ELS   
Chapter 15 
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 24, 1997
Archive Entry   : "ELS" Chapter 15/?   
Classification  : SRA MSR   
Chapter Rating  : PG  
Story Rating    : NC-17 (Violence, Sexual Situations)   
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm   
Summary         : Mulder joins Scully in New York, and their
                  discussions about sensitive topics deepeen.
                  Meanwhile, the Dupree case heats up as
                  the killer raises the stakes.
Spoilers        : None, but US4 to be safe.
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"
                : Danny Aiello, "Chief Zolinski"
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
New York City 
 
	Scully and Cross finished with the images on Hamel's computer,  
contacted Zolinski and informed him that he wouldn't be receiving that  
particular email, and then impounded the user and router-table logs from  
the NYPD's email server as evidence. Lieutenant Hamel was none to  
pleased with any of it, and made his displeasure known with indignant  
frowns and subtle comments made under his breath.  
	"Ready?" Cross finally asked. Scully thought a moment and nodded,  
sure that she had remembered everything.  
	"Off to the scene?" she asked. Cross nodded, leading her out of  
the IS department to the motor pool. Major Cases had its own section,  
complete with a fleet of Chevy Caprice Classics. They checked one out  
and climbed inside. Reaching under the seat, Cross found a magnetic red  
bubble light and jammed it on the roof, plugging it into the cigarette  
lighter with a smooth, practiced motion. As they emerged from the  
underground garage, he tapped the siren with his hand, sending cars  
scattering as he pulled into traffic. 
	"How far away?" Scully asked. 
	"Ten, fifteen minutes," he said, taking the onramp to the West  
Side Highway. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Central Park West 
 
	Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill realized that there was no putting it  
off: She had to talk to the press. The brass, wise beyond their years  
and ranks, had decided that to appear at the scene of what the  
newsbreaks were already calling the `fourth' in a series of serial  
killings would expose them to unwanted levels of press attention. Better  
to let the woman who had all but begged for the job to talk to the  
press. Even Lieutenant Barrington had decided that her presence was  
needed elsewhere, and was nowhere to be found. She hadn't answered any  
of Alex's six or seven urgent "911" pages. 
	Damnable woman, Alex thought, approaching the yellow crime scene  
tape. All six New York stations were present, along with a healthy  
representation of the print media. A few microphones belonging to the  
New York radio market were also thrust into her face. 
	"Captain!" they all called, trying to out-shout each other. As was  
her policy with the press, Alex waited for them to scream themselves  
hoarse before speaking. Those that knew her, that had dealt with her in  
the past waited patiently, while the newer, greener reporters, or those  
that had never dealt with her before continued to scream. 
	Finally, understanding, they fell silent. 
	"I have a statement," Alex said slowly. "I will not be taking  
questions. Today, a passing jogger located the body of an as-yet- 
unidentified black female. It is the judgment of the medical examiner  
that this woman is a victim of a homicide. Since that homicide fits the  
pattern of an ongoing investigation being conducted by the citywide  
Major Cases Squad, myself and my detectives will be taking over the  
investigation of this homicide. At this time, we have no leads and no  
suspects." Alex paused. "That's all I have for you." 
	She turned to leave. 
	"CAPTAIN!" Sheila called. 
	Alex turned back, obviously irritated. "I said-" she started. 
	"Captain, the people have a-" 
	Alex held up her hand, stopping the woman in mid-sentence. "Listen  
to me, Sheila," she said softly. "You and I have had this discussion  
before. There is nothing more to tell you that will not compromise our  
investigation. I cannot comment on the details of an ongoing  
investigation. Every single time we meet up at a scene, you ask the same  
questions, and I give you the same answers. When the Medical Examiner  
completes his autopsy, he will make a statement. If Major Cases has  
anything to say, we will make a statement through the Public Information  
Office. Why is this so hard to understand? I have never let something  
slip in one of these... circuses you people seem to love so much. So  
what makes you think I'm going to start today?" 
	"Captain," Sheila started, her tone reproachful. 
	"No, Sheila," Alex said, "I'm not going to listen to you. I told  
you I had a statement and that I wasn't going to be taking questions.  
What part of that don't you understand? What is so _difficult_ for you  
to grasp?" 
	"Captain, this city is gripped by fear-" the reporter started. 
