ELS  
Chapter 14 
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 14/?  
Classification	: SRA MSR  
Chapter Rating  : PG 
Story Rating	: NC-17 (Violence, Sexual Situations)  
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm  
Summary         : While Mulder is in Seattle testifying at the Jarvis
                  pretrial hearing, Scully is in New York lending
                  assistance to the NYPD's persuit of Mark Dupree.
                  Mulder and Scully have an enlightening phone
                  conversation. Meanwhile, Dupree doesn't remain
                  idle, taking steps to make sure that his twisted
                  message gets out.
Spoilers        : "Squeeze" "Tooms" 
Casting		: Russell Crowe, "Mark Dupree"  
		: Helen Hunt, "Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill"  
		: Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross"  
		: Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks"  
		: Lindsay Frost, "Dr. Larkin" 
		: Robert Piccardo, "Lieutenant Hamel" 
                : Rachel Ticotin, "Lieutenant Barrington" 

WARNING:        Contains gory violence.
 
Seattle 
0241 PST (0541 EST) 
 
	Mulder was awake, his thoughts filled with Scully. Not the kinds  
of thoughts that would get him in trouble if she found out, but  
dangerous thoughts just the same. 
	How to explain it? he wondered. Sometimes, at this time of the  
morning, this odd, dark, cold time when so very few possibilities seemed  
outrageous or unbelievable, Mulder wished he could take his partner on a  
tour of his mind. Wished she could share his thoughts and the feelings  
behind them; wished she could have the sum total of all his memories and  
knowledge so that she could finally, utterly know him. That level of  
emotional intimacy didn't scare him -- not when it came to Scully. He  
knew that if somehow he could manage to accomplish that feat that it  
would be all right, that she would know what to do with it, that she  
would see how sometimes he felt as fragile as a baby bird, as delicate  
as a still-wet spider web in the dawn's early light.  
	How else could you explain to a woman that you wanted to stare at  
her face for hours on end, just to re-memorize every plane and curve and  
line? How do you explain to a woman, any woman, but especially a woman  
like Dana Scully that...seeing her smile was magical, but not nearly as 
magical as watching the transformation of her face from her usual cool,  
professional mask <into> that smile. Watching the way her eyebrows  
lifted, the way the skin of her cheek slackened and then shifted,  
watching the corners of her mouth slowly tugging upward and then  
spreading, and finally, watching the true essence of the smile, that  
inner light reaching her eyes.  
	Mulder was the only man that he knew that understood that a smile  
was more in the eyes than in the mouth. He was also the only person he  
knew that could be content with just watching Scully. There were times,  
days, when he ached to touch her, when he wanted to draw her into his  
arms and never let her go. As romantic and mushy as that sounded, that's  
where it stopped.  
	Mulder washed a hand over his face, groaning into the still night  
air. Showing Scully that damn movie was the single biggest mistake he'd  
ever made. If she'd only let him finish explaining... 
	Yes, he thought to her, having the conversation in his mind, I  
touch myself when I watch this movie. And when I touch myself as I watch  
this movie, I do think of you. But I don't think of making love with  
you. I don't think of you naked and panting and wanting me like the faux  
Scully on the damn screen. I think of walking with you, of talking with  
you, of laughing and living and loving with you. I think of your smile,  
Dana Scully. I think of the sweet, innocent sound of your laughter and I  
wonder at the fact that you can make that free, easy sound after all  
we've seen and done. When I see that movie and touch myself and think of  
you, I think of spending the rest of my life with you as the only woman  
in my life, the only woman I've ever truly wanted to spend my life with.  
And even then, we're not married, we have no children, and we're not  
even sleeping together. 
	How on Earth could he explain to her that the fact of her  
constancy is what he craved. The bedrock knowledge that she would always  
be there, that she wouldn't leave him, either physically or emotionally.  
	Shamed, Mulder closed his eyes, feeling the next tides of emotion  
welling up inside him, familiar and comfortable. Always at this time of  
the morning, always in the motel room scattered across the country, and  
always the same thoughts. 
	If only she knew. 
	If only she knew why I do some of the things I do. How I want her  
to be impressed with me, to be proud of me, to look at me with respect  
and wonder and  love and devotion.  
	How do you explain to a woman that you ached to be able to  
overhear her talking about you to someone she trusts so that you might  
truly know how she feels about you?  
	How do you tell a woman you've obliquely flirted with for almost  
five years that it's a defense mechanism? That if she were to take you  
up on it, turn and face you, grab your tie and drag your head down to  
hers for that first perfect, electric kiss that you'd more than likely  
turn and run away as fast as you could? That you weren't afraid of the  
reality shattering the fantasy but exceeding it, being so much better  
than it that you shudder at the thought of having to live up to that new  
reality? 
	I can talk about things that would make most people toss their  
lunch. I've seen things that most people cannot even begin to  
comprehend. I've done things that no sane person should even have to  
contemplate.  
	And I can't find a way to tell the most incredible person, the  
most incredible woman I've ever known that I worship the ground she  
walks on.  
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
New York City 
 
