ELS 
Chapter 12
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    : December 14, 1997
Archive Entry	: "ELS" Chapter 12/? 
Classification	: SRA MSR 
Chapter Rating  : PG
Story Rating	: NC-17 (Violence, Sexual Situations) 
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm 
Summary         : Mark Dupree makes his presence known to the NYPD and 
                  the New York Press in a very direct and startling
                  manner, causing Captain Alex Cahill to force her
                  hand with the Chief of Detectives and the FBI.
                  Meanwhile, Dana Scully sees an FBI counselor
                  about her and Mulder's problem, and the
                  psychologist has a startling suggestion for
                  what might work.
Spoilers        : US4
Casting		: Russell Crowe, "Mark Dupree" 
		: Helen Hunt, "Captain Alex Cahill" 
		: Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross" 
		: Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks" 
                : Rachel Ticotin, "Lt. Gloria Barrington"
		: Lindsay Frost, "Dr. Larkin"



Annapolis, Maryland
The Next Day

	Special Agent Dana Scully woke to greet her first of three days 
off with a groan and a shiver. She had forgotten to turn the heat up 
before going to bed, and the apartment was more than a little chilly. 
Swinging her legs out of bed, she padded into the hallway and gave the 
thermostat a quick, angry twist. 
	Standing in the kitchen while waiting for the Mr. Java to fill the 
pot, Scully yawned and palmed both her eyes, wondering why she still 
felt so tired. The clock on the coffeemaker confirmed that she had slept 
for almost ten hours.
	So why do I feel like something the cat dragged in? Scully 
wondered, although a part of her knew why.
	Mulder.
	She'd slept fitfully, tossing and turning most of the night, her 
thoughts on her partner and his problem. 
	No, not problem, Dana, she thought. That's judgmental. It sounds 
accusatory. Like there's something wrong with it. Something dirty. Which 
wasn't true...
	Exactly.
	Opening the refrigerator, Scully spied some old Chinese food, 
three white cardboard boxes cheerfully perched on the top shelf. Just 
the thing, she decided, for breakfast on a day off. Grabbing one of 
them, she turned and pulled the microwave door open, placing the box 
inside. With a flick of the wrist, Scully closed the door and twisted 
the dial.
	Her camera was sitting on top of the microwave.
	Frowning, Scully picked up. And then she remembered. She 
remembered that night. The pizza, the beer, the laughing and talking. 
Feeling so close to Mulder it was as if she had always known him. The 
feeling was almost beyond her grasp now. She could remember having the 
feeling, but for the life of her, Scully couldn't remember the feeling 
itself. That comfort level had vanished.
	Depressed, Scully put the camera back on top of the microwave and 
moved to the phone.
	"Psych Services," the voice answered.
	"This is Dana Scully. I was wondering if Dr. Larkin has a free 
session today?"
	"Just a moment, Agent Scully," the secretary asked. "Yes, as a 
matter of fact, she had a cancellation at ten. Will that be all right?"
	Scully glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker again. It would be 
close, but she could make it. "Yes, that's perfect. Thank you."
	"Of course, Agent Scully."
	Taking a cup of coffee in the bedroom, Scully quickly drained half 
of it and then dashed into the shower. She had to talk to someone about 
this, and she sure as hell couldn't talk to Mulder. Likewise her mother. 
Just the thought of bringing this particular topic up with her mother 
made Scully shudder.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
New York City

	Mark Dupree purchased all five newspapers again, and once again he 
purchased them from five different locations. Collecting them all, he 
drove back to his house and crept down into the basement, eager to read 
what had been written about his newest accomplishment.
	The murder had made the second page of the three tabloids. The 
_News_ made mention that the murderer had used a razor, and had severely 
cut and stabbed the victim. The _Post_ had the ubiquitous picture of the 
Medical Examiner's Office staff loading the gurney into the van. A 
Detective Cross had been interviewed, but he had referred all questions 
to the Public Information Office at One Police Plaza.
	Cross. 
	Dupree frowned.
	He swung over to one of his computers and booted it, signing on to 
a privileged account. He ran the name and read what came back.
	Samuel Cross. Detective First Grade. Seventeen years on the job, 
commendations out the wazoo. Currently assigned...
	Citywide Major Cases Squad.
	With a flush of pride, Dupree realized they were finally taking 
him seriously. He ran a quick cross-check on Cross, finding out that his 
partner of record was one Daryl Hicks. Dupree ran him too, and was 
equally impressed with the Georgia native's record on the job. Either 
Hicks or Cross was listed as the primary detective on the three murders. 
Perfect. Now he had a name.
	On a whim, Dupree moved to another machine, starting it and 
waiting for the OS to load. He entered Cross' name and his own into the 
software and began the search, returning his attention to the 
newspapers. He was almost sure that the name "Cross" was going to appear 
in the system, but was curious to see in exactly which passage their 
names intersected.
	The _Times_ had a more sedate piece about the murder, noting only 
that the wife had found the body and that public identification was 
being withheld at police request until other family members could be 
notified. No mention had been made of the fact that Montoya's eyes had 
been cut out. No mention, of course, had been made of the note.
	Time to up the ante, Dupree thought. Time to turn the heat up just 
a little.
	He booted a third PC and signed onto one of the national Internet 
Service Providers. He had a credit card that was clean, according to the 
skel that had sold it to him. Guaranteed for at least 30 days, the man 
had said. That was 19 days ago.
	Dupree quickly created an account, choosing the handle MrKnife. He 
thought that was cute enough. Then, taking a moment to crack his 
knuckles, Dupree composed an email:

