ELS 
Chapter 9 
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 22, 1997
Archive Entry   : "ELS" Chapter 9/? 
Classification	: SRA MSR 
Chapter Rating  : NC-17 (Violence) 
Story Rating    : NC-17 (Violence, Sexual Situations) 
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm 
Summary         : Scully and Mulder leave the prison so that Scully can
                  perform the autopsy on the latest victim; her
                  discoveries are quite unsettling to both her
                  and Mulder. Meanwhile, back in New York City,
                  Captain Cahill deals with the political reality
                  of dealing with federal law enforcement agencies.
Spoilers        : Slight reference to "Jose Chung."
Casting		: Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree" 
		: Helen Hunt, "Captain Alex Cahill" 
		: Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross" 
		: Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks" 
                : Robert Beltran, "Detective Chavez" 
		: Clancy Brown, "Deputy Williams" 
		: Kevin Dunn, "Deputy Evergreen"
                : Danny Aiello, "Chief Zolinski"
 
                           ****************** 
                           **** WARNING ***** 
                           ****************** 
This chapter contains explicit descriptions of violence. I don't want 
to reveal much at this point, but please...READER DISCRETION is HIGHLY 
recommended. This is gruesome stuff, folks.

Author's Note : Some of you have already written me about this, and
others may soon. I just wanted to take this opportunity to let you
all know that I was <not> in a car accident recently. My car broke
down (battery died) in the middle of one of the most horrendus weeks
of my life. Another reader, Tim Scott, posted on a.t.x.c. that I had
been in an accident, and I've been getting email about it for 3
days now. Once again, as touched as I am by the outpouring of
sympathy from everyone, it is misplaced. I'm fine. (Physically,
anyway...)
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Maine 
 
        "If the state of Maine can ever help you folks again, you just 
let us know," Warden Watkins said. Scully glanced at the man from the 
corner of her eye, hearing in his tone that he was not completely 
sincere. 
        "Thank you, Warden," she said, using a saccharine tone she 
reserved for those in local law enforcement that were reluctant to 
cooperate. It usually worked, but judging by the look on Watkins' 
face, her words had fallen on deaf ears. 
        Deaf and dumb, she thought, and smiled wider. 
        "Sure 'nough," he said, leaning over to spit again. 
        "You're not from around here, are you?" Mulder asked. 
        "Nope. Mis'sippi," Watkins said. 
        "Nice Southern boy like you?" Mulder said. "Why would you want 
to spend your life in Maine, with winters like this?" 
        Watkins glanced around as if afraid that what he was about to 
say would be overheard. "Let's jus' say that Maine still 'members how 
to treat a con-vict." 
        Which meant that the Warden, the _real_ warden, looked the 
other way when Watkins or one of his goons decided to use a PR-24 on 
one of the inmates. "We may be back," Mulder said. "I'll call ahead to 
let you know next time, but I'd appreciate it if you'd make Mr. Dysan 
available for re-interviewing in the near future." 
        The look of disappointment on Watkins' face was evident. 
Obviously, Mulder thought, he'd been planning some 'private time' with 
Dysan after he and Scully left. 
        "I think that can be arranged," Watkins replied. 
        "Thank you again," Mulder said, offering his hand. 
        Reluctantly, Watkins shook it, and then Scully's. The two FBI 
agents walked back to their car. Mulder was looking at the ground as 
he walked, his hands jammed into his pockets. "You were great back 
there," he said softly. 
        Scully glanced away, not sure if she wanted praise for what 
had happened inside the walls of the prison. "Thanks, I guess," she 
finally said. 
        "I'm sorry you had to-" 
        "It's OK, Mulder. We didn't have a choice." 
        He stopped and turned to face her. After a moment, she stopped 
and looked back. "What?" she asked. 
        "We make a good team," he proclaimed. 
        "Five years and you're just figuring that out now?" she 
teased. 
        "No," he said, shaking his head. "I always knew it. I just 
figured it was time to tell you that...I do know how lucky I am to 
have you." 
        He waited a beat, and then finished. "...as a partner." 
        Scully smiled gently, wanting to reach out and touch him in 
some way. Just a hand on the arm, something. 
        But this was not the time or the place. 
        "Let's get out of here, Mulder. I want to see the crime 
scene." 
        "Deal," Mulder said, pulling the car keys out of his pocket. 
"This place gives me the creeps." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Headquarters, Citywide Major Cases Squad 
One Police Plaza 
New York City 
 
        Detective Sam Cross faced Deputy Evergreen, hands on his hips, 
fire in his eyes. "No, Deputy, you _will_ get me a list of all of King 
and Nelson's known criminal associates. I want to talk to his 
cellmate, his mother, his brothers and sisters-" 
        "I just can't," Evergreen said. "That information is 
classified. I didn't classify it, and I can't un-classify it. It's 
above my pay grade, Detective." 
        Cross fumed. "How the hell are we supposed to conduct an 
investigation if you keep stonewalling us? We need that information!" 
        Evergreen shrugged. "Have your Captain-" 
        "Call her Inspector...yeah, yeah, I know the drill. Shit." 
        Daryl Hicks entered the squadroom and made his way over to 
Sam's desk. 
        "Hey...how's it going?" he asked. 
        "Rosewood here isn't helping much," Cross complained. 
        "Evergreen," the Deputy corrected. 
        "Whatever," Cross said. "Anyway...I think what we need now is 
a list of all federally protected witnesses in New York City so we can 
go start interviewing them. We also need a list of anyone and everyone 
in the City that has access to the WITSEC client list." 
        Evergreen snorted. "Good luck. Shit, I don't even think the 
President of the United States could get that list." 
        Cross glanced darkly at Evergreen. "Don't bet on it," he 
muttered. 
        Spinning on his heel, Cross walked over to Cahill's office and 
knocked twice. 
        "Come!" 
        He pushed the door open, entered the office and shut it behind 
him. 
        "Do you want us to solve this case?" he asked. 
        "What the....of course!" 
