ELS By Dawson E. Rambo Chapter 13 Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions, and the property of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters created by the author remain his property. Original Post : December 18, 1997 Archive Entry : ELS Chapter 13/? Classification : MSR SRA Rating : R(NC-17) Missing Parts : http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/index.html Feedback is encouraged. Casting: : Helen Hunt, "Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill" Matthew Modine, "Detective Sam Cross" Garth Brooks, "Detective Daryl Hicks" Russell Crowe, "Mark Dupree" Ed Harris, "District Attorney" Alec Baldwin, "Tony Littleton" Andy Garcia, "Jesus Cruz" George Dzunzda, "Sergeant Clayton Allen" Chris Noth, "Officer Patrick Donnely" Martha Plimpton, "Officer Mary Lou Swanson" Enjoy! +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Officer Patrick Donnely exited the bodega, two cups of coffee carefully balanced in one hand, one on top of the other. Out of habit he glanced around, his practiced gaze taking in the street scenes. A homeless man stood on the corner, a bottle of what appeared to be Windex held in one hand, a tattered-looking squeegee in the other. As cars stopped for the red light at the intersection, the man would hobble into traffic and offer to wash the windows for whatever spare change the drivers felt like offering. A dog with three legs, probably the homeless man's pet, tethered to a lamppost by a withered span of clothesline, shot Donnely a forlorn glance. Down the block, a newsstand operator was cutting the twine from a bundle of magazines that a passing flatbed truck had just tossed to the sidewalk. Pedestrians walked up and down the street, going to or coming from whatever business they had. Nothing looked amiss. All was right in the world, Donnely thought, crossing to his REP. As an officer in the NYPD's Emergency Services Unit, Officer Donnely didn't ride around the city in what civilians called a squad car and what the NYPD called an RMP (Radio Motor Patrol) car. An REP was a heavily modified ambulance chassis that held the tools of Donnely's trade. ESU is unique in American municipal law enforcement. The only such unit in the country charged with both Rescue and SWAT, both dignitary protection and counterterrorism as well as antiterrorism, assignment to ESU is a coveted slot. There was a waiting list of over two thousand officers just waiting to be interviewed for ESU. ESU was, with the possible exception of pilots assigned to the Aviation Unit, the single most elite unit in the NYPD. Donnely carefully opened the passenger-side door of his REP and handed the top cup across the seat to his partner, Mary Lou Swanson. Gratefully accepting the cup, she nodded to Pat as he closed the door. "Regular, right?" "Right. Light and sweet, just the way you like it," he smiled. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their coffee and wondering what excitement the day would bring. In a police force of 38,000 sworn officers, covering a city with over ten million citizens, a day in the ESU was never, ever boring. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Uptown, near East Harlem, A-Adam One sat and waited for something to happen. A-Adam One, an unmarked red Chevy Caprice Classic that had seen better days sat parked on the corner, the two Anti-Crime officers inside sipping almost identical cups of coffee as their ESU counterparts. Anti-Crime was another semi-elite division within the NYPD. Staffed by officers in plainclothes driving unmarked cars, Anti-Crime was charged with bringing the low-level street crime (muggings, push-in robberies, that sort of thing,) not covered by other divisions such as Narcotics and Public Morals (Vice) under control. For an officer bucking to make Detective, Anti-Crime was a feather in one's cap. A-Adam One's senior officer, Sergeant Clayton Allen, was wondering if he should bother to take the upcoming Lieutenant's test. It meant more money, but with all the overtime that Anti-Crime officers racked up making court appearances, it wasn't that much more. It also meant transferring out of Anti-Crime and into a Patrol slot. Probably as a Shift Commander at a precinct, or some other assignment that would put him `back in the bag.' "Sarge...lookit." Clayton's head snapped up at the voice of his partner, Jesus Cruz. Following Cruz's pointed finger, Clayton watched as a man ambled down the street, his hands in his pockets, looking to anyone that cared to watch or notice that he didn't have a worry in the world. Trying just a bit too hard to look that way, Clayton thought. "Something's wrong about him," Cruz muttered. Clayton nodded. No judge or jury in their right mind would ever accept a hunch as probable cause, but when push came to shove, there were ways to 'generate' probable cause when needed. The only problem was that they were parked on the opposite side of the street. To get out now would probably spook the man, and neither Cruz nor Clayton were in the mood for a foot chase this early in the morning. Both cops feigned indifference as the man passed them. After a moment, Cruz twisted in his seat to watch as Clayton adjusted his rearview mirror for a better view. As if on cue, the man stopped, glanced around, reached into his pocket and came out with a clear glassine envelope. Stopping quickly, he dropped it in a sewer grate, straightened and continued his walk. A moment later, Cruz and Clayton were out of their car, reaching for their shields as they started to cross the street. A truck honked imperiously, momentarily blocking their view. When the truck passed, the man was gone. "What the fuck?" Cruz asked, crossing the street. Clayton's longer strides took him past his partner in a few steps and he turned the corner and groaned. The stairway leading down to the Number 2 IRT was right there, and Clayton was sure the suspect had vanished into the bowels of the NYC subway system. "Shit!" Clayton backed around the corner and found his partner standing over the sewer grate, twisting his head from side to side as he tried to make out what the man had thrown away. "ESU?" Clayton asked needlessly. Cruz nodded. Trudging through the sewers was ESU's job. "Evidence recovery," it was called. Gross is what Cruz called it. Clayton lifted his portable to his mouth and keyed the transmit button. "A-Adam One to Central, K." "A-Adam One." "Central...ah...we need an ESU REP at..." Craning his neck, Clayton read off the cross streets. "...evidence recovery," he finished. "Stand by, A-Adam One," Central radioed back. A moment later, he heard the same voice. "Central to E-Boy One. Emergency Boy One?