	"Sheila, dammit! If the city, as you say, is `gripped by fear'  
then you have no one to blame but yourselves. The police department has  
not issued any official statements regarding any danger to the general  
public. Any information that you have obtained is through unofficial  
channels, and thus suspect. If you report on rumors, again, you have  
only yourselves to blame. I'm sick of you people taking my words and the  
words of my detectives and twisting them to fit your own ends, to make  
sensationalistic reports that do nothing but garner higher ratings. This  
woman's death is a tragedy, and I will not have you using me or my  
detectives as fodder for your little feeding frenzy. Is that clear?" 
	Sheila nodded, knowing that this was going to make great tape. Her  
news director was going to shit when he saw this. 
	Alex turned and walked back to the scene, shaking her head.  
Reaching for her cell phone, she quickly dialed. 
	"Zolinski," the NYPD Chief of Detectives answered. 
	"Chief, Alex Cahill," she said. "I may have just stepped in it  
with the press. If they call you, give them the `full faith' speech,  
ok?" 
	Zolinski was silent for a moment, obviously gathering his  
thoughts. "Maybe you'd better tell me what happened before I express my  
undying faith and gratitude in you, Inspector." 
	Quickly, Alex gave him the specifics. 
	"Wonderful," he moaned. "Fine, Alex...do me a favor? Don't  
antagonize them anymore? I'd hate to have to suspend you." 
	Alex laughed. "Well, then, we can get the case solved that much  
quicker. Don't you go to the movies, Chief? The only time the heroine  
can solve the case is when the Big Bad Boss suspends her!" 
	"That's heroes, Alex, not heroines. Heroines are supposed to wear  
scanty clothing and fix the boo-boos of the heroes after they get into a  
fight." 
	"Scanty clothing?" Alex teased. "Maybe for your next birthday,  
chief." She heard a siren approaching and turned to see the unmarked  
unit piloted by Cross pull up. "Gotta go, the cavalry is here." 
	She hung up on him, knowing that he would understand; Zolinski had  
been a street cop longer than Alex had been alive. 
	Cross and Scully approached her. Just as they prepared to duck  
under the tape, the press launched themselves at Scully. 
	"Agent Scully! Agent Scully!" 
	"No comment," Scully said, bypassing them. 
	"Agent Scully, is the FBI involved in this investigation?" Sheila  
shouted. "Is this case beyond the NYPD's ability to handle?" 
	Scully stopped in her tracks and sighed, turning to face the press  
pool. "No. Comment." she said again. 
	"I think," Sheila said condescendingly, "that the people of New  
York have a right to know if the police department their taxes pay for  
are outclassed by a serial murderer, outclassed to the point where they  
need to call in federal authorities to help catch this madman." 
	"What madman?" Scully asked, instantly regretting her question. 
	"Why, Agent Scully, surely you must know that a serial murderer is  
stalking the people of New York!" 
	Scully laughed. "Do you ever _listen_ to yourself?" she asked.  
"You sound like a bad Jerry Springer episode!" 
	"Agent Scully, are you investigating this case? Is the FBI  
involved?" 
	"Yes, we are assisting the Major Cases Squad with certain  
psychological profiles, but we are in no way taking this investigation  
over. There is no need to. The NYPD is doing everything that can be done  
to track and arrest the guilty party. For any other information, you'll  
have to call the NYPD PIO, or the Public Affairs office of the FBI in  
Washington. Thank you." 
	Scully turned and followed Sam Cross, who had waited for her, over  
to where Alex stood. 
	"Shit!" Alex said. "I'm sorry, Dana." 
	Scully shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Dealing with the New York  
press is like..." Scully trailed off, looking for a colorful phrase. 
	"Swimming in a shark tank wearing a steak suit?" Cross helpfully  
supplied. 
	"Something like that," Scully smiled, nodding her agreement. "So,  
what do we have?" 
	"Take a look," Alex said, sweeping her hand to indicate the body.  
The Crime Scene Unit had arrived and was working the scene. The Deputy  
Medical Examiner was crouched over the body, slowly inserting a long,  
evil-looking temperature probe into the victim's liver. 
	Cross reached into his jacket pocket and returned with two pairs  
of latex gloves. Without looking, he offered a pair to Scully, who  
quickly took and donned them. She moved towards the body, taking a  
similarly oblique angle as Alex had previously. 