        "Get on the horn to the CofD, tell them that the USMS is 
stonewalling us. We need lists of all the WITSEC clients in the City, 
as well as anyone and everyone that has access to that information, 
and we need it yesterday. I'm taking Rogers and Hammer off that drug 
thing in Queens and giving it back to Narcotics. The Lexus Bandit is 
going back to Auto Crime. The serial flasher should never have been 
our case, and wouldn't have been except for the fact that the flashee 
in this case is the seven-year-old granddaughter of Councilman 
Sharpes. _That_ is going back to Brooklyn Public Morals. We need all 
the bodies we can get on this, First Grades only, Alex." 
        Cahill nodded. "Tell me again," she said softly, "why you 
never took the test for Sergeant?" 
        "Because I like being a detective, and being a boss has too 
much paperwork involved. All I want to do is catch bad guys." 
        "A minute ago you sounded like a _very_ pissed off Lieutenant 
of Detectives who was whipping the squad into shape. Too bad I can't 
give you the whip slot." 
        Cross glanced back through the windows into the squadroom. 
"Not for nothing, Alex, but you and I both know that in the absence of 
the Twelfth Floor assigning us a Lieutenant, I _am_ the whip." 
        Alex nodded, accepting this. "You're right. The other 
detectives look to you for guidance and approval. You make the 
assignments, you shift the partners around. You earn as much as a 
Lieutenant, and with your overtime, you earn almost as much as a full 
Inspector." 
        "Three years, Alex. Three more years and I'm pulling the pin." 
        Alex sat back, lacing her hands behind her head. "I doubt 
that," she said. "You're in this for life." 
        Cross snorted. 
        Alex sat forward, hands on the desk, fingers interlaced. "Did 
I ever tell you that I pulled your jacket when I took over this 
command?" 
        Cross nodded. "No, but I'd have assumed that you did. Only 
makes sense." 
        "Have you ever _read_ your jacket?" she asked. 
        Cross shrugged. 
        "How many decorations do you have, Detective?" 
        "I honestly don't know," he said. 
        "Bullshit. About thirty, possibly thirty-five. You have two 
Combat Crosses, Sam, and a Medal of Valor." 
        "That was bullshit," Cross pointed out. "The Captain in the 
one-six wanted to have a hero in his precinct, and his brother was the 
IAB investigator on that. I shouldn't have gotten that. Hell, I don't 
even wear the damn thing." 
        "When was the last time you were in the bag?" Alex asked. 
Detectives and plainclothes officers referred to the dark blue uniform 
of the NYPD as 'the bag.' Being put 'back in the bag,' meant that you 
had been demoted from plainclothes back to patrol, or busted from the 
Detective Bureau for some gross violation of regulations. 
        "When I got my First Grade," Sam said crossly. 
        "I talked to the IAB Sergeant who investigated that case. He's 
now a Lieutenant in TARU in Midtown South. He speaks very highly of 
you, and of that case. Being modest is one thing, Sam. But don't 
insult my intelligence." 
        Cross just nodded. "Is there a point to all this?" 
        Alex nodded. "Yeah, Sam, there is. Send those jobs back to 
where they came from, and that stupid homicide on the Hutch back to 
Highway while you're at it. That'll get you two more bodies-" 
        "Yeah. Carlyle and Davis," Cross said, rolling his eyes. 
        "Carlyle is four months from his pension," Alex pointed out, 
"and gave eighteen and a half great years to this department before 
his wife and daughter were killed. I think we can cut him a little 
slack-" 
        "He reeks of booze!" Cross said. 
        "AND," Alex said, speaking over Sam, "I am aware of that. Like 
I said...he's functioning, and he shows up every day on time. Yes, he 
reeks of beer, and we WILL allow him to finish out his twenty and 
retire. Detective Carlyle and I have had a VERY long discussion about 
his performance or lack thereof, and he has agreed to be my personal 
... problem solver until his retirement. At twenty years and one day, 
he has promised me that his shield, ID and piece will be on my desk. I 
trust him, Sam." 
        "Personal problem solver?" Cross asked. 
        Alex nodded. "Yes. I've watched your assignments, Sam. Carlyle 
hasn't caught one in seven weeks. So, he will answer phones, and run 
down BCI checks and anything else you need done out of this office or 
One PP." 
        "Davis-" 
        "Is a problem, I will grant you. He..." she trailed off, 
looking for the words. 
        "Is a pussyhound," Cross helpfully supplied. 
        Alex flushed, struggling to control her temper. "Watch your 
step, Detective," she said, pointing a finger at Sam's chest. 
        "Sorry," he said. Sam's contrite look was so obviously genuine 
that Alex's anger vanished. 
        "Yes, DETECTIVE Davis appreciates the ladies, perhaps a 
little too much. But his wife of nineteen years left him for a rookie 
out of Highway Three. That's gotta be hard." 
        "I wouldn't know," Sam smirked. 
        "Well, you weren't exactly fun to be around when Pat left," 
Alex pointed out. 
        Cross shrugged. "That was different." 
        "Why?" 
        "Because Pat and I were together only a-" 
        "Four years, Sam. You and Pat were together four years." 
        "Yeah, I know." 
        "Do you..." 
        "Can we change the subject, please?" Sam asked. 
        "Detectives Carlyle and Davis will offer... administrative 
support," Alex said, so visibly pleased by her delicate phrasing that 
Cross laughed out loud. 
        "That gives you eight bodies on the street, plus two here." 
She held up her hands. "Barring divine intervention, that's all I can 
spare, Sam. I still have a division to run, and we do still have some 
hot cases. Eight will have to do." 
        "And when another body turns up?" Cross asked, not unkindly. 
        Cahill sighed. "Then we'll re-evaluate our options at that 
time. I can probably toss some stuff back to the borough commands, but 
I don't want to be seen, I don't want this command or any of its 
detectives to be seen as not being able to handle the assignments 
we've been given." 
        "Or the ones we've taken," Sam said, smiling evily. 
        "Yes, those, too. So...CofD, to pull some muscle with the 
Marshals?" 