	TO: editor@nyt.com
	FROM: MrKnife
	RE: Your Story on the Conners Murder

	Dear Sir,
		As usual, the police aren't telling you everything.
		First, ask yourself these questions, and then you
		may want to ask the police:

		1. Why is the Major Cases Squad working three
		   similar murders? Detectives Cross and Hicks
		   are also working the murders of Leon King
                   and Jack Wagner, AKA Jack Nelson.
		
		2. Ask them how many birthdays the average man has.

		3. Ask them why Mr. Conners (who was born Tony
		   Montoya,) had his eyes cut out. 

	Sincerely,
	MrKnife


	Dupree checked the letter over one last time and then clicked 
SEND. A few moments later, he cancelled the account and signed off. He 
found the credit card the skel had sold him and quickly cut it up, 
gathering the fragments into a sandwich bag. He'd dispose of them later.
	Dupree was pleased with himself. This would drive the cops nuts. 
The New York Times would have a reporter down at One Police Plaza by the 
end of the day, and hard questions were sure to be asked. Once it was 
made public that he, Mark Dupree, was stalking the city, the coverage 
would begin to reflect the panic that the city _should_ be feeling.
	The computer running the search beeped.
	Swinging back, Dupree saw that, indeed, the name Cross and Dupree 
did intersect. Well, taken with a small liberty, they did. The passage 
was not one that Dupree knew, and he took a moment to read it.
	Perfect, he thought.
	He selected a portion of the text, marked it, and then opened a 
new version, a different translation of the same text. He found the 
identical section, highlighted, and then copied it to a separate file. 
He would mail that to Cross after the next cleansing.
	

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
FBI Headquarters
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
Psychological Services Bureau
9:58am

	Scully pushed her way into the PsychServices Bureau outer office 
and smiled at the receptionist.
	"Special Agent Scully, go right in. Dr. Larkin is expecting you," 
the receptionist said with a smile. Scully nodded her thanks and 
continued walking into Dr. Larkin's inner office.
	

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

	Lieutenant Gloria Barrington glanced at her notes and cleared her 
throat. The daughter, wife and sister of cops, her career had been 
determined almost from the moment of conception. She'd applied to the 
NYPD almost the moment she'd graduated from John Jay College of Criminal 
Justice, had passed the entrance exam on the first try, and had 
graduated sixth in her Academy class. A brief tour as a patrolwoman in 
Staten Island had preceded her transfer to the Public Morals squad (what 
other departments called the Vice Squad,) where she spent the next three 
years working hooker-decoy. Promotion to Sergeant had come right on 
schedule. An opening in the PIO (Public Information Office) at One 
Police Plaza had come along at the same time as the first Lieutenant's 
test that she was eligible to take. She passed that with flying colors 
(placing ninth on the list overall,) and was promoted and transferred on 
the same teletype. Now, as the Press Briefing Officer (Noon) for the 
NYPD, Gloria's day was spent collecting information from every precinct 
and unit in the Department and then briefing the press on important or 
high-profile cases. Her title implied that she gave the briefing at 
noon, but the truth of the matter was that it was given at 10:00 am so 
that the six local newscasts that occurred at noon would have fodder for 
the public.
	She began her daily statement, highlighting some of the drug 
warrants that had been served by the joint FBI-NYPD Violent Crimes Task 
Force in conjunction with the Emergency Services Unit. A quick reminder 
that the Aviation Unit would be having an open house at Floyd Bennett 
Field later in the month, and a small segment about the newly formed 
NYPD Bike Squad that was scheduled to begin patrolling Central Park once 
the spring rolled around, and she was finished.
	"Questions?" she asked, feeling the first rumble of anticipation 
in her gut. This was the fun part, she knew. The part where anything 
could happen. It was Gloria's job to make sure that the press kept an as 
favorable opinion of the NYPD as possible. And with the New York press, 
that was a challenge. They had sources and snitches in places that 
Gloria could only begin to imagine, and coupled with their annoying 
habit of asking the most pointed, embarrassing questions possible, 
keeping a straight face and answering the question without outright 
lying was a formidable task indeed, a challenge that Gloria relished.
	The crime beat reporter for the Times was on his feet in a flash. 
"Loo," he said, using the time-honored nickname for all NYPD 
Lieutenants, "is it true that a serial killer is stalking the city?"
	The fact that the _Times_ reporter would ask such a loaded 
question startled and shocked Gloria. But not so much as the question 
itself.
	"Excuse me?" she asked.
	"I have it on good authority that the Major Cases Squad is 
tracking a serial killer. His latest victim was Mr. Conners, who my 
source tells me is actually named Tony Montoya. The Times has uncovered 
that a Mr. Tony Montoya was a California mobster who vanished four years 
ago. Do you have any comment, Loo?"
	"Not at this time," Gloria answered quickly, flushing in anger. If 
MCS was working a serial job, she should have been told. If only to 
prepare her for these kinds of questions.
	"Follow-up," the Times reporter continued. "Is it true that Mr. 
Conners' eyes were cut out?"
	"Uh-" Gloria faltered. "I cannot comment on the particulars of an 
ongoing investigation, Gill. You know that."
	"I have one final question, Loo. How many birthdays does the 
average man have?"
	Gloria shrugged, not sure what the reporter meant. "Seventy-two?" 
she asked.
	Satisfied, for the moment, the Times reporter sat down.
	A reporter from Newsday stood up and started asking about 
increased crack arrests in Queens, and Gloria gladly switched topics, 
making a mental note to have her boss, Deputy Inspector Hodges, call the 
CofD and find out what the hell was going on with Major Cases.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Washington, DC