	"Can I help you?" the DME asked snippily. 
	"Special Agent Dana Scully," Scully said. "I'm a forensic  
pathologist." 
	"Oh," he said, nodding. 
	"Time of death?" she asked. 
	"Sometime last night. I'll have to get the weather reports to make  
sure, but...about nine or ten last night, I guess." 
	Scully nodded. There was blood.  
	A lot of blood. 
	She saw the one eye sitting on the victim's chest and shuddered.  
That was interesting. Scully idly wondered what Mulder would make of  
that. 
	"Where's the note?" she asked. 
	One of the CSU detectives handed her an evidence bag with the note  
inside. Scully removed a printout from the email and matched it. Exact. 
	The Gunmen wouldn't get the ZIP disk until tomorrow, she thought.  
And it might take them forever to figure out what the damn code was, or  
even what kind of code he was using. 
	"Anyone run the booking number?" she called. 
	Alex walked up, dusting lint off of her navy blue blazer. "Yeah, I  
called it in, but I haven't heard back yet." 
	Scully reached for her cell and dialed. 
	"Bernstein," a voice answered. 	 
	"Dana Scully," Scully said. "How are you?" 
	"Fine, Agent Scully. What can I do for you?" 
	"Grab a Marshals terminal session and run a booking number."  
	"Hold one." Scully heard the muted tones of Q-Lite 92, Washington  
DC's `adult listening station.' A moment later, Danny was back. "Lay it  
on me," he said. Scully read him the number. 
	"Classified, Agent Scully. Looks like WITSEC." 
	Scully grunted, covering the mouthpiece, she nodded at the victim  
with her chin. "Protected witness," she said softly. "Anything you can  
do?" she said to Danny. 
	"Hold one...there's a Clark County RTA on the original request for  
information -- I'm linking through NCIC right now...ah, here it is." 
	He read her Danielle Jones' rap sheet, whistling at the number of  
arrests and the relatively small amount of time served. "That's it," he  
finally said. "Last thing I have is four years ago. Questioned and  
released at the scene of a murder." 
	"Fax all of it to the following number," Scully said, reading off  
the MCS fax number. "ASAP, Danny. Appreciate it." 
	"Anytime, Agent Scully. Say hello to Mulder for me." 
	Scully had a sudden thought. "Danny, do you have any friends over  
at NSA?" 
	"Excuse me?" 
	"I have a code here...actually, four codes. No one here has an  
idea on them. Wondered if you'd want to take a look, or if you knew  
anyone that might be able to take a crack at it." 
	Danny hesitated. "Officially?"	 
	"No," Scully said. "Doesn't have to be." 
	"Sure, I can take a look at it. My...I have a friend over at DIA  
who has a friend at NSA that might want to take a look at it. As a  
favor, you understand." 
	"What kind of favor?" Scully asked. 
	"Date?"	 
	"Me or you?" she teased. 
	"Er...you, Agent Scully. He met you at the Antiterrorism  
Conference last year. Paul?" 
	Scully wracked her brain. A dim mental image of an Army officer  
came to her. "About thirty, six-two, Infantry?" 
	"That's him." 
	Scully sighed. What the hell. "Sure, one date if he cracks the  
code." 
	Danny laughed. "Ok, I'll tell him." He paused. "Who knows? With  
the proper motivation...?" 
	"Talk to you later, Danny." Scully hung up, laughing. 
	"What's so funny?" Cross asked. Scully explained that she had just  
bartered her personal life for federal assistance in cracking the code.  
Cross nodded. 
	"Whatever works. Hell...if he's cute-" 
	"Sam!" Alex snapped. 
	Cross grinned. "Sorry." 
	Scully's cell rang. "That was fast," she cracked. "Scully." 
	"Hi, it's me." 
	"Hiya, Mulder. What's up?" 
	"Listen, do me a favor? Have someone makes copies of everything?  
Bring it to the airport when you pick me up, ok? I want to get a jump on  
this stuff." 
	Scully nodded, even though she knew Mulder couldn't see it. "Done.  
Nine-thirty right?" 
	 
+=+=+=+=+==+=+= 
LaGuardia Airport 
9:29PM EST 
 
	Scully stood, her hands in the pockets of her trench coat,  
watching as the Boeing 737-300 pulled up to the jetway. After a few  
moments, the security door yawned open and passengers started streaming  
off. Mulder was the next to last to deplane. 