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Pat Donnely groaned. If Anti-Crime was asking for ESU for an evidence recovery, more than likely it was a sewer or a crack house or some other disgusting, unfriendly place. But, that was what he got paid to do, and Pat Donnely wouldn't change his assignment for anything in the world. "E-Boy One," he radioed back. "In the confines of the two six, A-Adam One requesting ESU backup for an evidence recovery at..." Mary Lou was already pulling into traffic, her siren and electronic airhorn bip-bipping the traffic clear. "E-Boy One, show us eighty-six on that job. ETA, about four minutes." "Ten-Four, E-Boy One." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The ESU REP pulled to the curb on the cross street. Pat Donnely got out and opened a side compartment, reaching for a pair of Grabbers. Designed by an ESU officer sick and tired of mucking through disgusting sewers, the Grabbers were basically nothing more than a pair of surgeon's Kelly clamps, only on a scale that Gulliver would have appreciated. They stood almost four feet tall, but by an ingenuous design, had a feather-light touch and the grip of Superman. "Whatdaya got?" Donnely asked. "Skel threw something down there," Cruz said, pointing. I knew it, Donnely thought. "Any idea what?" he asked. Cruz shrugged. "Bag of some kind. Coke, crack, something." Donnely looked over and saw that, true to form, Mary Lou was on the stick. She had a powerful flashlight in one hand and a toolbox in the other. If whatever it was turned out to be too big to bring up through the grate, they would have to pop it off. But, Donnely reasoned, if the skel had just tossed it down there, should come up easy enough. He took the light from her and squatted, shining it down into the sewer. He spotted the bag immediately. "Piece of cake," he said, carefully threading the Grabbers through the grate. Maneuvering them gently, he latched onto the edge of the bag, closed the jaws and lifted it out, twisting the Grabbers at the last minute so the bag would slide through the grate. "Here ya go," he said, offering the bag to Cruz. "What is it?" Mary Lou asked. Turning the back over in his hands, Cruz examined the contents. "Credit card," he said disgustedly. "All cut up." "Stolen," Clayton pronounced. Well, Duh, Donnely thought, but didn't say. "Call fraud and have them run the number," Clayton ordered Cruz. Turning to the two ESU officers, who were already repacking the REP, he held out his hand. "Appreciate it, guys." "You take a look at her recently?" Donnely asked, hooking a thumb at his partner. "Figure of speech," Clayton assured them. "Nice job, officers," he corrected himself. Mary Lou rolled her eyes. "Sarge, don't worry about Pat. He's a little overprotective." The way she smiled at her partner made Sergeant Allen wonder if they had something going on the side. Wouldn't be the first time that happened, he thought. "Well, whatever. Fine job." Donnely touched the bill of his ESU baseball cap and got back in the REP. "You let your lady drive?" Clayton teased. "Kick Mario Andretti's ass," Donnely muttered as the REP pulled back into traffic and back onto patrol. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Investigative Support Unit Marine Barracks, Quantico Quantico, Virginia Tony Littleton was just biting into the juicy center of a powdered jelly donut when his phone rang. "Shit!" he said, watching as a large glob of raspberry jelly landed squarely in the middle of his tie. "Littleton," he barked into the phone. "Mr. Littleton. Detective Jarvis, Seattle Police Department, Homicide." "What can I do for you, Detective?" Littleton asked, more than a little nastily. "One of your profilers helped us on a case recently, and we need him to come out and testify at a pretrial hearing." "Let me guess," Littleton groaned. "Special Agent Mulder." "How'd you know?" Because he's the only one of these fucking morons that's solved a goddamn case in the last two months, that's why. "Nevermind. When do you need him?" "Tomorrow, Agent Littleton." "SAC Littleton," Littleton corrected automatically. "Special Agent in Charge, then," Jarvis said. It was obvious by his tone that the Seattle detective was trying mightily to keep his temper under control. "I'm afraid that's impossible, Detective. Special Agent Mulder is away on assignment in New York City on another case." There was a short pause. "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist," Jarvis finally said. "Excuse me? Insist?" "Perhaps you didn't hear my name, Special Agent In Charge Littleton. That's Jarvis, with a `J.'" Littleton wracked his brain for a match. Of course, he thought with a silent groan. Deputy Assistant Director Karen Jarvis. "Sister?" "Correct." "I'll see what I can do. He might have already left for New York." "Thank you for your assistance," Jarvis said, and hung up. Fuck! +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alexandria, Virginia Mulder's pager went off just as he was getting ready to leave his apartment for the airport. Checking it, he saw Littleton's number with the "911" after it. Tempted to ignore it, Mulder finally sighed and gave in, dialing his cell with one finger as he imagined Scully's chastising voice in his head. "He is your boss, Mulder," Mulder said, making a passable imitation of Scully's nagging tone. "Littleton." "Mulder." "Change of plans. Seattle, not New York. Name Jarvis ring a bell?" "Karen?" "No, the other one. Her brother, the big-shot Seattle Homicide dick. And I emphasize the word dick, Mulder." Musta pulled rank on him, Mulder thought. "Fine. Is Scully joining me?" A moment's pause. "No. She'll remain in New York. They need you at a pretrial hearing. Day or two, no more. Then you'll fly from Seattle to New York to join Scully on that case. Questions?" Mulder admitted to himself that he didn't like the idea of Scully working the New York case by herself, and the fact that there was precious little he could do about it. "I guess not. I'll call you when I'm done in Seattle." Mulder hung up and dialed Scully's cell number. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City At that moment, Special Agent Dana Scully and Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill were ascending in the elevator at One Police Plaza towards the Major Cases Squad office. Scully heard the shrill chirp of her phone and reached for it at the same exact time Cahill and the other four cops in the elevator did the same. "Mine," Scully said, smiling. "Scully." "Hey, it's me," Mulder said. "Where are you, Mulder?" "Home, on my way to the airport." Scully nodded. "When should I pick you up?" "Well, unless you can teleport yourself to Seattle, I'd say in about three, four days, Scully." "Seattle?" "Jarvis called back. Pretrial." "So quickly?" "Must not have a lot of murders up there. Either that, or they fast-tracked him. Anyway, you're on your own up there for a while, Scully." Dana chewed her lip, considering this. Turning slightly away from Alex, she asked, "Anything I should be aware of?" "Give them the basic line. Adult male, twenty-five to thirty- five, etcetera. Run the autopsy data. Stretch it as long as you can until I get there. If I can get ahold of a fax, you can send me everything you've got, and I'll work on it while I'm waiting to testify." Scully smiled. Three thousand miles apart and they were still partners. And after all I've put him through, she thought. And on the heels of that: I've put him through? "Ok, Mulder. I'll tell Alex. Nice flight." "Take care. I'll call you when I land." "Bye." Alex smiled. "He's not coming?" "Not right away," Scully admitted. "He has a pretrial in Seattle for another case. As soon as that's done, he'll join us here." Alex frowned. "Are you a profiler, Scully?" Caught, Scully thought. "No. You know that. I'm just along for the ride. But, I will take a look at your autopsy data and anything else. I can fax most of it to Mulder and he can get started while he's waiting to testify." Alex nodded, satisfied. The doors dinged! open and they exited. Alex ushered Dana into the MCS squadroom and spread her arms. "Someday, honey, all this can be yours!" Detective First Grade Sam Cross came up behind his boss, and overhearing her comment said, "Something you wanna tell me, boss?" Alex spun on him, a grin on her face. "No, Sam, I like men." "Something we have in common, then," he whispered, leaning over. Straightening, he held out his hand. "Sam Cross." "Dana Scully, FBI," she said, hating the way it sounded. "Oh, we're gonna be all official and stuff?" Cross said, teasing. "Well, then...let me do that over. Detective First Grade Sam Cross, NYPD Citywide Major Cases Squad." Dana took his challenge. "Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully, MD," she grinned back. "Oooh, a doctor." Sam cupped his chin, studying Scully's diminutive form. "Let me guess....dermatologist?" Scully shook her head. "Nope. Try again." "OB-GYN is out...Trauma Surgeon? No...you don't have that arrogance. Not a cutter. Internist? No...too pale." Too pale? Scully thought. "Pathologist," he finally proclaimed, nodding. "Undergraduate degree in Physics, board-certified in Pathology, criminal forensic pathology and...oh...emergency medicine." Scully's eyebrows shot up her face. "That's...a-amazing!" He grinned. "Don't let him fool you," Alex said, wagging a finger at her favorite detective. "As soon as Detective Cross found out that we were getting the FBI's number one profiling team I'm sure he called in a favor somewhere." "Caught," Sam admitted. He glanced at Scully. "Nothing personal, Agent Scully. Really." She nodded. Mulder was going to like Cross. They had the same level of paranoia. "Well, let's get coffeed up and get to work," Alex said, turning and leading Scully to her office. A workman was hunched over the door, busily replacing the word "Captain" with "Deputy Inspector." "I didn't order..." Alex started. She spun and pointed at Cross. "I owe you one!" she called across the squadroom. "Owe? Shit!" Scully heard. She turned to see another detective standing by the water cooler, a paper cup in his hand. A droplet of water hung off his goatee. "Detective First Grade Daryl Hicks," Hicks said, offering his hand. "Dana Scully," Scully replied. She glanced at him again. It was uncanny. He looked like someone she knew...and knew well. Snapping her fingers, she pointed one at Hicks. "Anyone ever tell you-" "I look like Garth Brooks? All the damn time. Just don't ask me to sing or wear a big hat. I'm from Atlanta, not Oklahoma. We don't wear cowboy hats in Atlanta." "What were you babbling about?" Alex asked Hicks. "You don't owe Cross anything, boss. Pam called." Pam, as Alex knew, was Daryl's ex-girlfriend. She also happened to be an administrative assistant downstairs in Personnel. "Ok, I owe you one then," she smiled. "Whatever," Hicks grinned, wandering back to his desk. "He may not look it," Alex whispered to Scully, "but he's one of the two best investigators I've ever seen." Wait'll you meet Mulder, Scully thought. Alex ushered Scully into her office and then frowned at the workman. "You don't work for the department," she accused. The man straightened. "No, Ma'am, I don't. A Detective Hicks called me and said you had a rush job." Cahill sighed. "How much?" The painter shrugged. "Two-fifty." Alex gaped. "Two hundred and fifty dollars?" "Yes ma'am." "HICKS!" she roared. A moment later Daryl appeared. "Yes, Inspector?" "You paid two hundred and...never mind," she said, digging in her pocket. She returned with a handful of bills. "Here," she said, peeling some off the top. "No, ma'am," Hicks said, holding up his hands. "We took a collection. Day and night tours. Each man paid about eight bucks. Consider it a promotion present." He turned and left. "Shit," Alex muttered, jamming her hand back into her pocket. She grinned at Scully. "I'll fix his ass." "What are you going to do?" "Call personnel and tell them that he has exactly two hundred and fifty bucks in unpaid overtime coming to him. He can't return it. The paperwork alone would kill him." As Alex moved to her desk and reached for the phone, it rang. "Cahill," she said. A moment later, "What?!" She cupped the phone in her hand. "Get Cross and Hicks." Scully ducked her head back into the squadroom and caught Cross's attention and pointed. He nodded, touched Hicks on the arm and started walking over. Scully re-entered Alex's office to hear her barking orders into the phone. "I want A-Adam One to meet me at the scene," she said. She listened. "Fine, I'll do it," she snapped, hanging up the phone. A portable radio sat in a charger on the credenza and she snapped it up, bringing it to her lips. "M-Mike Six...ah...M-Mike Eight," she said again. "M-Mike...Eight?" a voice called back. "Eight" was the radio designation for Deputy Inspector. And the last time Citywide radio checked, there was no "M-Mike Eight." "Yeah, Central, congratulate me. M-Mike Eight needs A-Adam One to join me on SOD." "Stand by..." Alex twisted the frequency control on the portable to change to the Special Operations Division frequency. ESU, Aviation, Harbor, and the NYPD Scuba Unit shared the frequency. "E-Boy One, M-Mike Eight," she called. A moment later, a harried voice came back. "E-Boy One, what?" "E-Boy One, I need you and your partner to meet me and A-Adam One at the scene of the Evidence Recovery job in East Harlem. Copy that?" A long, long pause. "Ah....M-Mike Eight, that's gonna have to wait a bit. We're on a pin job on the Major Deegan." "Ten-Four, E-Boy One. Please make that forthwith after sixty- eighting from that job. We'll wait for you. M-Mike Eight to A-Adam One." A moment later. "A-Adam One, K." "A-Adam One, meet M-Mike Eight and M-Mike Two at the location of that evidence recovery job in East Harlem, K?" "Ten-Four, M-Mike One." "Let's roll," Alex said, handing a piece of paper