        Cross nodded. "They just don't have the weight we need." 
        Alex pursed her lips. "Zolinski might not either. The NYPD, 
while large, and possibly the single best police department in the 
world, is still a 'local' law enforcement agency." 
        Cross seemed about to speak. Alex knew what was coming and 
held up her hand. "Before you say another word, let me remind you of 
an old proverb my father taught me." 
        "That would be, Alex Cahill, senior?" 
        Alex nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek, knowing what was 
coming. "The Alex Cahill of Cahill Industries? The one that was on the 
cover of Fortune Magazine not six weeks ago?" 
        Alex nodded. "Yes. Anyway, he once told me that it's easier to 
get forgiveness than permission. So...do what you think is necessary, 
and if I have to, I'll cover your ass." 
        Cross stood, moving back to the door. 
        "Do you miss Pat?" Alex asked softly. 
        Cross stopped with one hand on the knob. "Every day," he said 
softly. "Pat was...an amazing person. The only person I ever knew that 
could put up with me for any length of time." 
        "If you don't mind my asking, what happened?" 
        Cross was visibly debating whether or not to answer. "Pat 
wanted different things out of life," he finally said. "A house. Cats. 
Dogs." 
        "Children?" Alex asked. 
        Cross glanced back, amused. 
        "Did you ever meet Pat?" he asked. 
        "No. Daryl just mentioned that your..." she trailed off. 
        "Lover?" Sam suggested. 
        "Yes, that was the word he used." 
        "And?" 
        "He said that your lover had left you for another man." 
        Sam nodded, getting it. "Well, there's a little more to that 
story, but I'll answer the first question first. There's a very good 
reason that Pat and I weren't discussing children. Or marriage." 
        Alex waited. 
        "Pat is short for Patrick." 
        "Oh," Alex said, quietly, softly. 
        "Is that a problem?" Sam asked. 
        "No," Alex said. After a moment, she added, "Of course not. I 
just..." 
        "What?" 
        "Didn't..." 
        "Suspect?" 
        "Yes, that's a nice way of saying it. I had no idea." 
        Cross shrugged. "Not a good thing to go around advertising on 
this job." 
        Alex nodded, silently agreeing. "Well, Sam, I guess even 
Captains can learn something new every day." 
        Cross just nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. "I should get 
going," he said, turning back towards the door. 
        "Is anyone else in the squad-?" Alex asked. 
        Cross sighed, his shoulders slumping. He turned back to face 
her, arms crossed, leaning against the door. "What? Gay?" 
        "Well...yes." 
        Cross shrugged. "We don't have a secret handshake or 
anything, Alex. I'm sure that somewhere else in this building is a 
homosexual or two. But I don't know of any. I don't date cops." 
        "Me either," Alex said with a smile. "One last question, and 
this is job-related." 
        "Go ahead," Cross said stiffly. 
        "Does Daryl know?" 
        Cross waited so long before answering that Alex wasn't sure he 
was actually going to before he spoke. "Are you asking because you're 
going to break his balls for not telling you? Or are you asking 
because if he doesn't know and he finds out, you want to be prepared 
for any possible fallout?" 
        "The latter," Alex said, a thin smile splitting her face. 
        "Yes," Sam sighed. "Daryl knows. I told him shortly after we 
partnered up. I didn't want there to be any lies between us, not at 
the start of the partnership, anyway. I told him that if he couldn't 
handle it, that I'd act like a dick and he could then go to the bosses 
and tell them the marriage wasn't working out." 
        Cops of all genders and all sexual persuasions often refer to 
their job-related forced-partnerships as 'marriages.' The metaphor 
extends into getting a new partner (remarrying,) and looking for a new 
partner (dating, or in the alternative, cheating.) 
        "Good decision," Alex said. "Ok...go. Let me commit political 
suicide in peace." 
        Cross grinned and turned to the door, letting himself out. 
Alex waited until the door was closed before lifting the phone and 
dialing the private number for the NYPD Chief of Detectives. 
        Carmine Zolinski, the current Chief of Detectives for the New 
York Police Department, had started as a probationary police officer 
almost forty years before walking a beat in Coney Island. 
        His familiar growl answered the phone. "Zolinski." 
        "Alex Cahill, Chief." 
        He grunted a response. "What?" 
        "Got a thing. Need to talk to you." 
        "Talk to me, Cahill." 
        "In person, Chief. You're gonna want to do this face to face, 
sir." 
        Zolinski grunted, "Ten minutes," and hung up. 
        Great, Alex thought. A royal audience with his Royal Copness, 
the 
CofD. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Portland, Maine 
Office of the Chief Medical Examiner 
 
        Scully signed the autopsy report, handed the clipboard to the 
morgue clerk and padded into the locker room. Rubbing her neck with 
one hand, Scully ran the other through her hair, taking the scrub cap 
with it. 
        She closed her eyes, trying hard to forget the image of her 
most recent patient. There was little doubt that the body on the table 
was that of one of the missing women. The marks of torture were hard 
to miss. 
        Among other things, Scully thought, trying hard not to 
shudder. 
        Scully heard movement out in the autopsy bay, and then a 
moment later, Mulder's voice, muffled: "Scully?" 
        "In here," she called, moving to the sink. She ran the taps, 
glancing in the mirror. The scrub caps always ruined her hair, but it 
was better than the alternative. 
        "How'd it go?" Mulder asked, pushing the door open. 
        "About as you'd expect. White female, approximately 25 to 30 
years of age, dead about six to ten days. As with the others, she was 
killed somewhere else and dumped." 
        "Did you get an ID?" Mulder asked. 
        Scully took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No," she 
admitted. "That's going to be a little hard, Mulder." 
        "Why?" 
        "Because..." She trailed off. 
        "Scully?" 
        "The damage was...extensive," she said. 
        Just then, the morgue clerk came back in, holding a copy of 
the report. "You said you wanted a copy?" he asked. 
        "Thank you," Scully said, taking it from him. "Here," she said 
to Mulder. "Take a read. I'd rather not talk about it right now." 