	Mark Dupree was hard at work. 
	He had ten Polaroid photographs spread out on the desk in front of  
him. Each was a picture of Danielle Jones. 
	She wasn't smiling in any of them. 
	Mark Dupree was in the middle of an emotional battle. All ten  
pictures had already been scanned into the computer. They were all  
awaiting dispatch to the NYPD and the New York Times. What had to be  
done now was clear: the originals had to be destroyed. Possession of  
them would prove fatal if the police ever executed a search warrant.  
	Not fatal to his case, Dupree knew. 
	Fatal. New York State had just recently reinstated the death  
penalty for capital crimes. Killing four people certainly qualified.  
Dupree had a mission, and part of that mission was making those that had  
created the reason for that mission understand exactly what they had  
done. And in order to make them understand, he had to show them what had  
to be done and why. Only through instruction would they gain knowledge.  
And only through that new knowledge could they truly begin to  
comprehend. Knowing a thing was easy; only when you could explain it to  
another could you claim comprehension. 
	The pull of the photographs had proven stronger than he'd  
anticipated. A pair of very sharp scissors in one hand, Dupree picked up  
the first of the series and looked at it.  
@	Beautiful, he thought, and smiled. Look at her face, bloodied and  
beaten, the beautiful, perfect crimson line tracing from ear to ear. Her  
eyes were open, staring at the camera, such an image of beauty on her  
face. 
	Dupree felt himself harden, and he shuddered. 
	The scissors cut cleanly through the photograph, decapitating the  
image of Danielle Jones. 
	He placed the halves to the side and picked up the second picture.  
This one showed the second cut. Starting just below her sternum and  
stopping just above her pubis, the skin gently peeled back to reveal the  
pink and white and red meat underneath.  
	Snip. 
	Picture three was a masterpiece, Dupree had to admit. The sight of  
it caused the tightness, the throbbing, to intensify just a little more.  
The picture was of his own hand, inserted into her abdominal cavity. The  
edge of his latex exam glove could be seen as he held Jones' liver in  
his hand. 
	Snip. 
	Four, five, six all went by, each image causing Dupree's breathing  
to deepen. So beautiful, he thought. So perfect. 
	Snip. 
	Seven, eight and nine. The ninth was perfection itself. He hated  
to cut it. The Jones woman, one eye carefully removed and left on her  
chest, pointing directly up at the camera. She had beautiful eyes, he  
thought. They look like they would taste delicious.		# 
	Snip. 
	Dupree finished the ninth and tenth picture and sat back, looking  
at the twenty pieces on the desk. They called out to be disposed, but to  
do that would be a crime, a crime worse than murder. 
	Inspiration struck. 
	Dupree racked his brain, thinking. After a moment, he was sure. He  
had never touched the pictures without wearing gloves. There were no  
fingerprints. Nothing to trace the pictures to him except the scissors.  
He could mail the pictures to the cops; they would become evidence. And  
when, and if, he was arrested, his defense attorney would be forced to  
look at them, be forced to deal with him. And since he had a  
Constitutional right to participate in his own defense, he would be able  
to see them again. 
	Perfect. 
	Dupree quickly gathered them together into a clear plastic bag and  
then found an envelope. He quickly created the label on the computer, 
craning his neck and peering at the printer's out tray as the HP DeskJet 
slowly spit it out: 
 
			Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill 
			Citywide Major Cases Squad, Commanding  
			One Police Plaza 
			New York, NY 10010 
 
			Personal and Confidential. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
 
	Scully heard the annoying buzz of the travel alarm and burrowed  
deeper into the pillows, hoping to escape the noise. Years spent on the  
road with Mulder had taught her to put the alarm on the dresser, not the  
bedside table, forcing her to get up out of bed to turn it off. It was  
too easy to hit the snooze button and grab another thirty minutes of  
comfortable dozing. 
	I got in late, she rationalized, and then felt the moorings slip  
from that particular attempt. The reason I got in late was because I  
spent two hours cruising the red-light district of Manhattan, looking at  
hookers and pimps and dealers like I was on some kind of weird  
socioeconomic safari.  
	Her sleep-addled mind took over from there. She remembered driving  
through Times Square, and she heard the voice of a "Mutual of Omaha"  
narrator: "On the left we see the Americanus Prostitutus in her natural  
habitat. Notice the shocking plumage, which she uses to attract a mate.  
The Americanus Prostitutus is not a monogamous creature, and often looks  
to find the most able mate, that being one that can afford her drug  
habit." 
	God, Dana, she thought, you really need to think about a vacation. 
	Her phone rang. 
	Digging for it, she hit SND and dragged it back under the covers.  
"Scully," she rasped. 
	"Hey." Mulder. 
	"Mulder...what time is it?" 
	"Oh, about three my time." 
	"That means it's six here, Mulder." 
	Silence. Then: "Did I wake you?" 
	Sigh. "No, Mulder. The alarm went off two minutes ago." 
	"Good." 
	A silence feel between them. 
	"Mulder...what do you want?" 
	"I just wanted you to...know...um...that I...uh..." 
	He stopped talking. Just say it, Mulder, she thought. 
	"Never mind, Scully. Sorry I woke you. I'll call you when I'm done  
here." 
	Click. 
	Scully sighed, lowering the phone to the bed. It was always so  
hard with him! The term `walking on eggshells' took on a whole new  
meaning with Mulder; with him, the eggshells were filled with  
nitroglycerin.  
	She dialed his cell. 
	"Mulder." 
	"Mulder, it's me." 
	Silence. 
	"Listen," she said slowly, "...I've been doing some thinking,  
and...I know." 
	He hesitated. "Know what?" 
	"Why you do it." 
	"Do what?" 
	"It." 
	Longer pause. "Oh," he finally said. 
	"It's not really even me, is it?" 
	Pause. "I guess not." Longer pause. "How are you with it?" 
	"Better," she admitted. 
	"I'm sorry." 
	"I know. Me too." 
	"You're sorry?" 
	"For not letting you explain. For flying off the handle. For  
making you feel bad over something you shouldn't." 
	For doubting you, she thought. 
	Mulder didn't answer. 
	"Mulder -- I don't know if I can give you what you need. But I  
think that we have to wait until this entire ISU assignment is over  
before we can even think about talking about it." 
Surprising them both, Mulder replied, "I agree." 
	Scully felt the need to say something more, something else, and  
gave into the impulse. "Mulder...you know that I wouldn't change a  
thing, don't you?" 
	"Not even Flukeman?" 
	She snorted. "Not even him, Mulder." 
	Pause. "Me, either." 
	"Mulder...I want you to know something, and I want you to hear  
what I'm going to say and what I mean." 
	She could hear his nervousness. "I'm listening." 
	She spoke slowly, clearly enunciating every word. "You are the  
most important person in my life, Mulder. Nothing will ever change  
that." She paused, and then dove in. "I want to be with you, Mulder." 
	She heard him gasp. 
	"And for right now, we're just going to have to leave it right  
there," she finished.
	Mulder was silent for a short while. "I should go," he said 
softly. "I should try and get some sleep." 
	"It's OK, Mulder. Go to sleep. Call me when you're done with the 
case." 
	"Bye, Scully. I..." He trailed off, and as much as Scully wanted  
to hear him say the words, she knew they had a long, hard road ahead. 
	"Me, too," she said simply. 
	He was gone. God, she thought, so much left to say, and no way to 
say it. As beneficial as last night had been, she still had so much 
to...work through. To...explain, both to Mulder and herself. She missed 
him, missed him horribly. The only comforting thought was that if he got 
through his testimony today, he could be here as early as tonight.
	And them Scully remember Dr. Larkin's words about time apart. 
	Scully swung her legs out of bed and went to find her briefcase.  
She dug through it and found the business card she was looking for.  
Work, pager, cell and home numbers. 
	She dialed the last. 
	The voice was fresh, chipper awake. Scully hated her instantly.  
"Larkin." 
	"Doctor Larkin, this is Dana Scully. I apologize for calling you  
at-" 
	"Nonsense, Dana. What can I do for you?" 
	"I'm in New York on assignment, Doctor. My partner is in Seattle  
testifying on another case. We're going to end up having about two  
days apart. I was wondering if you think that will be enough." 
	Larkin didn't answer right away. When she spoke again, her voice  
was using that carefully modulated therapy-tone that Scully despised.  
Talk to me like a person! she thought. 
	"What's important is what you think, Dana." 
	She's my therapist, Scully thought. Honesty. 
	"I can't stop thinking about him. About how much I hurt him. About  
how much he means to me. About how much I want to be with him." 
	"I see," Larkin said. 
	"I went driving last night," Scully began, sitting down on the  
bed. In ten minutes Scully covered her discussion with Alex Cahill and  
her foray into New York's underbelly. 
	"...and I think I'm beginning to understand a little better." 
	Larkin waited a few moments for Scully's comments to settle before  
speaking. "Dana, may I ask you a very personal question?" 
	You can ask, Scully thought. "Of course." 
	"Do you masturbate?" 
	"Not very often," Scully said after a very long pause. 
	"I see. If I can ask a follow-up question?" 
	"Sure," Scully said, sighing. 
	"When was the last time you had relations?" 
	"With a man?" 
	"Or a woman," Larkin said, keeping her tone even, noncommittal. 
	Scully grinned. Maybe I'm latently gay. The image of the mailroom  
clerk flew across her mind again. 
	"The last time I had sex, you mean?" 
	"Yes." 
	Scully calculated. "Six years." 
	If Larkin was shocked by Scully's admission, she hid it well. "I  
see. Have you had any opportunities for contact, aside from your  
partner?" 
	"A few," Scully hedged, thinking: Ed Jerse. 
	"I'm going to ask you another question, and I want you to hang up  
and think about that question before answering. Take as much time as  
you'd like. Are you ready?" 
	"Lay it on me," Scully said. 
	"Do you think your feelings for your partner in any way interfered  
with your ability to...accept any of those other offers? I want you to  
differentiate between your partner and the other man, or men, in your  
life. I want you to think about what it is about your partner that you  
find attractive, and then see if those same qualities were in the men  
that...approached you." 
	Propositioned me, Scully thought. 
	"I understand. Thank you, Doctor Larkin." 
	"Have a nice day, Dana." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Seattle 
Kings County Superior Court 
Section 131 
Honorable Walter X. Kelly Presiding 
 