to Cross with the address on it. She came out from behind her desk, already moving at high speed. "Scully, you wanna come?" "What happened?" she asked. "Anticrime and ESU recovered a bag from a sewer that had a cut-up credit card in it," Alex explained. "Hot SHIT!" Cross said, clapping his hands. "Daryl and I will meet you there!" He sprinted for the stairs, his partner close on his heels. Scully's brow furrowed. "Let me get this straight," she said, following Alex to the elevator. "Your two best detectives, in the middle of a serial murder investigation, plus the commanding officer, a Deputy Inspector no less, is dropping everything to respond to a credit card call?" The doors slid open and Alex almost pulled Scully inside. Jabbing the "L" button repeatedly, Alex nodded. "What Sam knew the moment I said it was that the credit card that was recovered was used by the suspect yesterday to create an account with an Internet provider in order to send mail to the New York Times bragging about his crime." "How did he know that?" Scully asked. Alex regarded her coolly. "First, because that's the only credit card call that would get me to risk the ire not only of the ESU Commanding Officer, the Anti-Crime Precinct Commander and the entire Detective Bureau, but to get my ass out of the office. He...just knew without me having to explain it to him. He's that good." Oh, Scully thought, you are just going to love watching Mulder and I operate. "I see," Scully said. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alex Cahill's car screeched to a stop. A-Adam One was already there, waiting, the two cops sitting on the hood and scoping out the passers-by. "Cahill, Major Cases," Alex said, offering her shield. Scully noticed that both men got up off the car in a hurry once they saw Alex's Deputy Inspector's shield. "What can we do for you, Inspector?" the older one asked. "I'm Sergeant Allen. This is Officer Cruz." "Talk to me about the skel that dumped the credit card," Alex said. "We already talked to your detectives," Allen said, tipping his head towards the street. Scully craned her neck and saw that Detectives Cross and Hicks were on their hands and knees, peering into a sewer grate. "Tell me," Alex insisted, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Sighing, Sergeant Allen repeated his story. "What's this all about?" he asked when finished. "Not now," Alex said, moving to her two detectives. Allen looked at Scully, the question obvious on his face. "Dana Scully," she said, offering her hand. "FBI," she added. Allen looked at his hand as if it had something gross and slimy on it. "I see," he said coolly. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why Major Cases and the FBI are so interested in a credit card?" Scully shrugged. Cahill stooped down to whisper in Cross' ear. "Anything?" "Nada. Just the normal sewer shit." Cahill straightened, reaching for her radio. "E-Boy One, on the air?" "E-Boy One, Go." "E-Boy One, this is M-Mike Eight. ETA?" "...Ah...we just left the house, ETA about six or seven." "Forthwith, E-Boy One!" Alex ordered. When E-Boy One transmitted again, Scully could hear the sound of a siren in the background. "Ten-Four, M-Mike Eight. About five minutes now." Alex laughed. "Ten-Four." Twisting the frequency control again, she retransmitted. "M-Mike Eight to all M-Mike units on the air." She waited a moment. "All M-Mike Units on the air, in the confines of the two-six, we need immediate backup for a canvass." Almost immediately, voices started responding. "Central, show M-Mike Four in on that." "Central, M-Mike Five is eighty-six to the two-six." "Central..." "Central..." And then, a stronger voice. "D-David One to M-Mike Eight." "Oh, shit," Alex muttered. Scully glanced at Allen. "Chief of Detectives," he said quietly. "M-Mike Eight," Alex answered. "Do you need any D-David units on that?" "Ah...negative at this time, D-David One. But if you could have the two-six D-David squad stand by on that..." "Ten-Four. D-David One to D-David-Two Six." "Two-Six," a very annoyed-sounding voice came back. "Two-Six, please stand by for a ten-sixteen with M-Mike Eight." "Ten-Four, D-David One. D-David Two-Six, Out." Just about that time, the first MCS car pulled up. Two detectives Scully had never seen got out and approached Cross. "Mike, Bill...take the south side of the street. Door to door. We're looking for anyone that saw a skel dump a bag down this sewer at about seven this morning. Any hits, call me or Daryl or Alex." The two detectives nodded and moved off to begin working. ESU E-Boy One pulled up, lights and sirens flashing. Scully moved to the curb and just watched as Alex orchestrated the entire affair. "E-Boy One, stand by in case we need an entry. I don't think we will, but we might." Without another word, Pat Donnely and Mary Lou Swanson moved to the back of their REP and started opening compartments, pulling out huge ballistic body-armor vests with "POLICE" writ large across the front and back. They withdrew shotguns and loaded them, waiting further orders. Pat Donnely grabbed a radio. "You want One-Truck?" he asked Alex. She shook her head. "Not until we have a confirmed barricade, which I don't think we're gonna get. But stand by. You might have them get a little closer to the truck, if you know what I mean." Donnely nodded. He did. He had no idea what the fuck was going on, but with a Deputy Inspector, half the Major Cases Squad and Anti- Crime all standing around and looking grim, he was beginning to suspect that he'd pulled more than a credit card from that sewer drain. "E-Boy One to One-Truck, K. 10-42 in the confines of the two- six." An instant later: "One-Truck, Ten-Four." "They're on standby, Inspector," Donnely said. "Ok...Sam, Daryl...go down and interview the token clerk. Grab commuters, see if anyone saw anything." Turning to the Anti-Crime cops, she pointed. "You two. One PP, now. Go to forensics and give as good a description as possible. Then head over to BCI and start going over mugbooks. I want you to find this asshole." "What did he do?" Allen asked. "Seems a bit..." he cast his arms around, taking in the seven cars and REP truck, "...much for a credit card." Alex glanced left, then right, and then stepped close. "He killed three people, Allen. And I want his ass nailed to my office wall! Get moving!" "Yes, ma'am," Allen said sullenly. He nodded at Cruz and they quickly got in their car and departed the scene. "Anything I can do?" Scully asked. "If we get a hit, you can stand up at the press conference and tell them how you solved the case ten minutes after arriving in town. If not..we'll see," Alex said, smiling. Scully smiled back. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle, Washington Six hours later Mulder entered the District Attorney's office and flashed his credentials. "Special Agent Mulder, FBI," he said. "I believe the DA is expecting me." "Of course, Mr. Mulder. Please go right in," the receptionist said. She was chewing a wad of gum that looked big enough to choke a horse. Mulder wound his way through the offices, noting again how much the cube-farm reminded him of every municipal and federal law enforcement agency he'd ever seen. The guy who invented the cubicle better be goddamn rich, Mulder thought, considering all the misery he's caused. Spotting the office he needed, Mulder knocked. "Come!" "Special Agent Mulder," he said, stepping inside. "Oh, good of you to come, Agent Mulder." "I didn't have much of a choice," Mulder said crossly. "Well, sir, we do need your testimony tomorrow at the pretrial. Our suspect is wanting to have your profile excluded on... get this ... the basis that you didn't have probable cause to invade his privacy." Mulder blinked. "Excuse me?" "That's right. The defense has moved to have your profile excluded as evidence because it was too good. They claim that you already had a suspect in mind when you wrote it, and therefore it's invalid and should be suppressed." Mulder took a seat without asking and slumped down. "So I have to... what? Defend our profiling again? Sir, I...it was a two-year old case! I did in the basement of the ISU building! I never saw a suspect list!" "You know that and I know that. Now the judge would like to know that. He's never dealt with the FBI before, and frankly, I think he was very impressed when I told him that you'd be flying out to help." Mulder nodded. Politics again. "Well, that shouldn't take long. What's my order?" "Third. Arresting officer, primary detective, who will set the stage for you, and then you. Should be done by noon." "Good," Mulder said, reaching for his phone. "I have a... case in New York that needs my attention." He dialed Scully and waited. "Scully." "It's me. I'm in with the DA. Get this. The defense wants my profile excluded because it was too good. They claim that I already had a suspect in mind when I wrote it." Scully snorted. "Great. Do you need me to come there and testify that you were zombied out in the basement when you wrote the profile?" Mulder smiled. "No, Scully. I can zombie out on the stand as an example." He paused. "What's going on?" "We had an actual lead today. A clue, if you will." "A clue? What? Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick?" "Are you speaking in some kind of code?" the DA asked. Annoyed, Mulder flashed him a grimace that tried to be a smile and failed. "No, Mulder. A credit card that was used to create an Internet account that was in turn used by the UNSUB to send an email to the local newspaper was recovered from a sewer drain." Mulder felt his pulse quicken. "Where is it now?" "It was all cut up. It's been inventoried into evidence, I believe." "Ok, get it out and Fed-Ex it to the FBI lab. Tools and Dyes. I want to know what was used to cut that card up. I want the order it was cut." "The order?" "Yeah, Scully. Like...did he cut it in half lengthwise first? Or did he slice the name first? How many pieces? What kind of instrument did he use? Did he bend the pieces back and forth? Tear them? Bite them? Full forensics on the card." "I'll get on it. When do you-" "I'll probably be there late tomorrow night, Scully." He wanted to say something more, ached to say it, but with the DA sitting right there... "Ok, Mulder. I'll talk to you later." He hung up. "Your partner?" the DA asked. Mulder nodded. "Mr. Scully, right? How good a partner is he?" "Dr. Scully, actually," Mulder said, paused, and then added, "and Dr. Scully is a wonderful partner." "Of what?" "Excuse me?" "What kind of doctor is he? Psychologist?" "No, I'm a psychologist." Mulder paused again and then added, "She's a forensic pathologist." "Oh. Will she be joining us?" "I'm afraid not. Dr. Scully is working a case in New York. The same case I need to get back to." The DA nodded and reached into his desk, returning with a thick file. "Here's the case. Study it. I'm sure that the defense attorney is going to ask all sorts of stupid questions. He's straight out of a Phillip Margolin novel." Mulder grunted. That didn't sound promising. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Mark Dupree sat at his desk, the squawk of the Radio Shack police scanner filling his ears. To say that Mark Dupree was angry would be like saying the Pacific Ocean was "damp." He was livid. At himself. The radio was still filled with reports of the Major Case Squad as they conducted the door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood where he'd dropped the credit card. Some undercover cop had noticed him, had retrieved the card and reported it to the Fraud Squad, which had gotten the hit off the teletype, which had reported it to Major Cases and that bitch Alex Cahill, and then...then...Detective Cross, AKA M-Mike Two had shown up and started knocking on doors. They had a partial description. White male, six-foot one inch, about one hundred seventy pounds. Short blonde hair. Dupree glanced over at the box of hair dye perched on one corner of his desk. Well, we can fix that pretty damn quickly. Some shoe lifts would add another two, three inches to his height. Some tan-in-a-tube and he could pass for someone darker skinned. Darken the hair and the skin, grow a mustache, and he would look Hispanic. And that was the first step. Sitting next to the hair dye box were other boxes. Six of them, in fact. The largest held a Polaroid instant camera; the other five were film cartridges, ten pictures each. The stakes were about to get higher. Dupree forced his attention back to the matter at hand. From what he'd overheard on the radio, the two Anti-Crime cops, Allen and Cruz, had gone downtown to Forensics and started with the sketch artist. That wouldn't produce much; Dupree knew he had "one of those faces," the kind that just fade into the woodwork. And since Cahill was doing this one by the numbers, the next stop would be BCI and the mug books. Dupree's face didn't appear in any of them. He had taken care of that. At great cost and expense, but it was taken care of. Which left only one thing. The hunt. Turning to the file in front of him, Mark Dupree began reading about the next Chosen. Danielle Clarence Jones, black female, age 32. Arrested seventeen times for a variety of offenses related to the practice of prostitution, including another half-dozen misdemeanor drug arrests, all from Las Vegas. She was a typical court queen, he thought. She probably has a reserved parking space at the Clark County Detention Center. Contrary to popular belief, prostitution was not legal in Las Vegas. Oh, it was practiced. It occurred. But it was not legal, not in Clark County. The nearest county where it was legal was Nye county, about an hour north of the city of Lost Wages. But Danielle Jones had liked