "Cross' first rule of
Cybernetic Sleuthing. When you need to break into a system, find the
guy whose job it is to make sure no one can break in, and make this
man or woman your friend. The quickest way to pick a lock-"
        "Is to find the guy with the key," Hicks finished.
        "You guys are good," Evergreen admitted. "I never would have
thought to....do that."
        Cross beamed.
        "Sam, Daryl, take Deputies Williams and Evergreen out of my
office so I can get some work done."
        "Yes, Ma'am," they parroted. Everyone stood and slowly filed
out of her office, leaving her alone.
        Alex stared at the door after they had gone, wondering if she
was doing the right thing. Politically, she was playing with fire. Not
getting a Deputy Inspector or higher involved on this case could kill
her career if it went to shit. Or, she thought, it could guarantee the
promotion to Deputy Inspector.
        Just as long as the CofD didn't hear about it.
        He would, of course, eventually hear about it. But by that
time, Alex planned to be so close to catching the son-of-a-bitch that
it wouldn't make any difference.
        Closing her eyes, Alex silently prayed for Cross and Hicks to
work their magic.
        Please God, she thought. I really need this one.
        Fuck that. I want it.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
END CHAPTER 8