	"Please state your name and occupation for the record," the DA  
said. 
	"Fox William Mulder. I am a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau  
of Investigation. I am currently assigned to the Investigative Support  
Unit of the Violent Crimes Division." 
	"Please give us a brief recap of your education and other  
professional qualifications, Agent Mulder." 
	Mulder nodded. It was a speech he had perfected over the years. "I  
have a doctorate in Psychology from Oxford University, Oxford, England.  
I am board-certified in the United States in Clinical Psychology and  
Abnormal Criminal Psychology. I am a certified National Violent Criminal  
Profiler, one of only six people in the country so certified." 
	"What does that certification mean, Agent Mulder?" 
	"It means that, in addition to my doctorate in Psychology and my  
APA board certifications, I have completed several post-graduate  
educational courses sponsored by the Federal Law Enforcement Training  
Center and the FBI. I am certified to act as a profiler even when not  
directly assigned to the ISU or working on ISU matters. It means that I  
am automatically qualified as an expert witness in any federal court." 
	"I see. How many violent serial criminals have you profiled, Agent  
Mulder?" 
	"I would have no way of knowing an exact number, sir." 
	"Could you approximate for the court?" 
	"Several hundred." 
	"And how many of those profiles have resulted in an arrest?" 
	Mulder shrugged. "Again, I'd have no way-" 
	"An educated approximation, sir?" 
	"Perhaps two hundred." 
	"I see. How many trials have you testified at?" 
	"About forty or so." 
	"And of those, how many have resulted in a conviction?" 
	Mulder frowned. "All of them." 
	"Your honor," the DA said, turning to face the judge, "if there  
are no objections, I ask that Special Agent Mulder be admitted to this  
hearing as an expert witness." 
	"Counselor?" the judge asked, glancing at the defense attorney. 
	"No objection, your honor."
	"Thank you, your honor," the DA said. "Would you please take us 
through the process you underwent as you constructed the profile that 
resulted in the arrest of the accused?" 
	Quickly, but competently, Mulder did just that. The DA interjected  
a few times to ask questions, clarifying some points, illuminating  
others. The entire process took less than twenty minutes. 
	"The prosecution has no further questions," the DA finally said.
	"Counselor?" the judge said, peering at the defense attorney.
	The defense attorney rose and walked to the podium. "Special Agent  
Mulder, does the name Bill Patterson ring a bell?" 
	"It does." 
	"In what way?" 
	"Bill Patterson was my mentor at ISU. He wrote the book,  
literally, on profiling serial criminals." 
	"I see. So the man that invented profiling, for lack of a better  
term, taught you everything you know? About serial criminal profiling,  
that is?" 
	"That would be correct, to a point." 
	"Very well. Agent Mulder....did he teach you everything he knew?" 
	Mulder shrugged. "I have no way of knowing that, sir." 
	"I see. Agent Mulder, do you still work for Bill Patterson?" 
	Mulder squirmed. "No, sir." 
	"And why is that?" 
	"Agent Patterson is no longer with the FBI." 
	"And why is that?" 
	Mulder sighed. "He was medically retired." 
	"For what reason?" 
	"I'm not privy to his medical records, sir." 
	"Agent Mulder, you are ducking the question. Is it not true that  
Mr. Patterson was only medically retired from the FBI after being  
arrested?" 
	Mulder nodded. "Yes." 
	"And after being arrested for murder? Several murders, as a matter  
of fact?" 
	Mulder nodded again. "Yes, that's true." 
	"So, then, the man that thought you everything you know about this  
investigatory process not only went insane, but committed murders as  
well and was arrested, tried and convicted." 
	"Insane is a legal term, counselor," Mulder pointed out. "He was  
never found legally insane." 
	"Yes, that's true. But wouldn't you say that it calls into doubt  
your so-called expertise in these matters?" 
	"I don't see how," Mulder said. 
	"Let me put it another way. Would you go to a doctor that you knew  
had been trained by Josef Mengale?" 
	"OBJECTION!" the DA said, standing. "To compare Patterson to-" 
	"Sustained," the judge said, waving the DA back to his seat.  
"Counselor," he said, addressing the defense attorney, "this is not a  
trial. There is no jury to impress. There is no need for grandstanding.  
The witness has already been qualified as an expert. Please confine your  
questions to the matter at hand." 
	"No more questions, your honor. Special Agent Mulder, please be  
aware that I will be calling you as a witness at trial." 
	Wonderful, Mulder thought. "Understood." 
	The judge opened a folder on the bench. "In the matter of the  
Defense's motion that Agent Mulder's profile be excluded on the grounds  
that it is not relevant, the defense motion is denied. The profile can  
be admitted as evidence. Agent Mulder, you are excused with the court's  
thanks." 
	Mulder stood and stepped down from the witness box, moving quickly  
towards the exit. He was dialing his cell as he left the courtroom. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
New York City 
 