the bright lights and big city, and taking after the mother that had abandoned her when Danielle was six, the woman had entered the world's oldest profession as a way to survive. And she had been sharing the bed of a reputed mob boss when he'd been waxed by some people that were angry with some of the things that he'd been doing. And unbeknownst to them, Danielle Jones had been in the bathroom fixing her makeup, and managed to get a very good look at the shooter. And the shooter had gotten a very good look at her, too, just before he put six .22 rounds into her body. None of them had been fatal though, (too bad, Dupree thought,) and she'd managed to crawl to a phone and summon help. The US Attorney's Office had been gracious and solicitous. Protection in exchange for testimony. They'll never find you, she was assured. You'll be moved to New York City. No offense, Miss Jones, but being a black female, you'll blend right in that city. You won't stand out as much as you do in Las Vegas. And judging by the records Dupree was reading, the US Government was being a little generous, paying Danielle just over two thousand dollars a month, in cash, tax-free, for the rest of her natural life. Which, if Dupree had anything to do with it, would be exactly seventy-two more hours. He glanced at the camera again, the plot unfolding in his mind. Find her, stalk her, do the job, take pictures. Return here. Scan the pictures into the computer. Another fake account with another stolen credit card. Post the pictures to the Internet. Alt.binaries.tasteless, or something like that. And send a carbon copy to the NYPD and the New York Times via email, and the pressure would be ratcheted up another notch. Things were progressing nicely. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Major Cases Squad Scully stuck her head in Alex's office. "Anything?" she asked. "Nada, zip, zero, zilch," Cahill muttered. "The Anti-Crime guys got the best look at him, and that was from across the street. The sketch goes out tonight at the midnight roll call, but it looks generic. It's not a "special attention" call yet, so at least the uniforms on patrol won't be rousting every single average-looking white male over six feet in five boroughs tonight. But at least we know he's not black, or Hispanic or Asian or something like that." Scully shrugged. "They very rarely are," she pointed out. "Yeah, I know. Mass killers, we get in all shapes, colors and sizes. Serial killers...that's something the white man has perfected." Scully didn't say anything; she could tell that Alex was tired and frustrated. "Canvass turned up dick, no one saw nothing. The clerk in the token booth had his face buried in a physics textbook. He saw less. We've got cops posted on the platform tonight, waiting for the commuters to come hope so we can run the sketch by them. But you know what?" "What?" "I doubt the fucker even took the train." "Why?" "Because that's just the sort of sick, twisted little trick this fuck would pull. Go down into the station, take the internal crossover and exit the platform on the other side. Costs him a buck and a quarter, and we chase our tails all week." Alex Cahill was one-hundred-percent on the mark, but she had no way of knowing this. "You really think he's that clever?" Cahill nodded. "Aren't they always?" Scully thought about it. She had to admit that Cahill had a point. Cahill's phone rang. "Cahill. What? Oh, hi, Tanya. What? No... not tonight. No, I know I promised, but I'm working...yes, I'm working a hot case. No. Maybe some other time. Right. Well, you guys have fun." She hung up. Scully cocked an eyebrow. "Girlfriends," she said. "Want me to go with them to Chippendales." Scully felt herself blushing and turned to go. "God, I wish I wasn't so tired," Cahill muttered. "I could use some of that right about now." Scully stopped in her tracks. Slowly turning back to face her old friend, Scully closed the door and quietly took a seat in front of Alex's desk. "You'd go?" she asked. Alex, her head leaning back against the headrest of her chair, nodded. "Sure. Been before. It's nice and mindless. Relaxing, in a strange way." "A room full of screaming women stuffing dollar bills down the pants of men in G-strings who are dancing to rap music is relaxing?" Alex nodded. "If you have the right attitude." Scully bit her lip. "What attitude is that?" Alex straightened. "Wait a minute. You've never been?" "Been where?" Scully asked, knowing what she meant but hoping to avoid it. "To a strip club. A male revue." Scully shook her head. "Nope." "Never had a male stripper at a bachelorette party?" Again, Scully shook her head. Alex leaned forward, making a "stop" gesture with her hand. "Wait...never? Nothing?" "Sorry." "Wow," Alex said. "Can I ask you a question?" Scully said slowly, carefully. "Sure." "What...what's the attraction?" Alex blinked, and then sat back, a wide smile on her face. "You just said it, Dana. A room full of scantily-clad men dancing in their G-strings to loud music. What's not to like?" "Stuffing dollar bills down their..." "So what? They're gay!" Scully's head snapped back. "What?" Alex laughed. "You didn't know that?" Scully shook her head. "They'd have to be," Alex explained. "Oh, sure, I'm sure a couple of them are straight, but the good ones, the ones that last a while and make a living from it, they're all gay, Dana. Look at it this way: You have a room full of screaming women shoving money in your drawers. Some of those women, if I do say so myself, aren't that unattractive. If a gorgeous woman was stuffing money in your pants, you'd find it hard not to...react. Unless you didn't find women sexually appealing. Plus, add to that the fact that...well, most of those guys are into their bodies a lot more than sex with anyone." "But it's degrading!" Scully protested. "To whom?" Alex asked. "Me? I don't feel degraded. It's nice clean, dirty fun. I get to cut loose, look at a gorgeous body, have a few drinks and play around a bit. It's all fantasy, Dana." Scully thought about it for a second. "Would you want one of those men as a boyfriend? A lover?" Alex shook her head. "In real life or in a fantasy?" "Don't you fantasize about what you really want?" Alex leaned forward again. "You're serious! You're actually serious!" "What?" Alex let out a sigh. "Ok, let me lay it out, at least the way I see it. Would I want to make love with one of those dancers? Well, if I was...alone, you know...with the shower massage?" Scully blushed and nodded. "Well..sure, as a fantasy lover. Perfect body, and in my fantasy, a perfect lover. Kind, gentle, sensitive, but aggressive and hungry when I need it. But the truth? Dana, like I said, nothing against `em, God love `em, but most of those guys are either so into themselves that when they have an orgasm they call their own name out, or they're gay. So in real