	"Hi," he said, smiling tiredly. "Waiting long?" 
	Scully shrugged. "Not long." 
	"Anything new?" 
	"Another victim," Scully said. "You got me at a crime scene." 
	"Match?" 
	She nodded. "Note, plus he emailed pictures he took during the  
murder to the NYPD and the papers. Plus the forensics match, and it  
looks like the victim was a protected witness." 
	"Marshals have anything to say?" 
	Scully shook her head. "Nothing yet." They turned and made their  
way down to the taxi stand. Scully had parked her rental there. A NYPD  
parking plate was displayed on her dashboard, courtesy of Alex Cahill.  
It stated that the car was on official NYPD business and was not  
subjected to ticketing or towing. A handy little device, Scully thought.  
The FBI should have those as well. 
	"Trunk is full," Scully said. Mulder just grunted, tossing his  
carryon into the backseat and then collapsing into the passenger seat. 
	Scully got in and started the car. Checking the rearview, she slid  
the car into the heavy airport traffic and headed back towards  
Manhattan. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
42nd Street & Broadway (Times Square) 
55 minutes later 
 
	Light. 
	Bright, liquid, neon, it slid up the windshield and over the car,  
washing Scully with it. Mulder was going over the most recent case file,  
using the small map light to study the crime scene photographs.  
	At a stoplight, Scully watched as a hooker approached a car with  
dark, tinted windows. The curbside window slid down slowly, quietly on  
oiled tracks. The driver leaned over, exchanged a few words with the  
prostitute. After a moment of haggling, the hooker got in the car. 
	"Amazing there's not more of them," Scully muttered. 
	"What?" Mulder asked. 
	"Nothing," Scully replied. 
	"What?" he asked, looking up. 
	"Nothing, Mulder. Forget it." 
	"More of what, Scully?" 
	"Serial killers," she answered, realizing that he had heard her  
after all. 
	"Why?" 
	The light turned green. Scully drove south, towards the hotel.  
"Look at this place, Mulder. It's a cesspool." 
	Mulder glanced up, realized where he was and closed the file. 
 
	"Yeah," he said softly, staring out the window. He turned his gaze  
towards his partner, watching as the patterns of light lit her face in a  
diffuse glow. Her face was set, jaw tight. 
	"Bothers you, doesn't it?" he asked. 
	"A little," she admitted. "It's just that...it's accepted here. I  
mean, I know they call it the world's oldest profession...but other  
departments in other cities at least make an effort at stopping it.  
Here....here it seems like they've given up. Confine them to a specific  
area in each Borough, and let it go." She sliced the air with the flat  
of her hand, disgusted. 
	"Some guys..." Mulder said quietly, "...a hooker is all they can  
get." 
	"Or all they want," Scully replied softly. 
	Mulder shrugged. "Sure, that, too." 
	"It's...dangerous, Mulder. Spreads disease. HIV. AIDS. Most of  
these women are feeding habits. None of them are in the life because  
they want to be." 
	"Some women do have hooker fantasies," Mulder pointed out and then  
immediately regretted it. 
	Scully's jaw tightened even more, if that were possible. "I'm not  
arguing that with you, Mulder. But...c'mon...there isn't a woman alive  
that would fantasize about...this." She waved a hand at the world  
outside the car. "Sure, maybe in a weird, romance-novel way, some women  
might like the idea of a man paying her for sex...but not this. This  
isn't even about sex, Mulder. If it is...only in the most distant,  
remote way possible." 
	Mulder nodded. She was right. 
	"You're right," he said softly. "I don't know why I said that." 
	Scully did. 
	"Because you can identify with the kind of man that needs a  
hooker," she said, not unkindly.  
	Mulder turned to face her again. She was right, of course. 
	"Some men...I'll admit that not many of them...but some, look  
to... ladies of the night for comfort and companionship. Some of the  
guys don't even want sex. They pay these women to just hold them, to  
just listen to them." 
	Scully shrugged. "Companionship? Get a dog, Mulder." 
	"I wasn't talking about me!" he protested. 
	"So," Scully said, and Mulder knew what her question was going to  
be before she even asked it. "Have you ever been to a hooker?" 
	"No," he finally said.  
	Scully sighed. Her relief was short-lived, however. 
	"But I've thought about it," Mulder finished. 