	Mark Dupree signed on to the Internet Service Provider and quickly  
created a bogus account. He chose the screen name MrKnife4u and quickly  
composed the message. Instead of sending it twice, he sent the original  
to the New York _Times_, and carbon copies to the NYPD, the New York  
_Daily News_ and the _Post._ 
	He attached the .ZIP file that held the images to the letter and  
clicked SEND. Twenty seconds later, he was in the newsgroups. He found  
the one he was looking for and quickly posted the ten images. A minute  
after that he disconnected from the service after canceling the account. 
	Getting up from his desk, still wearing latex exam gloves, Dupree  
grabbed the envelope addressed to Cahill and left to find a mailbox. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
One Police Plaza 
Sixty-seven minutes later 
 
	Cross, Hicks and Scully were in Cahill's office, going over the  
results of the canvass.  
	"Night tour hit all the buildings with a line of sight to the  
scene last night. Not a hit. No one saw anything." 
	"Any vibes?" Alex asked. 
	Cross shrugged. "None that I know of." 
	Scully's phone rang. 
	"Scully." 
	"Agent Scully, this is Agent Gates. SciCrime Tools and Marks lab.  
I have your results on that credit card. I'm faxing the report to the  
number you gave me, but I thought you'd appreciate a verbal report as  
well." 
	"Please," Scully said. 
	"The cutting instrument was a pair of heavy-duty office scissors,  
almost brand new. We found some microscopic metal shavings in the  
grooves of the cut. Also, the card was cut exactly seven times,  
resulting in eleven pieces. The order of the cuts is outlined on the  
report. The only significant thing that I can mention is that the  
portion of the card that contained the name was cut more times than any  
other portion. That was cut five times." He hesitated. "Is there  
anything else I can do for you?" 
	"If I recover a pair of scissors?" 
	"If they have not been used for anything else since then, we can  
give you a 90 to 95-percent chance of a match. Otherwise, the  
probability drops. We can say in a court of law that a similar pair of  
scissors were used. Same brand, model, same basic metallurgic content.  
But we cannot say with one hundred percent certainty." 
	"Thank you, Agent Gates." 
	"No problem, Agent Scully." 
	Scully hung up. "That was our lab. We have the details back on  
that credit card." 
	Cahill nodded. "Great. For whatever good it'll do." 
	Scully shrugged. "Mulder asked for it." 
	"So when do we get to meet this mysterious Mulder?" Cross asked. 
	Scully spread her hands. "I don't know. He's due to-" 
	At that moment, her phone rang again. 
	"Scully." 
	"It's me." 
	"We were just talking about you," Scully said. 
	"Uh-oh. Good things, I hope." 
	"Always," she said. 
	"Anyway, I'm done here. I've got a noon flight. Due in at  
LaGuardia at nine-thirty tonight, your time." 
	"See you then," Scully said. 
	She hung up. "Agent Mulder will be here at nine-thirty tonight." 
	Alex rubbed her hands together. "Good. That means that we can-" 
	Cahill's phone rang. "I need an AA. Cross...get on it." 
	He smiled and nodded. It was Alex's most common complaint. Now, as  
a Deputy Inspector, she was due an Administrative Assistant.  
	"Cahill," she answered the phone. A moment later she said, "Yes,  
Deputy Inspector. Thank you. Listen, I'm in the middle of..." Her voice  
trailed off. She sat back, rubbing the palm of one hand across her face.  
"What? When? Where?" She listened again.  
	Grabbing a radio with one hand she stood, still talking into the  
phone. "Ok, you know the drill. Crime Scene Unit, ESU, ME's office. Have  
the Central Park guys keep everyone away. We're rolling now." She hung  
up the phone. 
	"Son of a bitch did it again!" she said loudly. "Central Park and  
about 90th. Black female." Raising the radio to her lips, she  
transmitted. "All M-Mike units on the air. 10-61 at Central Park and  
nine zero. Respond forthwith. Again, all M-Mike Units on the air, 10-61  
at Central Park and nine zero. Respond forthwith." 
	"Central is gonna have kittens," Cross warned. 
	A moment later, Cross' prediction was proved correct. "Central to  
M-Mike transmitting unit. Please identify." 
	And a moment after that, "C-Charlie Six, I want the ID of that  
voice, NOW!" 
	Cross winced. C-Charlie Six was Captain Tanner, the Commanding  
Officer of Citywide Communications. He was a stickler for proper radio  
communication. What Alex should have done, of course, was radioed and  
asked central to dispatch her units for her. That was the proper way,  
the accepted way. 
	"C-Charlie Six, this is M-Mike...Eight," Cahill radioed back. 
	"Ah...M-Mike Eight?" 
	"Ten-Four, C-Charlie Six." 
	"Disregard," C-Charlie Six radioed a moment later, the disgust  
evident in his voice. 
	"Asshole," Alex muttered. 
	Cross, Hicks and Scully all stood up.  
	And Cahill's phone rang again. 
	"Shit, what now?" she muttered, grabbing it. "Cahill." 
	Alex Cahill paled and sat down. She took two deep breaths. "I  
understand. I'll have...someone come down there right away. We just  
found the...body." 
	Cross and Scully exchanged a glance. 
	Cahill hung up. "Sam, Dana...Daryl and I are going to Central  
Park. I want the both of you to go down to Information Systems and ask  
for a Lieutenant Hamel. He has something for you. You're also going to  
meet an officer from Public Information, who is probably going to be  
bouncing off the walls." 
	"What happened?" Sam asked. 
	"Our...suspect...emailed ten graphic images of the body. Both to  
us and to several newspapers. I imagine that our days of being able to  
contain this case are just about over." 
	Scully bit her lip. Cross nodded. 
	"Daryl, you're with me. Sam, Dana, after you finish downstairs in  
IS, come to the scene or get me on the radio and we'll decide what to do  
from there." Standing, she regarded her team. "Questions?" 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
New York Police Department, 
Information Systems Division 
One Police Plaza 
 