	"So," Dr. Larkin said, "what brings you here?"
	My car, Scully thought, and grinned. "I'm not sure. I don't know 
if you heard, but my partner and I are no longer working on the X-
Files."
	"Oh?"
	"We were transferred to ISU. We're one of the Response Teams."
	Larkin nodded. "I see. A feather in your cap, so to speak."
	Scully smiled. Her own exact words.
	"Yes."
	Larkin paused. "You don't seem overly pleased by my statement."
	Scully shrugged. "It's difficult, draining work, as I'm sure you 
know."
	Larkin nodded, saying nothing, trying to draw Scully out. The 
petite agent remained silent, so Larkin tried again. "So why did you 
want to see me, Dana?"
	Scully shrugged. "I'm not quite sure. I'm...things have been 
changing in my life recently, and I'm not sure I like where the changes 
are taking me."
	Larkin nodded. "Ok...what changed?"
	Scully sighed. "It's not easy to talk about. I know that you're 
under a Bureau mandate to report certain...things-"
	"Only if I believe the situation contributes to a safety hazard 
for you, your partner, or someone else...or it's a security risk." 
Larkin paused. "Is that the case?"
	Scully smirked. "Depends on what you mean by security risk, I 
guess. Is falling in love with your partner such a risk?"
	Her head bobbing up and down twice slowly, her lips pursed, Larkin 
considered her next words. "I see," she finally said.
	Scully sighed. "I...I wish I could rephrase that. I'm not in love 
with my partner. At least, I don't think I am."
	Larkin nodded again. "But...?"
	"I think I might be _falling_ in love with him, and that can't 
happen."
	Larkin crossed her legs, trying to find a comfortable position. 
Her patient might or might not have been aware of it, but the status of 
hers and Mulder's relationship was the topic of more than a little 
speculation around the Bureau. And Dr. Larkin, having heard nothing 
specifically about such things in session, had participated in more than 
one discussion along that front. No more, she reminded herself. That's 
betraying the doctor-client privilege.
	"Why can't it happen?"
	Scully's eyes widened. "How can you ask that?"
	"Does he make you happy?"
	"At times," Scully conceded. "But that's not the point. My 
happiness is not at issue here."
	Larkin frowned. "Your happiness isn't important?"
	Scully shook her head. "That's not what I said, Doctor. I said the 
fact that Mulder might or might not make me happy is not at issue here. 
You're putting words in my mouth."
	"I certainly didn't intend to do that," Larkin said. "And that's 
not what you said."
	"It's what I meant," Scully insisted.
	Larkin nodded. "That's a horse of a different color, then, isn't 
it?"
	"I suppose," Scully admitted.
	"Fine. So you're falling...excuse me, you think you might be 
falling in love with your partner. Agent...Mulder, right?"
	Scully nodded, rolling her neck. "Please, Dr. Larkin, don't insult 
my intelligence. I know you know who my partner is. Half the Bureau 
knows who my partner is, and speculates on the state of our 
relationship."
	Well, Larkin thought, that settles _that_.
	"It was a technique," Larkin admitted. "A technique to get you to 
talk about him. By appearing as if I didn't know, I was hoping to 
encourage you to expound on him. And since your feelings for him are the 
reason you came here today, I expected that your feelings towards him 
would have been what you talked about." She paused. "I apologize for the 
technique. It won't happen again."
	Scully nodded, accepting the apology. "Forget it," she said. "I'm 
just touchy about Mulder, I guess."
	"Do you know why that is?"
	"Because for five years, I've always been the half of this whole. 
Mulder and I against the world. You remember the other times I've been 
here. You know how important his friendship and support have been to me 
in the past. And now it's changing. It's all changing. I don't know 
where it's going, or where I want it to go, or what I'll do when it gets 
wherever it _is_ going."
	Larkin nodded again. "I see. Has there been any...contact?"
	Scully cocked her head. "Why would you ask that?"
	Larkin shrugged. "Because, more often than you'd expect, male-
female partnerships have an...incident involving sexual contact. 
Especially headquarters partnerships that travel a great deal on hard 
cases. VICAP, a long time ago, tried to create _only_ male-female 