life, no. In real life, I want someone normal." She laughed. "Or, what passes for normal in New York City." Dana thought about it. "Do you think female strippers are gay, too?" It was Alex's turn to blush. "Well, I'll tell you a little secret. A long time ago, when I got out of the Academy-" "FBI or NYPD?" "NYPD. Anyway...I got yanked over for a six-week detail in Public Morals. One of the topless clubs was moving crystal meth. Or we thought they were. Most of the dancers that work those places have bikers or the like for boyfriends. Or pimps, depending on how you look at it. They wanted someone to go in-" "No!" Scully said, gasping, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Yeah, but only for a bit. Two nights. Just enough to get the evidence we needed. But I had to infiltrate, you know. Go there with my partner, posing as boyfriend and girlfriend, let everyone get used to us. My partner was a longtime narco surveillance guy. Never did any undercover, so there was no chance of him being made by the bikers. Those guys have an intelligence network that rivals the CIA's. Anyway, my partner buys some crystal, but it was from a boyfriend. We wanted to get an employee or a manager or the bartender or someone with their hand in it so we could close the place down on the RICO statutes." "Why?" Alex waved her hand. "Political. City councilman didn't want the place in his district anymore. He calls the Borough president, calls the mayor, calls the CofD, etcetera. Anyway -- to answer your original question, most of the dancers were bi. I had a couple hit on me. Some are out-and-out gay. But I found out that a lot of porno actresses are gay, too." That brought Scully up short. "What?" "Yeah. Or at least, on the bisexual scale, they prefer women for sex and men for the movies. Better money." Most porno actresses are gay, Scully thought. Mulder would love to hear that. "So you danced topless?" Alex nodded. "Two nights. Sounds like a really bad HBO movie on at three in the morning, huh? I was young and stupid. I didn't know any better. When Public Morals reached out to me, they made a lot promises about making Detective early and shit like that. Hell, I wanted to be the youngest female Detective in the Bureau, so I went for it." "What was it like?" "Not as bad as you think. In New York, the blue laws are such that the men can't get real close, and there's absolutely no touching. So, you close your eyes, and imagine you're home alone, dancing to the stereo." I've never danced like that, Scully thought. "So...made some good money, which the job let me keep, and we busted the owners. Closed the place down. End of story. But I got a much better understanding off that for the difference between reality and fantasy. Almost every single veteran dancer that I knew used a pseudonym. I was `Haley,' like the comet." Dr. George F. Hale, Scully thought, and wondered why. "So it wasn't me up there dancing, it was Haley. And I... I don't know, Dana...can I talk to you about this?" "We've been doing fine so far," Scully said, spreading her arms. "Well, this is...more. Deeper." "Sure," Scully said after a minute. A part of her wanted to know what Alex was going to say. Wanted to know very badly. "I got off on it, a little. On the power." "Power?" "The men...they looked at you. Sure, there were some crazies there, but the security was good, my partner was there, so I knew I was safe. The power...the normal men, the guys that come just to look, give a tip now and then, they were nice. They were gentle. They made me laugh. They...how can I say this? They were...glad that I let them look. That's what I'm trying to say. They seemed as if...they were honored that I'd let them see my naked body. And in a way, that gave me control over them, because I could control how much they saw. I could leave my top on for the whole dance, or I could take off at the start. Power. Control. It was a rush." Scully absorbed all this, realizing that she didn't know Alex Cahill half as well as she thought she had. "But...doesn't it demean you? Women in general? Having those men leer at you like that?" Cahill shrugged. "Two points," she said, ticking them off on her fingers. "First, there are always going to be men leering at women. Nothing will change that. At least, not in my lifetime. And I'd rather have them leering at women who are willing participants than at some kid on a playground, or some college student or a waitress or something. At least in there, everyone knows the rules. The dancers know they're there to be seen, and the men know they're there to look. No harm, no foul. Second, not many of them leered. Just the crazies, like I said." "But...you weren't a person to them, Alex. You were a gyrating body! An object." "Sure...as much as Fabio is an object. People tend to objectify most things in their life, Dana. Look at it this way. You see a bum -- excuse me, homeless person, on the street, right? You want to say to yourself, being the good human being that you are, that you don't objectify that person. He's not an object, he's a person. But, since you don't go up to him and ask his name and get to know him, he is an object to you; he's a homeless person. Now, if you have to deal with him personally, or professionally, and you continue to objectify him, that's bad. If, once you have to involve yourself with him in any significant way, you still see him as a `homeless person,' rather than Bill Smith, then you have a point. "The same goes for the dancers. When they're up on that stage, they know they're objects. Just like the male dancers. I know they're objects. They are an image of perfection, beauty in motion. But if I had to deal with him as a human being, either personally or professionally, then I'd care about him, I'd want to get to know him, and he'd stop being an object and start being someone that danced for a living." Scully took all this in, nodding her head slowly. "You seem awfully interested in this topic," Alex observed dryly. "Knowing you as I do, I'd have to say that you're not considering becoming a topless dancer, nor are you that interested in going to Chippendales with my girlfriends and I. So what gives, Dana?" "Case," Scully said quickly. "Sexualized violence. The basis of all serial murderers." Alex nodded. "Wanna tell me how this fucker gets off on slicing people open like a Christmas turkey?" Scully shrugged. "Mulder's better at understanding that side of it. I can identify rage when I see it, I can take a look at a body and classify injuries as being rage-based or anger-based. But as for understanding what goes on inside their minds...that's Mulder's thing." Alex smiled thinly. "I bet Mulder knows more about dancers than you do." "I'm sure," Scully said, trying to hide her expression. A sudden thought occurred to her: Am I that naive? Is my life that sheltered? "Maybe I should go