	Cross and Scully entered the IS offices and were met by  
Lieutenants Barrington and Hamel, both in uniform. 
	"Sam Cross," Sam said, offering his hand. 
	"Dana Scully," Scully said, repeating the gesture. 
	"Well," Hamel grunted, "let's show you what we have." He led them  
back to his office, a Spartan affair that was jammed with technology.  
Scully counted four monitors and keyboards, as well as two laptop  
computers. They were all on, and judging by the snake's nest of wires  
and cables behind the desk, were connected to the pulse of the NYPD's  
computer system. 
	"We received an email with ten image files attached," Hamel  
started. "The name of the sender is MrKnife4U. Lieutenant Barrington has  
indicated to me that the previous email was signed by a MrKnife, and  
since the services won't allow you to reuse screen names for up to two  
years, we assume that this is the same person." 
	Good assumption, Cross thought. Moron. 
	"Can I get a copy of the entire email, images included, on a  
diskette?" Scully asked. 
	Hamel shook his head. "Won't fit on a diskette. Over 3 megs." 
	Scully nodded, reaching for her phone. Speed Dial "6" was a very  
special number. 
	"Lone Gunmen," a voice answered. Byers. 
	"Do you recognize my voice?" Scully asked. 
	"Of course." 
	"If I needed to send you something to examine, a computer file,  
and it was larger than could fit on a diskette, how would you want it?" 
	"ZIP Disk?" 
	Scully covered the mouthpiece with her palm. "Do you have ZIP  
drives?" she asked. Hamel nodded. "Done," she said into the phone. "I'm  
going to send you an email that was sent to the NYPD." She paused. "You  
know what I want." 
	"Absolutely. I'll get...Frohicke on it right away." 
	Scully turned to Cross. "I need a runner." 
	Sam reached down and grabbed the phone on Hamel's desk and dialed  
the Administrative Services Bureau. "I need an officer with a FedEx  
envelope in IS forthwith," he said and hung up. 
	As Cross had been speaking, Lieutenant Hamel had located a blank  
ZIP disk and had inserted it into one of the PC's. "Blank?" he asked  
Scully.  
	She nodded. "This is going off-site to Washington. Anything you  
don't want seen by outsiders, take off the disk." 
	"I'll just format it," Hamel said. 
	Scully laughed. "Perhaps I should be more clear. Do you have a US  
Government-approved disk wiper?" 
	Hamel nodded.  
	"Use it. The people that are going to look at this disk will be  
able to recover anything. And they'd do it, just to prove they can." 
	Hamel nodded again, wondering who this woman was, and who she was  
sending the email to. He thought about questioning her...and after a  
moment dismissed that thought with a shrug.  
	He handed her the ZIP disk four minutes later. 
	"Let's look at the images," Cross said. Hamel manipulated the  
software, and a few seconds later the first JPEG appeared. 
	"Oh, God," Gloria Barrington said, turning away. 
	Scully moved past her to get a better look. "I'm going to need to  
see all the scene photographs," she said to Cross. "Do you guys do  
video?" she asked. 
	"We can," Cross said. 
	"Do it." 
	Sam grabbed his portable. "M-Mike Two to M-Mike Eight," he called. 
	A moment later, Alex's voice came back, the sound of a siren in  
the background. "M-Mike Eight, go, Two." 
	Cross paused. He didn't want to put out on the air that the FBI  
was requesting video from CSU. There were at least a million scanners in  
New York City, and at least a third of them belonged to the media. "M- 
Mike Eight, M-Mike Eight Alpha requests CSU do a video on that scene,  
K?" 
	There was a short pause. "M-Mike Eight, Understood. Ten-Four." 
	Cross nodded at Scully.  
	"Lieutenant, if I may?" Scully asked, indicating computer with a  
gentle lift of her chin. Hamel's expression clouded, making it clear  
that he didn't much like the idea of being usurped in his own office,  
but one glance at Detective Cross was all it took. Hamel stood,  
graciously offering his chair. 
	"Please," he said. 
	Scully sat down just as a runner from Administrative Services  
showed up out of breath, clutching a FedEx envelope. "You have something  
for me?" he asked. 
	Scully tossed the ZIP disk to Cross, who handed it to the runner.  
"Don't drop this in the box," Cross instructed. "Take it down to the  
FedEx office yourself. Bring the receipt back to me. If I'm not here,  
get Central to find me, and then you come to me and hand it to me."  
Cross held the man's gaze. "I can't overestimate how important this is.  
Find me. Understand?" 
	The officer nodded, paling. "Sir, what's in here?" 
	Cross and Scully exchanged a glance. She shook her head very  
slightly, returning her gaze to the monitor. "Evidence," Cross finally  
said. "Critical evidence." 
	The officer nodded and turned to leave. 
	"Son," Cross called. The cop stopped and turned back, a question  
on his face. "Don't you think it'd be a good idea to get the address  
first?" 
	"I know where the FedEx office is, sir," the cop said, a cocky  
smile on his face.  
	"You psychic too?" Scully said.  
	"Shit!" he said. 
	"What's the address?" Cross asked. 
	Scully opened her mouth to answer and then closed it softly. She  
had no idea. She had never gone there without Mulder, and he always  
drove. It was in Baltimore.  
	Somewhere in Baltimore. 
	She reached for her phone and dialed again. 
	"Lone Gunmen," Byers answered. 
	"It's me. I need your address for the envelope." 
	Byers read it off to her, and Scully gave it to the AS cop, who  
wrote it down and then verified it, line by line. 
	"Go," Cross said, patting him on the shoulder and pointing at  
Hamel's office door. "Forthwith." 
 