partnerships, thinking that the generally accepted ying and yang of the 
male-female dynamic would work better on the majority of cases. We found 
that...as the stress level builds, as the time for personal, emotional 
and physical release dwindled as caseloads rose, that the male-female 
partners reported a much higher than average contact rate. We traced 
that rate not to love or passion, but simple human need. The need, one 
might say, to reconnect with humanity after having to witness the things 
those people did. The reason I asked was to establish if perhaps this 
was the case -- one of you mistaking simple human need for love."
	Scully listened to Larkin's speech with a blank expression on her 
face. The woman meant well, Scully knew, but she didn't have a clue 
about her and Mulder.
	"No," Scully said. "No contact, aside from a kiss here and there."
	"Is your partner participating? Encouraging it?"
	Scully shrugged. "We had sort of a fight yesterday and the day 
before. He...I'm sure that he wants the relationship to continue and 
progress, but...I'm not sure I can give that to him. Not that I don't 
want to."
	"Is your professionalism a problem for him?"
	"No," Scully said truthfully. "Never. It's my problem, doctor. A 
problem my partner has, so to speak, that's affecting my ability to show 
him my feelings." She hesitated. "No, that's not exactly right either. 
It's an issue I have with some of...his activities that's preventing me 
from getting to the comfort level I need to continue."
	"Trust?"
	"In most senses of that word, absolutely not. I trust Mulder with 
my life, and I always will. I trust him with our partnership, as far as 
work goes. I just can't trust him with my heart right now."
	Larkin made a note on her pad. "I see. Has he done something to 
betray that trust?"
	"I'm not sure I understand the question," Scully admitted.
	"How can I say this ... from what you've told me, the relationship 
has been progressing from a mere partnership to something...more?"
	Mere, Scully thought. Yeah, right. 
	"First off, nothing about my partnership with Mulder could ever be 
considered `mere.' Secondly, no, not really."
	"What actions of his are bothering you?"
	Scully took a deep breath. "He masturbates," she said softly.
	"Most men do," Larkin pointed out. "Has he masturbated in front of 
you?"
	"God, no!" Scully exploded. "How could you _ask_ such a thing?"
	"Er...it's not an uncommon safe-sex alternative," she said.
	"I'm aware of that, Doctor. But no, he has not...masturbated in 
front of me."
	"So how do you know he does?" Larkin asked reasonably.
	"We have had long discussions on the topic," Scully explained 
slowly. "Let me be clear: The fact that he masturbates is not abhorrent 
to me. The fact of what he uses as fuel for his fantasies is what's 
giving me problems."
	"You?" Larkin asked. Scully nodded. "I guess I don't have to point 
out the obvious point that some women would find that flattering."
	Scully shrugged. She went on to tell Larkin about the movies and 
the attempt in Portland to show her his favorite film, and how she had 
reacted. Larkin listened and nodded, asking questions from time to time, 
and making notes on her pad.
	When Scully had finished, Dr. Larkin leaned back and sighed. "You 
do have a problem, Dr. Scully."
	Scully nodded. "I know."
	"What you two need is time apart." Seeing the look on Scully's 
face, Larkin held up a hand. "Not a transfer, not a reassignment. Just 
some time apart. A few days, maybe a week. Not much more than that."
	"What will that accomplish?" Scully wanted to know.
	"Perspective," Larkin answered. "I think you need time to process 
all the things he's told you without the constant pressure of his 
presence or your partnership."
	Scully considered this. "I'm not sure I agree with you, but I'll 
see what I can do."
	Larkin hesitated before asking, "Do you want me to talk to 
Assistant Director Skinner?"
	Scully shook her head. "No. I'm on my way up there right now, as a 
matter of fact." But I have no intention of talking to him about this, 
she thought. 
If Skinner finds out what I just told you, he'll skin Mulder 
alive, no pun intended.
"Very well. Please, let me know what happens."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Office of AD Walter S. Skinner