        Mulder frowned. Scully was an experienced agent and a hell of 
a pathologist. Getting upset during or after an autopsy was not her 
style. After reading the first six lines of her report, Mulder knew 
why. 
        "The deceased," Scully had written, "presented as a Caucasian 
female, approximately 25 to 30 years of age. Original physical 
examination indicates that cause of death is cardiac arrest with the 
mechanism of death being extensive physical torture, coupled with 
manual strangulation. Additionally, severe post-mortem trauma has been 
inflicted on the corpse, including the removal of the primary 
epidermal layer of the skull." 
        "He removed her face?" Mulder asked. 
        Scully just nodded, leaning over to wash her hands. 
        Mulder continued to read. "Section II: External physical 
examination. The decedent's physical examination included a complete 
head-to-toe inspection, beginning at the midline and moving distally 
to the extremities. Both breasts show signs of extensive, long-term 
torture. Judging by the various wound patterns, it is my estimation 
that the wounds were inflicted over several weeks. The newer wounds 
appear more vicious and rage-driven, including several deep, 
penetrating stab wounds to both breasts. Both nipples have been 
removed. The left nipple appears to have been removed via the use of a 
thin, extremely sharp cutting edge, perhaps a scalpel or similar 
instrument. The right nipple appears to have been removed via human 
bite. A molding was taken of the bite wound, and entered into evidence 
as Exhibit I [see case addendum notes for cross-reference.] Moving 
distally from the midline, the left arm shows evidence of continued, 
long-term intravenous catheterization. There are several needle-track 
marks in both the left and right brachial veins, moving proximally 
towards the shoulder. Moving distally down both upper appendages, I 
have noted [please see head-to-toe chart, pp. 19,] that all ten 
fingernails have been removed. A partial right thumbnail was discovered 
still connected to the nail bed. 
       "Microscopic examination of the partial right thumbnail indicates 
that a prying or pulling tool such as a pair of common pliers was used 
to 
remove the remainder of the right thumbnail. It is possible that a 
similar tool was used to remove the other nine nails, although no 
forensic evidence exists to support this opinion. 
        "Both wrists have deep, penetrating wound trenches consistent 
with long-term use of restraints. Microscopic examination of the wound 
trenches revealed trace amounts of hemp and hemp-based fibers, 
indicating that rope was used. 
        "The left rotator cuff shows evidence of inflammation and 
atrophy. It is my opinion that during the obvious physical torture 
that the deceased underwent that her left shoulder was dislocated and 
was not relocated correctly. 
        "Returning to the midline and moving distally towards the 
pelvis, I noted several dozen deep, penetrating abdominal wounds, 
including what appears to be a wound resulting from the use of a common 
kitchen fork. Please see photographs attached hereunder for wound 
detail." 
        "Have you gotten to the good part yet?" Scully asked. 
        Mulder looked up from the report. "The good part?" 
        "You'll know," Scully promised. "I'm going to change," she 
said, moving off behind a row of lockers. Mulder just nodded, turning 
his attention back to the sheaf of papers in his hands. 
        "Pelvic examination revealed extensive, continuing, long-term 
torture. Examination and gross dissection of the external vaginal area 
revealed deep ecchymosis and evidence of blunt force trauma consistent 
with the use of a baseball bat or similar device. Gross examination and 
dissection of the intravaginal area revealed evidence that a baseball 
bat or similar device had been inserted intravaginally, resulting in 
loss of muscle elasticity. Urethral damage was also noted, possibly 
as a result of the bat [or similar device] being vigorously thrust 
into the vagina." 
        Mulder looked up, feeling the blood draining from his head. He 
spied a long bench set in front of some lockers, and moved towards it. 
He sat down, shaking his head, forcing his eyes to return to the 
pages. 
        "Gross external examination of the anus and rectum indicate 
that a smaller but similar version of the object mentioned in the 
above paragraph was violently inserted into the rectum. A gross pelvic 
cutdown was performed, [see attached diagrams and photographs.] 
Please take careful note of the extensive damage to the sigmoid colon 
and supporting structures. 
        "Evidence of semen and blood were detected in the vaginal and 
anal cavities, as well as in the oral pharyngeal tract. Due to the 
length of time between death and discovery of the body, it is 
impossible to gauge muscle bruising as a result of violent physical 
force related directly to the intercourse indicated. Therefore, it is 
impossible at this time to determine if the traces of semen and blood 
found were the result of a rape. Taken into account with the obvious 
signs of repeated physical trauma and torture, it is unlikely that 
what occurred was consensual sexual activity, although it cannot be 
ruled out." 
        "Continuing the gross external physical examination, cigarette 
burns of varying ages [approximated within one to four weeks from the 
time of death,] were found on both the ventral and dorsal surfaces of 
the buttocks and upper legs. Severe muscle damage as a result of these 
burns were detected in the quadriceps and gluteus maximus. 
Microscopic examination of the wounds themselves and of skin samples 
taken from the affected areas revealed trace amounts of cigarette ash 
and some flakes of unconsumed tobacco. Samples of this evidence will 
be forwarded to the FBI Scientific Criminal Laboratory (SciCrime) for 
further analysis and may potentially reveal the specific brand of 
cigarette used. 
        "Additionally, what appears to be marks that might result from a 
severe whipping or caning were detected on the buttocks, upper 
thighs and in the dorsal lumbar surface. 
        "Continuing with the gross external physical examination, it 
was discovered that both Achilles tendons were cut approximately four 
inches from the heel of both feet." 
        The report continued on with the gross organ dissection, the 
craniotomy and preliminary toxicology report. Mulder folded the 
reported in half and stood. "This is...disturbing," he said, rounding 
the corner. 
        Scully was standing in front of her locker, the scrub shirt 
held in one hand, staring blankly at her street clothes hanging on a 
hook on the back of the locker door. She was wearing the scrub pants, 
slippers, and her bra. 