Central Park West 
 
	The crime scene had already been taped off by the time Alex got  
there. Four Central Park Precinct cops stood guard, keeping the gawkers  
and press at bay.  
	Damn press, Alex thought. Scanners should be illegal.  
	"Captain! Captain Cahill!" one of them called, rushing at her with  
a microphone clutched in one crimson-taloned paw, a cameraman trailing  
in her wake. Alex hated the woman with a passion; she had a knack of  
asking the most annoying questions in such a way that any answer was  
bound to be wrong. 
	What Alex privately called the "Have you stopped beating your  
wife?" questions. 
	"Captain Cahill, is this poor woman another one of the Knife's  
victims?" 
	"First off," Alex said, "I cannot comment on an ongoing  
investigation, Sheila. You should know that. Secondly, I just got here.  
I don't know what we have yet. Thirdly, it's Deputy Inspector Cahill.  
Have a good day." 
	Cahill turned to duck under the tape. 
	"Inspector!" Sheila called. "The people have a-" 
	Alex stopped dead in her tracks and spun on the reporter, ducking  
under the tape to face her. "Don't," she said, holding up a hand. "Don't  
you dare say it. The people do not have a right to know. Not yet. When  
we have completed our investigation, we will hold a press conference at  
the House. You, as well as all the other stations, newspapers, magazines  
and any other credentialled media are more than welcome to attend. But  
we are conducting a murder investigation here, not a media feeding  
frenzy. We don't even know the victim's name! We'd like the chance to  
inform her family before they hear about it on the six o'clock news, if  
that's all right with you!" 
	Angrily, Alex spun again and ducked under the tape. 
	"I got it," the cameraman said out of the corner of his mouth. 
	"Good," Sheila said. "We'll lead with that tonight, I know it." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
One Police Plaza 
 
	Scully glanced at Cross and then flicked her eyes at Hamel and  
Barrington. 
	Cross nodded, getting it. "Lieutenants, sir...ma'am, if you don't  
mind, I think Special Agent Scully and myself would like a few moments  
to discuss this new evidence in private." 
	Barrington nodded and ducked out, glad to be away. "Call me when  
you have a statement for the press," she said over her shoulder as she  
left. 
	"I don't think-" Hamel started to say. 
	"Sir," Cross said, "I think if you have any questions about my  
request, you need to direct them to Deputy Inspector Cahill or-" 
	"DI? Cahill made DI?" 
	Cross nodded. "...or, if she's not available, Chief Zolinski." 
	Hamel grunted, finally understanding what he was up against. "Very  
well. Please let me know when I can use my office again." 
	Cross guided Hamel by the elbow to the door, speaking in soft,  
soothing tones. "Of course, Lieutenant. And thanks again for bringing  
this to our attention. Oh...one more thing. Who noticed this first?" 
	"I did," Hamel said smugly. 
	"You often cruise the inbound mailboxes?" Cross asked. "That  
message was addressed to Zolinski." 
	Hamel paled. "Uh..." 
	"Don't worry about it, Lieutenant. I think, in the greater scheme  
of things, Chief Zolinski has better things to worry about than who's  
reading his private email." 
	Hamel swallowed and made a quick exit. 
	Scully grinned. "You realize that as long as he's the CO of this  
unit, you have him in the palm of your hand." 
	"Something like that," Cross replied, locking the door. He walked  
back around Hamel's desk and leaned down, peering over Scully's shoulder  
at the monitor. "Look at that," he said, pointing at the screen.  
"Different knife." 
	"So, what were the weapons again?" 
	"Gun on the first one, knife on the other three," Cross replied.  
"The first victim, Leon King, was shot at close to point-blank range.  
Emptied a .22 magazine into him." 
	Scully spun. "A .22?" 
	"Yeah, why?" 
	"Assassin's weapon," she mused, "but usually only for close-in  
work. Back of the ear, back of the head, that kind of stuff. No one  
shoots from the front with a .22. To much chance of hitting a rib and  
deflecting." 
	Cross shook his head. "Well, I guess our guy figured that, because  
he emptied the magazine into the guy's head. One stray shot caught him  
in the throat. Not one in the chest or torso." 
	Scully bit her lip. "He can shoot," she finally said, turning back  
to the monitor. "So why isn't he shooting?" 
	"Knife is a more..." 
	"Personal weapon," Scully finished. "You have to get in close to  
use it." 
	Cross nodded again. "Yeah." 
	Scully clicked to the next picture. "Look at this," she said  
again, pointing. "He eviscerated her." 
	"If it's the same victim," Cross said. 
	Scully glanced over her shoulder. She hadn't thought of that. 
	Cross raised the radio to his lips. "M-Mike Eight, M-Mike Two, K?" 
	"Eight." 
	"Eight, are you eighty-five yet?" 
	"That's affirmative, Two. What's up?" 
	"Uh...I'm gonna call you," Cross said, holding out his hand.  
Scully handed him her cell and watched as he dialed.  
	"Alex, we need to make sure the pictures we're looking at are the  
same vic. Can you get close? OK..." Cross leaned over Scully's shoulder  
again, much closer this time. So close, in fact, that Scully could smell  
his cologne. 
	Spicy, she thought. 
	"Ok, we have a black female, looks to be about 30 to 35. She's  
wearing a gold bracelet around her left wrist, looks to be...yeah, ok,  
that's her. Thanks, Alex."  
	Cross hung up. "Well, it's the same victim. At least the bastard  
didn't do two in one night." 
	Scully shook her head. "This bastard is going to be tough to  
catch." 
	"Why?" Cross asked. 
	"I looked at the files yesterday. Leon King, black male. John  
Wagner/Nelson, WASP male. Tony Montoya/Conners, Italian male. And now  
this one, black female. He's crossing racial boundaries. They don't  
normally do that, or gender boundaries. Blacks kill blacks and whites  
kill whites." 
	"Why will that-" 
	"Because it's harder to profile. Mulder's going to want to figure  
out what's driving this guy. Why he's picking these victims. Normally, a  
serial killer sticks with a single type of victim. He's basically  
killing the same thing over and over again. Usually, anyway. This  
guy...I have no idea why he's killing them." 
	"You're not the profiler," Cross gently reminded her. 
	Scully nodded. "Yeah, but right now, I'm all you've got." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
 