	"Scully, come in," Skinner said, offering one of his rare grimace-
smiles. "How are things over at ISU?"
	"Another solve, sir, although not as quickly as we would have 
liked, I'm afraid."
	"Yes," Skinner said, nodding. "I heard. I heard you did the Bureau 
proud in that meatlocker."
	Scully ignored the praise and took one of the two seats in front 
of Skinner's desk without asking. If ever asked privately, Scully would 
admit that she felt much more comfortable with Skinner than Mulder ever 
could. She also had the sneaking suspicion that if Skinner were asked, 
he would grudgingly admit that she was his favorite of the two agents. 
When Mulder wasn't around, the tension that was usually brewing between 
them vanished.
	"Sir, I was wondering about the status of Agent Mulder and I 
returning to the X-Files division."
	Skinner nodded, retaking his seat. "I was wondering when you were 
going to get around to that." He paused. "How's agent Mulder holding 
up?"
	"Mulder is...experiencing some problems, sir. The concerns that he 
expressed when you originally proposed the transfer have borne fruit. As 
Agent Mulder suspected, we were moved from cold cases to the Response 
Team. He's having to actively profile again. This is his fourth case in 
less than three weeks, and although they've all turned out well overall, 
I'm..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
	"Concerned?" Skinner prompted.
	Scully shrugged. "I don't want to cause Agent Mulder any problems, 
sir."
	"Scully...Dana...right now, we're two old friends having a 
discussion about a third. For the time being, Agent Mulder doesn't 
report to me, so any concerns you voice about him will remain in 
confidence."
	Old friends? Scully thought.
	"Well, sir...the pressure is starting to get to him, I think. I 
also think that it would be a good idea if he and I spent some time 
apart for a few days."
	Skinner frowned. "Is there something I should know about?"
	Scully debated how much to tell her old boss, a man she hoped 
would be both her boss and Mulder's boss sometime soon. The exact extent 
and nature of the problem with Mulder was, of course, out of the 
question. So then, how much to tell?
	"Mulder tends to lash out at the people closest to him when he's 
in this state," Scully started slowly, choosing her words carefully. 
"I'm aware that he's the only partner I've ever had, and so for me to 
say that he's the best partner I've ever had would by hyperbole, but the 
fact remains that I can't imagine having a better partner, sir. And I 
would like to keep that partnership viable. And to do that, sir, I think 
I need to spend some time apart from Agent Mulder, just as he needs time 
away from me."
	"Does Mulder feel the same way you do?" Skinner asked.
	"I have no idea, sir," Scully answered honestly. "But I implore 
you to give this-"
	"Scully," Skinner gently reminded her. "Don't you think you should 
be bringing this up with Tony Littleton?"
	"Yes, sir," Scully said. "But I was hoping that if it came to it, 
I could indicate to Special Agent-in-Charge Littleton that you thought 
my suggestion was a good idea."
	Skinner tried to hide another smile. Mulder had once mentioned to 
him that, despite her appearance, Scully was a consummate political 
operator. Mulder's observation had just been proven correct.
	In spades.
	"Of course, Agent Scully. By all means. If your SAC gives you 
trouble, please have him contact me. I'll be more than happy to give him 
my...input."
	Which means if Littleton gives you any shit, Scully thought, 
you'll break a foot off in his ass. 
	"Thank you, sir."