        "Whoops," Mulder said, turning to leave. "Sorry-" 
        "Don't go," Scully said softly. Mulder froze. "Look at me," 
she requested. Mulder took a breath and turned back to face her. 
        Scully was looking at him with the most forlorn expression 
he'd ever seen. He suddenly understood what Scully saw when he 
trotted out his own patented whipped-puppy expression. And a second 
later, he knew why it was always so effective on her when he used it. 
Taking two huge strides towards her, Mulder reached out, enveloping 
her in his arms. 
        He wanted to say something soothing, something comforting, but 
a part of him knew that she only wanted to be held for a few moments, 
to reconnect with her own humanity after having been forced by 
circumstance to perform the autopsy she had just completed. 
        "What kind of person?" she asked against his chest. "What kind 
of monster would...do that?" 
        "Remember the Innis case," Mulder whispered, hating to bring 
it up, but knowing he had to. Scully shuddered against him with the 
memory. Rosemary Innis had been a normal, apparently well-adjusted 
homemaker, married to her husband Roger for ten years. Roger had 
jumped on the Internet bandwagon, had bought himself a computer and 
promptly obtained an account with a national on-line service. He'd 
given his wife a screen name, and while he was at work, she had 
learned to use the service, delighting in the electronic mail and 
shopping mall. 
        Then she had discovered the chat rooms. She started in the 
public rooms first, and then, over time, had discovered the private 
rooms. Rooms dedicated to the width and breadth of humanity, covering 
everything from genealogy to gardening to more...dark topics. 
        Unbeknownst to her husband, Rosemary Innis had deeply held, 
darkly erotic fantasies. She dreamed of being kidnapped, of being 
raped again and again, and finally, being sexually tortured to death. 
She had no idea where these fantasies came from; that much had been 
obvious when the police had read her diary. She only knew that they 
did exist, and that she had finally found a way to express those 
fantasies under safe, controlled circumstances. 
        Or so she thought. 
        In one of the private, adult chat rooms, Rosemary Innis came 
across someone with similar wants and needs. Only this person didn't 
want to be tortured...they wanted to perform the torture themselves. 
Emails were exchanged, escalating to long, drawn-out fantasy sessions 
conducted in a one-on-one chat room. Every step towards the 
completion of her darkest fantasy excited Rosemary Innis all the more. 
Until writing and thinking about it weren't enough, and she asked her 
new friend to make her dream a reality. 
        A meeting was arranged. Rosemary wrote her husband a note, 
apologizing in advance for what she was about to do. She packed a bag, 
got in her car, and vanished. 
        Four weeks later, after the police began the investigation, 
they secured search and arrest warrants for Timothy Duane Danniger, and 
discovered Rosemary's body buried in a shallow grave sixty yards from 
his mobile home. She had been tortured to death. During his 
interrogation by the police, Timothy Duane Danninger claimed that 
Rosemary had asked for what happened to her, that he had emails 
explicitly requesting him to do the things to her that he had, and 
that she had died with a smile on her face. 
        Scully pulled back, looking her partner, her friend, straight 
in the eyes. "Mulder, you don't think that these women asked for this 
to happen, do you?" 
        "No," he said, shaking his head. "Of course not. This poor 
woman was tortured and then executed. There's no doubt in my mind that 
consent was not an issue here." 
        "So why--?" 
        "Because there are two kinds of monsters, Scully. It might 
have started off as just kinky sex for our UNSUB, with willing, 
consenting partners. And then it got to be too much. The things he 
saw, the images in his head, became too much to bear. He had to do the 
things he fantasized about. Remember, most of that S&M stuff is 
fantasy anyway. It's as choreographed as a ballet. Sometimes, people 
just can't handle the fact that it's only make-believe." 
        Scully's expression suddenly became very odd. 
        "Mulder...those movies you have...?" 
        Completely ashamed, Mulder moved back, putting some distance 
between them. He knew what she was asking, and why, and with a 
certainty he felt in his bones, he knew two things: The rest of his 
life depended very much on the answer to Scully's question. He also 
knew at that moment exactly what a trapped, cornered animal felt like. 
        "No," he said softly. "That was never my thing, Scully." 
        "But...," she said, an insistent tone in her voice. "... 
still. Those things teach that women are objects. That they exist for 
the pleasure of men and nothing more. How can you have watched them 
for all those years and not be affected by them?" 
        "Scully," he said, searching for the words. 
        "What do you think of me, Mulder? As a woman?" 
        He grinned, going for levity. "It'd be a lot easier to answer 
that question if you had a shirt on." 
        Her features darkened instantly. Wrong answer, he thought. 
        "Mulder, the fact that I'm not wearing a shirt should have 
zero impact on your answer. In fact," she said, folding her arms 
behind her back like a butterfly, "neither should this." There was a 
soft snap! before the bra fluttered to the floor, leaving Scully 
bare-breasted and obviously angry. 
        "I'll ask you again, Mulder, what do you think of me as a 
woman?" 
        "This is not the time or the place to have this discussion," 
Mulder hissed, his eyes flicking to the door that led to the autopsy 
bay. "What if someone comes in?" 
        "Ask me if I care, Mulder." She paused. "You know, forget I 
asked. I think I have my answer. The fact that you're afraid to tell 
me in and of itself tells me more than I wanted to know." She bent 
over to retrieve her bra. 
        "Scully, wait," Mulder said, reaching for her. His hand landed 
on her bare shoulder and she wrenched it free, giving him her back. 
        "Leave me alone," she said. 
        "Scully-" 
        "Mulder, get out. I want to change, and I really don't want 
someone that watches porno movies hanging around." 
        Not sure exactly what he'd done wrong, Mulder walked away, 
leaving Scully alone. Once in the autopsy bay, he leaned against the 
wall, hands in his pockets. He realized that it wasn't so much what he 
had done, maybe, just what he hadn't. 
        Fuck this, he thought. 
        He walked back into the locker room and around the corner. 
Scully had shed the slippers and scrub pants, and was dressed only in 
a pair of panties. She was turned away from him, her hands at the 
small of her back as she leaned backwards, stretching. 