to Chippendales," Scully said slowly. "Nuh-uh," Alex said, shaking her head. "No freaking way, my friend. Not until you assimilate the information I just gave you. You can't go in there with the attitude of a scientific field trip. No observing the natives. You have to want to go for your own reasons totally unrelated to `research.' Trust me; you'll enjoy it more and take more away with you." "You sure know a lot about...this stuff," Scully observed. Cahill shrugged. "In New York? It's hard not to. You see it everywhere. Times Square, Hunts Point, the Bowery. Hookers all up and down Twelfth Avenue. I'll be the first to admit that my bimonthly trips to watch half-naked men gyrate for dollars is probably an escapist therapy session for me. A way to reconnect with my humanity in a way that's totally safe." Scully was confused again. "How does going to see that reconnect you with your humanity?" Alex shrugged. "Just me, Dana. I can't say that it'd work for you. But for me, it's a way of remembering that sex can be fun. It's not always about hookers and pimps and child prostitutes and domestic disturbances and about eleven year old girls in the projects getting pregnant by their mother's boyfriends. Sex is serious, when it's really me getting involved. If I was in a relationship, obviously, I wouldn't go. But I'm not, and when I need to find that place inside me that reminds me that I'm a vital, warm human being, I want it to be fun and safe. And I hate going to bars to meet men that only want one thing, to coin a phrase. So that's safe for me. It's fun, in a way. I get to cut lose, raise a little hell and just have some goddamn fun." Scully chewed her lip again. So much information to comprehend. "I'm exhausted," she announced. "I need to get some sleep." "I second that emotion," Alex said. "Want me to drop you at the hotel?" "I rented a car," Scully said absently. "I'll drive." "Suit yourself," Alex said, standing. "I'm gonna blast. See you bright and early. Let me know if you hear from that partner of yours." Scully nodded, standing and following Alex out of her office, utterly lost in thought. They rode down in the elevator in total silence, Scully's thoughts a million miles away. Ok, maybe not a million, she thought. More like three thousand. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Motel 6 Seattle, Washington Mulder stared at the silent TV for close to ten minutes. He could see the traveling salesman's best friend sitting on top of the console: a folded card that promised untold carnal delights at the flick of a switch, all discretely charged to the room so that the wife wouldn't have a conniption when she paid the Visa bill. He wanted to. He had to admit it. He wanted to turn on the TV, turn to one of those adult movie channels and lose himself in the void for a while. The case file, reread twice already, sat on the small circular table by the door. @ The tongues. Mulder could close his eyes and see the forensic photographs of the women with their tongues cut out. According to the forensic data, some of the victims were not as lucky as the others; their tongues had been removed with a pair of pliers as opposed to a cutting instrument. In one specific case, the wound had been pre- mortum. # His phone rang. "Mulder." "Hey, Mulder, it's me." Scully. Mulder smiled. "Whatcha doing, Scully?" +=+=+=+=+=+=+= Broadway & 42nd Street (Times Square) New York City "Sittin' and thinking," Scully said as she navigated the narrow road as it neared the tip of Broadway. It was night in New York, and the blanket of darkness had descended on Gotham. Hookers plied their trade openly, some of them wearing clothes that Scully had never imagined, let alone seen with her own two eyes. Some of them looked barely old enough to menstruate. To Scully's utter astonishment, the police looked the other way. A Midtown South RMP sat at the corner, the cops inside sharing jokes with two hookers who were leaning over the driver's door. Amazing. "Thinking about what?" Mulder asked. "Nothing really," Scully said, not wanting to share this with Mulder quite yet, but knowing that she would at some time in the near future. "What are you doing?" she asked. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle Mulder glanced at the TV and then back at the bed. "Nothing," he said. "Just finished rereading the case file for the third time. Getting ready to put on the monkey suit tomorrow morning and go make the FBI and Skinner proud." "Littleton," Scully reminded him. "Yeah, whatever." "How you holding up?" "It was a cold case, Scully. Straightforward profile. I didn't get too deep in this one. No bad dreams, I promise." "Ok, Mulder. Just wanted to check in. I'd better go. It's three hours later here. I'm beat." Mulder heard a car horn, loud, in his ear. "Scully?" "What?" "Where are you?" "In the car..." she said, trailing off. "Heading back to the hotel." "Hmmm...room service, hot bath, TV?" "Hot bath, bed, sleep. In that order. Goodnight, Mulder." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Special Agent Dana Scully drove for another hour and a half, looking at the triple-X rated movie theatres, the barkers standing on the street corners hawking topless and all-nude bars, and the hookers. Walls of them, she thought. A virtual sea of prostitutes. Mulder would love it here, she thought, and was immediately ashamed. She wasn't ready to buy into Alex Cahill's philosophy whole hog quite yet... But you have to admit, she thought, that you probably understand Mulder's...issues a little better now. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Seattle Mulder was watching HBO, a direct-to-video masterpiece about a female cop that goes undercover in a strip bar to track a serial killer. Lots of scenes set in the strip bar. It wasn't quite the same, but Mulder was fairly sure that Scully, if she knew, would cut him some slack. Compromise, he thought. The key to any good relationship. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City On the hunt, hungry, feeling the blood, the heat pounding in his veins. A night kill would be perfect. Two days after Tommy Two Chins. Perfect. And Danielle was perfect. She loved to walk at night. He'd read the case file from the Marshal's service. Danielle Jones had given the WITSEC folks fits because she liked to slip her cover and take long walks. Walks through Central Park. Standing at Central Park West and 86th Street, Mark Dupree watched as Danielle Clarence Jones entered the park for her nightly stroll. The thin, incredibly sharp boning knife was taped securely to his left wrist. The Polaroid was in his pocket, complete with the automatic pop- up flash attachment. Licking his lips, taking a deep, cleansing breath, Mark Dupree slipped behind Danielle Jones, following her into the park. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END OF CHAPTER 13