+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Office of The Chief of Detectives
New York Police Department
One Police Plaza
11:30am

	"Captain Cahill to see the Chief," Alex said. The administrative 
Lieutenant nodded at her, hooking a thumb towards the inner door. 
	"Go right in," he said.
	Alex entered the office and closed the doors behind her, leaning 
on them for a moment. Chief Zolinski glared at her from his desk. "What 
the hell is going on?"
	"From what I can gather, sir, the New York Times received an email 
from someone calling themselves MrKnife. In the email, he provided 
details about the crime scene that only the police, the ME's office or 
the killer would be aware of."
	"Such as?"
	"He referred to the contents in the note, and the fact that the 
victim had his eyes removed by straight razor."
	Zolinski nodded. "God help me," he moaned. "Email! What the hell 
is police work coming to?"
	"I've got the DA's office working on a subpoena for the Internet 
Service Provider. We'll have the account information within the hour, I 
think."
	"Where are they?"
	"Eugene, Oregon."
	"So how the hell-"
	"Fourteenth Amendment, sir. Good faith clause. I have a buddy in 
the Sheriff's office out there who has agreed to serve the warrant. The 
local DA has said that he'll encourage the ISP to honor the warrant."
	"Good," Zolinski nodded. "So we'll have the bastard by end of 
business?"
	"No," Alex said, moving to sit down. She indicated the chair with 
a hand and a pair of raised eyebrows. 
	"Sit," Zolinski said, reaching into a massive humidor on his desk. 
"I'd offer you one but--," he said.
	Alex waved her hand. "Well, sir, to answer your question, I don't 
think we'll be effecting an arrest any time soon. The ISP already 
forwarded us the credit card number. I had Intel reach out to the credit 
card company. They gave us the name of the cardholder. Hicks and Cross 
just finished the interview with him. He's a travelling salesman who has 
airtight alibis for all three murders, plus the fact that he couldn't 
produce the card. It was stolen, sir."
	"Any tracks on the card?"
	Alex shook her head. "We ran the account. The last charge was for 
the account; before that, a dinner that the salesmen produced the 
receipt for, six days before the first murder. He's clean."
	"Shit!" Zolinski said. "Accomplice?"
	"Doubtful," Alex admitted, "But Cross and Hicks are following it 
up just to be sure. We don't like this guy for much more than being a 
poor dupe, sir."
	"Do you like anyone?" Zolinski asked.
	"Not right now, sir. No suspects. Investigation continues."
	Zolinski pounded his desk. "What the fuck am I supposed to tell 
the press? The DPC for Public Affairs is crawling down my throat!" The 
Deputy Police Commissioner for Public Affairs, an ex-television reporter 
that had been hand-picked by the current mayor to massage the press, 
loved to see his own name in print and on television. Due to the odd 
nature of the NYPD, the DPC was also a sworn officer, complete with a 
shield and pistol, and without a single day's training at the police 
academy, was known to show up at big jobs, like multi-location drug 
hits, waving his pistol and demanding that the on-scene commanders 
listen to him. Only the fact that the public's perception and opinion of 
the NYPD was at an all-time high saved the man from being thrown out on 
his ass.
	"Sir," Alex said, "I do have a suggestion. I think we need to get 
the FBI ISU involved."
	Zolinski glowered at his MCS commanding officer. "Alex, for 
someone that's bucking for Deputy Inspector, that's an incredibly stupid 
thing to say."
	"Sir," Alex said, not in the least offended, "please let me 
explain."
	"Proceed."
	"Sir, I don't want the job to end up with egg on it's face. We 
have psychologists on staff, but it's just not the same as ISU. Those 
people deal with this shit on an almost daily basis. If the shit hits 
the fan around here, I'd like to be able to stand up at a press 
conference and say that the NYPD has secured the help of the world-
famous ISU, the FBI division that is consulted by police agencies the 
world over in the identification, tracking and apprehension of violent 
serial criminals...and even they couldn't help."
	Zolinski rubbed his chin considering. "You'd burn yourself with 
the Bureau for all time," he observe dryly. "If you hung them out to dry 
like that."
	"I know," Alex nodded. "But..."
	"You want Deputy Inspector that bad?"
	"No," Alex said, shaking her head. "Not at all. I mean, sure, I 
want the promotion, but that's not what this is about. This asshole is 
making the job look bad. When it starts to leak that we're chasing our 
dicks here..."
	Zolinski nodded again, accepting her logic. "Well, how bad do you 
want that promotion, Alex?"
	She shrugged. "I don't know. How bad is bad?"
	"Let me ask you what you think of the DPC for Public Affairs?"
	Alex shrugged. "He's doing his job the best way he knows how."
	"Interesting that you would give such a politically correct 
answer, Captain. Because that same DPC suggested to the mayor this 
morning that a ranking officer be given temporary command of the Special 
Violent Homicide Task Force."
	"The...what?" Alex asked, dreading the answer.
	"The SVHTF," Zolsinki replied dryly. "Doesn't make for a very good 
acronym, does it? DPC Brooks wanted to create the Task Force and have it 
commanded by an Assistant Chief, or at the very least, by a full 
Inspector."
	Alex felt her stomach flip-flop.
	"However," Zolinski continued, "the mayor expressed his continued 
belief that the Citywide Major Cases Squad could handle the 
investigation, and even went so far as to indicate that he would rather 
the investigation be handled by street-level cops, rather than the 
brass."
	Alex saw a ray of hope and reached for it. "So that means...?"
	"DPC Brooks insisted that a lowly Captain was not enough to 
satisfy the public's need to make sure that the job was paying adequate 
attention to this case. So...the mayor and the DPC settled on the fact 
that a Deputy Inspector would command the Major Cases Squad."
	Alex sat back, deflated. "Who's taking command, sir?" Maybe, Alex 
hoped, she would be allowed to stay on, maybe become the squad's whip.
	Zolinski frowned. "I don't understand, Alex. Did I say anything 
about a new commanding officer?"
	"But you just said-" Alex began, and then stopped, her eyes 
widening. "You mean...?"
	"Congratulations, Deputy Inspector Cahill," Zolinski said. He 
reached into a desk drawer and found a small black leather folder. He 
tossed it across the desk at her. Alex reached over and took it, opening 
it in her lap.
	The blue and gold-enameled shield of a NYPD Deputy Inspector 
stared back at her. 
	"Go down to Human Resources and have your ID card updated. If they 
give you shit, let me know. I'll take care of it."
	"Yes...sir," Alex said. "Thank you, sir."
	"Don't get too excited, Inspector," Zolinski said. "Remember, the 
mayor can bust that pretty little ass of your back to a Captaincy in a 
matter of seconds. I really don't think you'd like to spend the rest of 
your career commanding the tow trucks in Traffic or a precient in Staten 
Island, would you?"
	"Sir?"
	"The rank is permanent, Alex. This isn't some press stunt. But the 
mayor asked me to communicate to you the importance of getting this 
fucker, and getting him fast. I know that goes without saying, but the 
fact of the matter is -- if you don't get him soon, there will be 
sacrifices to be made. And the first neck on the block will be the CO of 
the unit that failed to catch him."
	"Sir...about that FBI matter."
	"Consider it done, Inspector."
	"Sir, there's more. I'd like you to call and request a specific 
team."
	Zolinski made a come-on gesture with his hand.
"I would ask that you request Special Agent Dana Scully and her 
partner. I went to the FBI Academy with her. I know her. I trust her." 
Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, Alex thought to herself.
"Very well," Zolinski said. "Dismissed, Inspector. Go get this 
bastard."