        "Scully," he said softly. She straightened instantly. 
        "Mulder, I told you to get lost!" she growled. 
        "No," he said simply. 
        She turned to him, her arms clasped across her breasts. 
"What?" 
        "Sometimes," Mulder said slowly, picking his words carefully, 
"I don't see you as a woman." 
        "I know what you see me as, Mulder," she snapped. 
        "No," he said, shaking his head. "You don't. I'm not even sure 
I do. But I know I don't see you as an object, Scully. I don't see 
anyone that way. If the last four years haven't taught you that, then 
I don't know what else I can say to make you change your mind." 
        Scully nibbled her bottom lip, digesting his words. 
        Her arms dropped. 
        "Do you like what you see, Mulder?" 
        "I can't say that I'm particularly turned on, Scully, but if 
you're asking me if I think you have a nice body-" 
        "I'm asking how I compare to those bimbos you insist on 
watching. How could I possibly compare to them, Mulder? They're the 
embodiment of surgical perfection." 
        "I will grant that the movies you are referring to are created 
to appeal to the lowest common denominator, Scully. But just because 
they're created for that reason, and watched by those people, doesn't 
mean that's why _I_ watch them. What's the difference between me 
looking at a movie about nude paintings and watching a movie with live 
nude people?" 
        "So why do you? Watch them, I mean," Scully asked, ignoring, 
for the moment, his art-versus-commerce argument. 
        He shrugged. "Sometimes, it fills the empty spots," he said. 
        She took a step towards him, hands on her hips. "What turns 
you on about those movies, Mulder? I mean, you are watching them to 
get turned on, right?" 
        He nodded, and then shrugged. "I don't know. Who knows what 
turns us on?" 
        "I know," Scully said. "I mean, I know what turns me on." 
        God, this is a strange place to be having this conversation, 
he thought. 
        "That's great for you, Scully. Not all of us are blessed with 
your self-knowledge." Or your skill at self-deception, he thought. 
        "So, returning to your earlier statement," Scully continued, 
"would you get turned on by looking at a painting?" 
        "Depends on the painting," Mulder said. 
        Scully smirked. "You know what I mean. Say it was a painting 
of one of the scenes from your movies. All those bodies, writhing 
around-" 
        Mulder held up a hand. "I've had enough of this," he said. He 
sounded angry, but looked hurt, Scully thought. 
        Fuck him. 
        "Get dressed," he said curtly. "I have an errand to run, and 
I'll meet you upstairs when you're ready." 
        "Fine," Scully said, turning her back. "Whatever." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
One Police Plaza 
Chief of Detectives Office 
 
        "Captain Cahill," Alex said to the uniformed Lieutenant that 
served as Zolinski's administrative assistant. 
        "Go right in, Captain. He's expecting you," the man 
interrupted. 
        Taking a deep breath, Alex walked to the two huge oak doors 
guarding the entrance to Zolinski's inner office and knocked twice, 
hard. 
        "Come!" he called. 
        Alex pushed the door open and entered, closing it softly 
behind her. 
        "So, Captain Cahill, what havoc have you come to wreak on my 
quiet, peaceful world?" Zolinski asked. As was traditional with the 
Chief of Detectives, Zolinski was out of uniform and was wearing what 
appeared to be a hand-tailored suit from Saville Row, London. His 
jacket was hung on a coat-tree in one corner of his office, and he 
sat behind the desk with his shirt sleeves rolled up. 
        "Peaceful?" Alex asked, a smile on her face. 
        "Let's see," Zolinski said, scanning the surface of his desk. 
"I have a triple homicide in the Bronx. Looks like DDGB." DDGB was 
NYPD shorthand for "Drug Deal Gone Bad." 
        "I have the Chief of Inspectional Services on my ass to 
promote a new round of suckers to Detective so they can be assigned to 
Internal Affairs to go and chase bad cops. I have the Mayor on my ass 
about the problems in Bronx Borough Command. The Queens North 
Detective Commander has just requested a transfer to the Sixth 
Precinct since he has decided to announce that he prefers men to 
women, and to top it all off, I just got a call from ESU informing me 
that a horse has died in Central Park, and what would I like to do 
with the corpse?" 
        "Shouldn't ESU be calling Mounted? Or Patrol?" 
        "Chief Tanner is on vacation the rest of this week. I've been 
named Acting Chief of Patrol. Which means that I now have the power of 
eight stars, not just four. Technically, I suppose, I outrank the mayor 
right about now. What can I do for you, Cahill?" 
        Alex stood in front of his desk, preferring to be offered a 
seat before taking one. An old rumor about Zolinski reverberated in 
her head. Apparently, a new Lieutenant assigned to the Narcotics 
Division had gotten a "Report to CofD's office, forthwith" radio 
message, had sped (lights and sirens) from Narcotics HQ to One PP, 
taken the elevator up, breezed past the AA guarding the portals of 
access, and dropped into a chair with a breezy "What's up?" directed 
at Zolinski. 
        The rumor continued that the Lieutenant was never heard from 
again. 
        "Hell, take a seat," Zolinski said. "That old story is 
bullshit." 
        Alex smiled. It was also rumored that Zolinski could read 
minds. 
        "We have...a situation," she started. 
        "Talk to me. Am I going to like this?" 
        "Probably not. Bronx North Detectives caught a DOA a few days 
ago, found a note at the scene and decided they were going to kick it 
upstairs to Bronx Major Cases. They decided to sit on it and not 
notify my office. Two days ago, Midtown North caught another DOA, also 
with a note at the scene. As I called around to the various commands 
to see if anyone had caught a similar job recently, I found out about 
the Bronx job and took it." 
        Zolinski shrugged. "So? You're citywide commander, Inspec-, 
whoops...Captain. That's your prerogative." 
        "That's not the problem," Alex explained. "The problem is that 
after Cross and Hicks started-" 
        "Sam Cross?" he asked. 
        Alex nodded. "The same." 