	Alex approached the body from an oblique angle, not wanting to  
contaminate the scene any more than she had to. She glanced at the  
grass, and at the ground surrounding the body. No drag marks. No  
footprints. She made a mental note to recheck what the weather  
conditions were like last night.  
	Daryl Hicks, already snapping on latex gloves, performed the same  
ritual from the other side, moving slowly, letting his eyes take in  
everything. Alex stood back, giving the man room to work. Her cardinal  
rule about running a detective squad was to let the people best suited  
to run the investigation do so with at little interference as possible.  
She'd attracted two of the best detectives in the entire Detective  
Bureau that way.	 
	The victim's left eye was still open. 
	Her right eye was missing placed delicately, almost reverently, on 
her chest. 
	Daryl reached as if he was going to close it, and Alex almost said  
something about disturbing prints on the body. But he didn't touch the  
woman's eye. His fingers gently prodded her temple, testing the rigidity  
in her neck muscles. He stooped lower, twisting his neck under and down.  
"Pooling," he said softly, noticing the dark marks on the woman's  
buttocks and back.  
	Alex made notes as Daryl talked, planning to give them to him  
later. Dependent lividity was another sign that confirmed the woman had  
been killed here, not elsewhere and then dumped. After death, with the  
heart no longer pumping the blood through the circulatory system,  
gravity pulled blood to the lowest point in the body. If the lividity  
pattern matched the body's outline on the ground, that was absolute  
proof that Alex and Daryl were looking at the murder scene. 
	"Hematoma," Daryl called again, "throat and neck area. Looks to be  
a good sized hand." 
	"Print?" 
	Daryl shook his head. "I doubt it. This guy has been way too  
careful for this. Ask Cross if he can see any hands in the pictures." 
	Alex nodded. Good idea, she thought. 
	"M-Mike Eight to M-Mike Two." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
One Police Plaza 
 
	"Two." 
	"Landline," Alex radioed. 
	Borrowing Scully's cellphone again, Cross dialed. "They don't give  
you guys cells?" Scully teased. 
	"In my locker," Cross said with a soft smile. "Hey, boss. What's  
up?" 
	"Sam, can you see the doer's hands in any of those shots?" 
	"Yeah, in two of them. Gloves in both shots." 
	"Shit. Thanks. Anything else I should be aware of?" 
	Cross nodded, even though he knew Alex couldn't see him. "Yes, as  
a matter of fact. Might want to have the ME confirm this, but it looks  
like he took a trophy." 
	"Like what?" 
	"Piece of something inside her. We have a shot of him reaching  
inside the abdominal cavity just after opening her up, judging by the  
blood flow, and the next shot shows that wound being widened a lot. Dr.  
Scully thinks it might be part of the liver or something." 
	"Wonderful. A liver-eating serial killer," Alex said. 
	"Alex thinks the guy may be eating the livers," Cross said to  
Scully. She turned to face him, a wry smile twitching on her lips.  
Surely, he couldn't know about the Tooms case? 
	"I kind of doubt that," Scully said slowly. 
	"Me, too," Cross mouthed. "No forensics. But this is the first  
time it looks like he's...well, done something besides just slice them  
open or shoot them in the face. Alex? Talk to you soon." He hung up. 
	Scully shrugged. "Yes, and the wounds are getting more complex.  
>From the autopsy photos that I saw of the Wagner and Montoya murders,  
he's getting... better at it. He's getting a taste for it." 
	"Enjoys it, huh?" 
	Scully shrugged again. "Mulder's the better person to ask that  
question of, but...no, I don't think so. From seeing the autopsy photos  
and these, I get a sense of deep rage, but...controlled rage. Look..."  
Scully clicked back to one of the early pictures. "The original  
abdominal incision is perfect. From the tracheal notch right down to the  
pubic arch. It took me years to perfect that cut as a pathologist." 
	Cross grunted. The thought of this beautiful, delicate woman  
gutting a corpse open was...disturbing. Alarming. 
	"And the second cut, the one just below the ribcage. Not a  
surgical cut -- I don't think he has any medical training..." 
	"Other than what he picks up as he goes along?" Cross muttered. 
	Scully grinned, glad for the small injection of levity. "Yes, I  
suppose you could say that. But...again, there's a purpose to the cut.  
No rage, no wild stabbing, no gouging...no tears. He's not thrusting the  
knife in and pulling like we'd see in a rage-based murder. It's almost  
as if..." She stopped, not sure she wanted to offer any more of her  
opinions. 
	"What?"  
	Scully felt she could trust this man. "I'm not offering the FBI's  
opinion on this," she said by way of disclaimer, "but...it looks as if  
he's trying to...let something out. Like he believes that they all  
have... at least, the last three...that they all have something inside  
them that he's trying to get out, or set free, something like that." 
	Cross nodded. "It's consistent with the cuts, I agree. But... like  
you said, neither one of us is really qualified to offer an opinion on  
that." 
	Scully grunted. 
	She clicked on the last picture. It was a close-up of the note. 
 
			613:4091 
			USMS 5920509540 
			 
			"Three men in a boat on a lake. Two fathers 
			and two sons. How can this be?" 
 