+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Office of Special Agent in Charge Tony Littleton
Investigative Support Unit
Marine Barracks Quantico
Quantico, Virginia

	Tony Littleton was poring over personnel reports. He hated this 
part of the job more than anything in the world. It was common knowledge 
in the unit that the reason he had aspired to command it was that he had 
no talent for the work they did. So how, he wondered, was he expected to 
evaluate the work of those that did what he could not?
	The ringing phone saved him from this delimma.
	"ISU, Littleton," he said.
	"Mr. Littleton, this is Chief of Detectives Zolinski, New York 
Police Department. I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time."
	Tony frowned. "How did you get this number?"
	"Your predecessor gave it to me many years ago, sir."
	"I see. What can the FBI do for the NYPD?"
	"I need your Agent Scully and her partner in New York as soon as 
possible, sir. We have a bit of a mess up here." Quickly, but omitting 
no details, Zolinski brought Littleton up to date.
	"I agree you need ISU assistance," Littleton said excitedly, 
realizing that if Mulder and Scully pulled this one off, that would be 
five cases in less than four weeks. The press would be ecstatic. 
	So would the Hoover building.
	And Congress.
	"I'll get them up there just as soon as I can, sir," Littleton 
promised. "Oh, before I forget...if you don't mind my asking, how did 
you hear about my two favorite agents?"
	Zolinski, seated behind his desk at One Police Plaza, had a built-
in, time-honed bullshit detector. One did not become the Chief of 
Detectives of the NYPD without being able to spot a weasel at two 
hundred yards. Without being able to explain exactly why, Chief Zolinski 
was aware that he did not like the ISU SAC.
	"One of my unit commanders went through the FBI Academy, sir. She 
comes highly recommended."
	"I see. They'll be up shortly. I'll have Agent Scully contact your 
commander with the arrival information."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

	Scully's phone chirped just as she was twisting the key in her 
front door. Reaching into her pocket, she found the phone and lifted it 
to her ear.
	"Scully."
	"Tony, Scully. Know where your partner is?"
	"Not my turn to watch him," Scully said, hoping her teasing tone 
belied her sudden uneasiness. The last time Littleton had sounded this 
chipper, they'd ended up in Chicago.
	A lifetime ago, it seemed.
	"Listen, I know this is short notice, but I need you to get up to 
New York City. A Deputy Inspector Cahill needs yours and Mulder's help 
with a serial job."
	Scully sighed. "I guess that arguing with you over the fact that 
we just finished a case, a case where I ended up shooting and killing 
the suspect would be a waste of breath?"
	"Scully, the shooting board has already cleared you, and a 
commendation letter from the Portland Police Department and the director 
of Portland's Emergent Medical Services is sitting on my fax machine. 
Are you telling me that my two star profilers need a day off?"
	"I'm not a profiler, Tony. I'm a pathologist."
	"Whatever. Listen, the travel office already has your tickets. 
You're leaving in four hours. Pack a bag. I'll find Mulder."
	Scully sighed and hung up.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
LaGuardia Airport
Five hours later

	Scully strode up the jetway, already feeling tired. If this is... 
what, Wednesday? This must be New York. Emerging onto the concourse, she 
spotted Alex Cahill immediately. Amazingly, it looked as if the woman 
hadn't changed a bit in the last seven years.
	"Alex!" Scully said happily.
	"Dana!" 
	The two women embraced, and then Scully stepped back. "Deputy 
Inspector?" she asked.
	Alex nodded happily. "As of about noon this morning."
	"Is that some kind of record?"
	"For a woman, yeah. Youngest ever. Also shortest-in-service ever, 
male or female."
	Scully nodded, impressed. 
	"Where's your partner?"
	Scully shrugged. Apparently, Tony had been unable to locate Mulder 
before the scheduled flight had departed. "I don't know. I haven't been 
able to get a hold of him all day."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Alexandria, Virginia