        "You know, he's taken the Lieutenant's test six times ? And 
passed every time, last time at number three? He's refused promotion 
every time. Do me a favor...when the next test comes around, tell him 
not to take it unless he wants the bar." 
        Alex nodded, making a mental note to do just that. 
        "Anyway," she continued, "they found some problems in the 
guy's past, the one we caught from Midtown North, and then did some 
checking on the Bronx guy. Turns out they're both federally protected 
witnesses." 
        Zolinski's eyebrows went up and he sat back, folding his hands 
across his middle. 
        "Then, two Deputy US Marshals appeared in my office, humbly 
requesting the assistance of my unit in the apprehension and 
conviction of the person or persons responsible." 
        "Note at the second scene?" Zolinski asked. 
        Alex nodded. "Nothing useful. Two numbers separated by a 
colon." 
        Zolinski pulled at his bottom lip, thinking. "FBI have 
anything to offer?" 
        "An academy classmate is on the VICAP RT Squad. I called her 
and asked for some feedback. She's in the middle of a case, so she 
couldn't be much help." 
        "So what's the problem?" 
        "The fact that the two Deputy Dawgs in my office can't get me 
a list of all federally protected witnesses in the City. I need that 
list, Chief. Yesterday." 
        Zolinski sighed. "Might as well ask for the original ten 
commandments, Alex. No way the feds are going to cough that up." 
        "How many victims until they do?" she asked. "This is a serial 
job, Chief. I can feel it in my bones. This guy has access. How, I 
don't know. But he has it. Two witnesses, in two different boroughs, 
with the same cryptic note, less than a week apart. No co-winky-dink, 
Chief." 
        "I know, but until the possible embarrassment overcomes their 
natural tendency to keep their mouths shut, I doubt anything will get 
them to move on this. I assume you've forwarded the notes to the FBI?" 
        Alex shook her head. "I wanted to check with you before 
interfacing with another federal agency." Score one for me, Alex 
thought, noticing Zolinski's small smile. 
        "Do it," he ordered. "Make copies for the files, and send the 
originals. FedEx ought to do it. Anything else?" 
        "Yeah. Could you call someone, maybe in Washington, and make a 
formal request for the list?" 
        Zolinski's eyes darkened. "Why would I want to do that?" 
        "So when they turn us down, we have it on record later, when 
the press goes nuts." 
        Zolinski resumed pulling at his lip. "I see where you're going 
with this..." 
        "I just want to protect the department's name," Alex said, 
putting an earnest expression on her face. 
        "Yeah," he snorted. "Right. You just...never mind." 
        "What?" 
        "You have your eye on a Deputy Inspector's shield, Alex. Don't 
bullshit a bullshitter." 
        "Sir, I'm sure that when you were a captain, you had _your_ 
eye on the same thing." 
        He nodded. "Yes, but I didn't expect it months after I got my 
railroad tracks." 
        Alex grinned. "The command of a citywide unit _is_ slotted for 
a Deputy Inspector." 
        Zolinski nodded. "Yeah, I know, and I know you know." He 
glanced around, as if he might spot someone hiding in the office. 
"Between you, me and the four walls, in about six weeks you'll be 
promoted." 
        Alex fought not to smile. 
        "If," Zolinski added, "this entire thing doesn't blow up in 
our face. Catch this bastard, Alex. Catch him fast." 
        "Yes, sir," Cahill said. Realizing she'd been dismissed, she 
stood. 
        "One more thing, Alex. Remember to act surprised when the PC 
calls you, ok?" 
        Alex nodded. The Police Commissioner and the Chief of 
Detectives did not see eye to eye on many issues. None, in fact. The 
PC hated it when he thought Zolinski was going around behind his back 
announcing things before it was appropriate. Or politically expedient. 
        "You realize that if you keep this up, you'll be a Chief 
before you turn 40." 
        She nodded. "I do realize that." 
        "Probably the first female Chief of Detectives in Department 
history," he muttered. 
        Alex lost the battle not to smile. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Portland, Maine 
 
        "What was so goddamn important that you had to drag me out of 
the station?" Scully demanded. 
        Mulder said nothing, his attention focused on the road as he 
drove. "I just need you to see something, OK?" 
        "What?" 
        "In a minute, Scully. Shit!" 
        Scully sat back, closed her eyes and leaned her head against 
the seat. If Mulder wanted to be mysterious, then so be it. 
        He parked in the motel lot and got out without another word. 
She heard the trunk open, and got out to see Mulder lifting a heavy 
plastic suitcase. He held a white plastic bag in the other; Scully 
couldn't see what was in the bag. 
        "What the hell-?" 
        "Scully, just do me a favor, OK? Go to your room. Change into 
something comfortable, and meet me in my room in ten minutes. That's 
all I ask, OK?" 
        "What do you mean, 'comfortable?'" she asked suspiciously. 
        "Scully..jeans, t-shirt, something comfortable, OK? Trust me." 
        She nodded. She was still upset, but he was still her partner 
and her friend. 
        She went to her room and quickly changed. The fact that he 
wouldn't tell her what was going on was driving Scully nuts. He was 
secretive sometimes, but whenever she asked a question, he usually 
answered. Even when he knew that she wasn't going to like the answer. 
        Ten minutes came very slowly. 
        She knocked on the connecting door. 
        "Come in." 
        Scully entered Mulder's room and stopped dead in her tracks. 
The plastic suitcase had contained a rental VCR, which Mulder had 
already attached to the TV in his room. He was sitting on the end of 
the bed, the remote in his hand. 
        In a flash, Scully knew what was going on. 
        "No way, Mulder. No way am I going to watch-" 
        "Have you ever seen one?" he challenged. 
        "No, but that's no reason to-" 
        "Scully, how can you judge them...judge me... without seeing 
for yourself? Do you think that's fair? To me?" 
        Scully bit her lip, trying to find the words to describe why 
she found the suggestion, the very idea that Mulder was proposing 
repugnant. "Mulder-" 
        "Scully...just ten minutes, OK? Just watch the first ten 
minutes. That's all I'm asking." 