	Scully frowned. 
	"He's taunting us?" she asked. 
	"The last one had a puzzle, too. Uh...how many birthdays does the  
average man have?" 
	"One," Scully answered immediately. 
	Impressed, Cross nodded. "Ok...how about this one?" 
	Scully scratched her chin, her eyes squinting in concentration.  
"Grandfather, father, son," she said after a minute. "The father is both  
a father and a son. Two fathers, two sons. Actually, the puzzle should  
be, three sons and two fathers." 
	"Nah," Cross said, "that'd be too easy. Any idea on what the other  
shit is about?" 
	"This," Scully said, pointing to the second line, "is a US  
Marshal's service booking number. I have no idea what the first line  
is." 
	"Neither do we," Cross admitted. "I have a feeling that it's  
important." 
	"Obviously a code of some kind," Scully said, reaching for the  
phone. She dialed the offices of the Lone Gunmen for the third time that  
day. 
	"Gunmen," Langly answered.  
	"It's Dana Scully," Scully said. "That disk I just sent ...  
photograph number ten is a close-up of a note left at the scene. Take a  
crack at the first line, ok? It's a code of some kind." 
	"Ok, Scully. Mulder there?" 
	"Why do you ask?" Scully said, immediately regretting the  
question. 
	"Well, we were all gonna go to an "Earth:Final Conflict" party  
tonight, and if he was going to be in Washington, he could come dressed  
as his favorite Companion-" 
	"He's in Seattle," Scully quickly interjected. 
	"Oh, well," Langly said. "Say, you're not-" 
	"No. Thanks, really. I appreciate it." 
	"Take care." 
	Scully hung up and returned her attention to the monitor. "If you  
don't mind my asking, who were you talking to?" 
	"Why do you want to know?" 
	"Well, it's obviously not an FBI facility. I was just curious as  
to whom you're sharing all this sensitive evidence with." 
	"How do you know it's not an FBI facility?" Scully asked, one  
eyebrow arched. 
	"Because you didn't identify yourself as Special Agent Scully,  
just as Dana Scully, number one. And the person obviously knows who your  
partner is, but not where he is." 
	Scully nodded. "You're good, Detective Cross." 
	"That didn't answer my question," he pointed out.  
	"No," Scully said, clicking on one of the earlier images, "It  
didn't." 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
4:58pm 
 
	Mark Dupree sat down in front of the television in his living  
room. Just like the computers in the basement, all the equipment in here  
was top of the line. The TV was a thirty-seven inch Sony XBR flat  
screen. All four VCRs were humming, each tuned to a different station.  
He was watching Eyewitness News on Channel 7, waiting for Ernie Anastos  
to come on. He'd caught a fifteen-second station-break feed while  
surfing for a movie to watch on HBO or Showtime, and it had sounded like  
the NYPD had finally decided to come clean. 
	The electronic-syntho-crap that passed for theme music filled  
Dupree's SurroundSound speakers, and a moment later Ernie appeared,  
wearing the Professional Frowny Face that all news anchors wore to  
communicate to their viewers that Bad News was on the way. 
	"Police are at the scene of a murder in Central Park," Ernie  
announced, "in what highly placed sources inside the Police Department  
are calling the fourth in a series of similar murders. We now go live to  
One Police Plaza, where Chris Borgen is attending a press conference.  
Chris?" 
	The screen flashed to reveal the faces of one of New York's oldest  
living monument: Chris Borgen, a reporter that had covered the crime  
beat for thirty years and all six New York TV stations. 
	"Ernie, Lieutenant Barrington has just confirmed that the victim  
discovered today in Central Park is, in fact, the fourth victim in what  
appears to be a series of similar killings." 
	"Chris, do the police think we have a serial killer on our hands?" 
	Here it comes, Dupree thought, rubbing his hands together. Once  
Borgen said those magic words, it would start for real. 
	"No, Ernie," Borgen said, visibly surprising Ernie and flooring  
Dupree. "As a matter of fact, the FBI Spokesperson went out of her way  
to point out the inconsistencies in these cases. I think we have that on  
tape....Bill?" 
	A moment later the screen flashed again, and a gorgeous, petite  
redhead was shown standing behind the lectern in the NYPD Press Room. A  
moment after that, a graphic flashed up. 
	"Special Agent Dana Scully, MD," the graphic read. 
	"The FBI at this time is not classifying this as a serial  
killing," the woman said, "for a few reasons. First, the four victims  
are atypical to each other. Serial murderers, as I'm sure you're all  
aware, tend to pick a specific type of victim, and this does not appear  
to be the case at this time." 
	"Agent Scully!" a voice called.  
	"Yes?" she asked, pointing. 
	"If there is not a serial murderer preying on the people of New  
York, then...why are you here?" 
	Dana Scully smiled. "Well, as a matter of fact, as I'm also sure  
you've discovered by now, I am on the Response Team for the  
Investigative Support Unit, but I'm not in New York in an official  
capacity. I'm a medical doctor, a pathologist, not a criminal profiler.  
My partner is the profiler, and he's in Seattle, testifying on a case as  
we speak. It just so happens that Deputy Inspector Cahill and I went  
through the FBI Academy together, and I was in New York to help her  
celebrate her recent promotion." 
	"BULLSHIT!" Dupree screamed at the television. He launched himself  
out of the chair, pacing back and forth in front of the television.  
Impossible. They couldn't be that stupid. Sure, the NYPD. But not the  
FBI! 
	"Dr. Scully, what do you make of the notes?" 
	Scully shook her head. "I'm sorry, but that I cannot comment on.  
That's material evidence in an ongoing homicide investigation. I'm sure  
you understand." She paused. "Now, if there aren't any other questions,  
I'm off to the airport to pick up my partner, and then we're flying to  
DC." 
	There were other questions, shouted, yelled, screamed questions,  
but Dr. Dana Scully, MD ignored them all as she stepped down off the  
podium and made her way out of the Press Room. 
	Borgen's face reappeared on the screen. "So there you have it,  
Ernie. The NYPD and FBI both proclaiming that there is no serial killer  
stalking New York, just four incredibly coincidental homicides. This is  
Chris Borgen at One Police Plaza...Channel 7...EYEWitness News." 
	"In other news," Ernie said, segueing without a break, "the mayor  
announced today spending cuts aimed at-" 
	Dupree jabbed the remote at the TV, furious. 
	Livid. 
	Calm down, he told himself. Listen to what they meant, not what  
they said. They admitted the existence of the notes, which was a huge  
mistake. Especially when the notes would be published in the newspaper.  
And as soon as some Internet surfer figured out what the nine postings  
were, it would become a story coast-to-coast, and then all around the  
world. 
	Patience, Dupree thought. 
	Give them what they want, and what I need. 
	Another body. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
END CHAPTER 14