	Miserable, Mulder sat on the couch, the phone unplugged and the 
battery from his cell disconnected. The VCR and TV were on, but muted. 
On the screen, two people made love at high speed as Mulder fast-
forwarded through the tape. 
	Connections, he thought.
	I have to find a connection to this...habit. 
	He'd watched eleven movies this way, not having the patience to 
watch them at regular speed. He wanted to know, so he could explain to 
Scully, exactly what he saw in these movies. He wanted to know, so he 
could cut that portion of his personality away, so he could excise it 
and go to Scully whole again.
	She deserved better, but he wanted her.
	Disgusted, Mulder shut the TV off and stood up, pacing his small 
apartment, not wanting to mentally consider the image of caged animal, 
but unable to escape it just the same.
	Stopping mid-pace, Mulder turned and made a beeline for the spare 
room. There had once been a bed in there, but he had gotten rid of it a 
long time ago. What was in there now were filing cabinets and cardboard 
boxes. Boxes of files, information, newspaper clippings and magazines. 
Tons and tons of magazines. Five years of Omni. Five years of Time and 
Newsweek and US News & World Report. 
	He wasn't interested in any of that. He moved to the last cabinet, 
and then stooped to open the bottom drawer. Two of his spare guns stared 
back at him, a holstered Charter Arms .38 Undercover he had never used, 
and next to that a small .380 automatic in a ballistic nylon ankle 
holster. He moved them aside, reaching for the 5x7 manila envelope. 
Standing, he unwound the red string from the two cardboard discs and 
lifted the flap.
	Frohicke's other gifts slid into his palm when he upended the 
envelope.
	Pictures. At least a dozen of them, all of Scully. He'd wanted to 
put one of them in his wallet, but had refrained because he worried that 
Scully might someday have cause to go through his wallet, which was 
exactly what had happened. Of course, at the time, he'd thought she 
would have to go through it as part of a murder investigation. A picture 
of the two of them seemed safer to carry around. And until this moment, 
he'd forgotten about the pictures altogether.
	Frohicke had started providing them years ago, all without Mulder 
ever having asked. One by one they'd shown up in his mailbox, each 
envelope bearing only Mulder's address and the sufficient postage. No 
return address. Part of him, at first, was creeped out by the idea of 
Frohicke following Scully, but then...then he realized that if anything 
ever happened to her...all he would have would be these pictures and the 
constantly shifting mental torture of images.
	So he'd kept them. 
	And now, he was glad.
	Returning to the living room, he sat on the couch and slowly went 
through them. He smiled as he saw Scully changing. Her hairstyle was 
different now, and she was thinner, almost taller, it seemed. He stared 
at her face, in one image looking serious and professional in an 
official FBI raid windbreaker, in another looking playful in jeans and a 
sweater off-duty, coming out of a mall with bags in her arms.
	Mulder had a thought.
	He sighed. If I...
	No.
	Think it, he demanded of himself. Think it out. Think the damn 
words, Mulder.
	If I could just...stare at her, he thought. If I could just look 
at her gorgeous, beautiful face twenty-four hours a day, I'd be a happy 
man. Sometimes, all I want to do is just...stare at her, drink her in, 
wallow in her beauty.
	He snorted. Obscene, he thought. How totally perverted. Pictures 
were good, but they were no substitute for the real thing. He missed 
her. 
	Did she have any idea? he wondered. Did she have any concept of 
what it did to him just to see her face? How he would wait in his office 
for her every morning, wondering what she was going to be wearing that 
day? How the sight of her coming in through the door, the movement of 
her hair as she walked, just the simple, elegant, efficient way she 
carried herself made him crazy? How could he communicate that emotion to 
her?
	At that moment, Mulder understood why artists, sculptors and 
photographers existed. Why man had from the beginning of time sought to 
preserve for all time the simple human beauty of a woman like Scully.
	Since photographs hadn't been invented yet, Mulder had no way to 
be sure, but part of him thought that if Scully had been alive during 
ancient Greek times, she would have given Helen of Troy a run for her 
money.
	A pounding at his door startled Mulder, and he almost dropped the 
handful of glossy photographs.
	"Mulder!" a voice called. "You in there?"
	Littleton.
	Suddenly guilty, as if his father had caught him sneaking a peek 
at a Playboy, Mulder stuffed the pictures under a couch cushion and 
stood to open the door.
	"Mulder, what the fuck? I've been calling for hours!"
	Mulder dry-washed his face with a hand. "I took the phone off the 
hook," he explained. "Wanted to get some quiet."
	"Well, sorry to interrupt, but you have to leave-" Littleton 
glanced at his watch. "Shit. You'll have to leave in the morning. 
Scully's already there, and the last shuttle leaves in ten minutes. 
Dammit!"
	"Tony, I'm off-duty."
	"As an ISU RT, you're on call 24/7," Littleton pointed out.
	"I never asked for that-"
	"Yes, well, tough noogies. Tomorrow morning, be on the first 
shuttle for New York. The NYPD has an interesting case for you. As I 
said, Scully is already up there. She's asshole buddies with some bigwig 
in the Department."
	Mulder nodded. "Case file?"
	Littleton shook his head. "We've got dick. I imagine that Scully 
will fill you in when you get there." With that, ISU SAC Tony Littleton 
turned on his heel and left.
	Wonderful, Mulder thought. Just wonderful. Now Scully probably 
thinks that I ditched her.
	Closing the door, Mulder wandered back into the apartment and 
found his phone. He quickly reconnected it and dialed Scully's cell.
	It rang four times.
	"Scully."
	"Scully, it's me."
	A long pause. "Hi, Mulder. Where are you?"
	"Still in DC. I'll be up in the morning."
	"Great."
	"Listen..."
	"Mulder, I really can't talk now," Scully said. "I'm heading into 
a-"
	And then she was gone.
	Tunnel, Mulder thought.
	Yeah, that's it.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Grand Central Parkway
New York City

	Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill glanced at her old friend, concern 
written all over her face.
	"Why did you hang up on him?" she asked.
	"Long story," Scully said.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
END CHAPTER 12