        Scully glanced back at her room, wishing for a reason to deny 
his request. This was insane. Nothing she saw tonight was going to 
change her mind. 
        But she owed him the chance. 
        "Fine, Mulder. But you realize that this may turn me off so 
much that I'll never want to have sex again." 
        He grunted something under his breath. Scully was sure she 
didn't want to know what it was, even though she had a fairly good 
idea what he'd said. 
        She sat on the end of the bed, folding her arms across her 
chest. "Fine. Let's do it." 
        "Well, your body language says you're open to this concept," 
he said sarcastically. "Before I start, I want to tell you something 
about the movie I rented. This is one of my favorites." 
        "God, Mulder, I don't want to know about your taste in-" 
        "Scully, please. This is important. Just listen. I'll answer 
any questions you have later. Right now I need you to listen." 
        Scully nodded. 
        "This is one of my favorites. I've rented it so many times... 
I can't begin to tell you. Now, the thing you have to remember about 
these movies is that they do have a plot. It's not much of one, but 
it's not wall-to-wall sex, either." 
        Scully nodded, her jaw set. 
        "One last thing," he said quietly. "I hope someday you 
appreciate the...courage it took for me to share this part of myself 
with you." 
        Scully's eyes flicked to his face and then back to the TV. Her 
chin notched forward as if to say, "Let's get this over with." 
        Mulder pushed PLAY. 
        On the screen, the opening credits had just finished. A woman 
was in what appeared to be an office. It was obviously not one, 
because the sets looked cheesy and borrowed. The lighting was bad. The 
sound was worse. 
        But that was not what Scully noticed. 
        She noticed the actress standing behind the desk, talking on 
the phone. 
        Short, about five three. 
        Red hair. 
        Short red hair. 
        Wearing a business suit. 
        "Turn it off," Scully said, standing. 
        "You promised-" Mulder started to protest. 
        Scully took a single step towards the TV and searched the 
panel for the power control. Not finding it, she placed one hand on 
top and reached around, finding the power cord. She yanked, and it 
popped out of the wall socket. 
        The TV went black. 
        Scully turned to face her partner. "I can't believe you were 
going to...make me watch that." 
        "Scully-" 
        "So, is that it? You rent these movies, with women that look 
like ME, and sit on your couch and...and...!" 
        "Masturbate?" 
        "YES, goddamit!" 
        "Sometimes," he admitted. 
        "God, Mulder, that's disgusting!" she said. 
        He stood and moved into her space. "Are you telling me," he 
whispered, "that you've never, not once, thought about me and touched 
yourself?" 
        Scully put both hands flat against his chest and pushed, hard. 
Harder than Mulder ever would have thought possible. The backs of his 
legs came into contact with the bed and he fell back on it. 
        "How dare you ask me that question!" Scully fumed. "I won't 
dignify that with an answer." 
        She turned to leave. Mulder was off the bed in a heartbeat, 
his hand catching her elbow. "Hold on a second-" he said. 
        She spun on him, fire in her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me, 
Mulder? Why didn't you just come out and tell me that you were... 
fantasizing about me? That you wanted me?" 
        He dropped his hand, using it to dry-wash his face. 
        "I thought so," Scully said, turning to leave. "You don't want 
me, Mulder. You want a real, live version of that _slut_ up on the 
screen." 
        Mulder snapped. 
        He reached for her again, grasping her upper arm just as she 
stepped through into her room. Hauling her back through, Mulder 
slammed the door shut and pinned her against it. 
        "What?" he asked. His voice was low, dangerous. "Tell you? 
Tell Special Agent Scully, MD, that from the moment I saw her I wanted 
her? That the moment she walked into my office I was sexually 
attracted to her? What would you have said, Scully? When should I have 
told you? That first day? The first case? When would it have been 
OK to come to you and admit that I fantasize about holding you, 
kissing you, touching you? Huh? Before or after you vanished? I know 
you Scully, better than you know yourself. If I'd told you, you would 
have requested a transfer immediately. 
        He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word. "I. Had. No. 
Choice. Understand that, Scully. I had no fucking choice in the 
matter. Hell, I know you! I knew I couldn't have you then. I knew that 
I couldn't just tell you how I felt, but I had to do something. I had 
to find a way to get rid of that urge without you knowing! I had to 
find a way to sublimate it without going insane! I know you're angry, 
and I know you're hurt. I never meant to do that, and you know it. 
You may not think so, but you're angry. Think about it. Think about it 
and you'll know that I'm telling the truth." 
        He released her arm and stepped back. 
        Shaking, Scully rubbed her arm. 
        "Let me tell you something," she said, stepping close to 
Mulder, poking him in the chest with a finger. "Yes, I have thought 
about you. I have thought about kissing, and touching and holding you. 
But I never rented a goddamn movie and sat on my couch _jerking off_ 
thinking about you. I never saw a _Playgirl_ with someone that looked 
like you on the cover and brought it home! What I did was..." 
        "Different," Mulder said. "That's all. A different route to 
the same destination, Scully." 
        "No!" she said, stepping closer. "What I did was...pure and 
sweet and honest and loving. I touched myself and closed my eyes and 
imagined that it was you making love with me! I never thought about 
you as a fucking sperm donor! Not like those...receptacles." 
        "We're just different," Mulder said. 
        "You got that right," Scully snapped. "I think making love is 
about that: Love. Not about...mechanics." 
        She spun on her heel, reaching for the door. 
        Her hand paused on the knob. "As of this moment," she said 
softly, "do not enter my room without knocking and getting 
permission. On this case, and on every case." She opened the door, 
stepped through, stopped, and turned to face him. "And I want my 
apartment key back, Mulder." 
        She shut the door. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
END CHAPTER 9 
 
End Note : The case of Rosemary Innis is based on an actual case that 
occurred in West Virginia. The names were changed, but details as 
described in the story are 100% accurate. As of this writing, the 
killer of "Rosemary Innis" is sitting on death row in Virginia, 
convicted of First Degree Murder, Aggravated Sexual Assault and Rape.