	Scully chewed her lip, slowing down to turn a corner, heading  
cross-town. 
	"Why?" she asked. 
	"Why did I think about it, or why didn't I go?" 
	"Both," she shrugged. 
	"I didn't go because of the reasons you mentioned. Not healthy.  
Why think about it? It's easy." 
	"Easy to think about?" 
	"Easy to deal with. If you're a man, lonely, looking for sex, for  
comfort, it's a pretty straightforward transaction. Cash for the use of  
her body. I know how cold that sounds...but there have been times that  
it seemed like a...I don't know...logical? A logical choice?" 
	Scully mulled this. "Did Phoebe hurt you that much?" she asked. 
	Mulder frowned, not sure where she was going. "I'm not sure I-" 
	"I mean...Mulder, I've seen the way women look at you." I've seen  
the way <I> look at you, she thought. "You'd have no problems finding  
willing...mates." 
	Mulder laughed. "No, not the way you mean. It'd be hard, Scully.  
Trust me. I'm...strange." 
	No shit, she thought, but didn't say. 
	Seeing her expression, Mulder smiled. "But then, you already know  
that, don't you? I guess...what I mean is that...to me, there's two  
extremes. A woman, a nice woman, one that would want a relationship, I  
just can't handle that. Not because of Phoebe..." 
	Or you, he thought. 
	"...or anyone else, but because of the work we do. There's an  
inherent danger, a chance that anyone I get close to-" 
	"Will be used against you. I know." Believe me, Scully thought,  
remembering her sister, "I know." 
	"So...when the need to touch another human being gets strong, the  
idea of going to someone and not putting them in danger is attractive." 
	"But she'd be putting you in danger," Scully observed. 
	"Which is why I haven't." He thought about it and then added,  
"Among other reasons, of course." 
	Scully fell silent, thinking about the lonely life her partner  
led. He had no real family to speak of. His sister, father, both gone, a  
distant, cool mother, and no real love in his life. 
	Except for me, she thought. 
	And those damn movies. 
	"So...the movies. One way to deal with the loneliness without  
having to put yourself or anyone else in danger?" 
	Mulder shrugged. "Sure, if you want to look at it that way." 
	"If I look at it that way, it makes sense," Scully said. 
	They came to another stoplight, and Scully gently brought the car  
to a halt. A young couple, arm in arm, crossed the street, staring into  
each other's eyes. 
	"Is that why you touch me?" Scully asked softly.  
	Mulder rolled down the window; the car was suddenly warm. "Yes,"  
he said, just as softly. 
	There was a long pause. The light turned green, but Scully didn't  
move.  
	"I'm glad," she finally said, and stepped on the accelerator. 
	Me, too, Mulder thought. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Brown Derby Hotel 
12th Avenue & Avenue A 
New York City 
 
	They rode up in silence. 
	When the doors dinged open, Mulder moved to step out. He felt  
something on his sleeve and looked down to see Scully's fingers on his  
arm. 
	"Wait," she said softly. 
	The doors slid closed, but the car didn't move. 
	"What I said...in Portland, about not coming into my room anymore?  
Forget I said that." 
	Mulder nodded, remaining silent, knowing that Scully wanted to  
finish without interruption. "And...keep my apartment key, OK?" 
	"If you want," he said softly. 
	She nodded. "I do." 
	Scully reached out and hit the OPEN button; the doors slid apart  
on greased tracks. 
	"Let's get some sleep," she said. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
Room 620 
 
	Mulder had set up on the small circular table by the door. His  
laptop was open, and he was making furious notes when Scully entered  
through the connecting door. She had showered and changed into a pair of  
FBI sweatpants and an old Knicks T-shirt. 
	Mulder glanced up, and then back at his computer, and then back up  
again.  
	Women, he thought. What kind of signal is she trying to send by  
wearing my shirt? That everything is fine? That she wants me?  
	"It's just a shirt, Mulder," Scully said, reading his mind. 
	He nodded and returned to his laptop. 
	"Progress?" she asked. 
	He shook his head. "Still in the early stages. This is one..." He  
trailed off, looking for a good phrase. "Sick puppy," he finally  
finished. 
	Scully sat on the bed, palms flat on the comforter. "Yeah, I kinda  
got the impression from the eyes. What do you think...that means?" 
	"I am blind, now can see?" Mulder asked rhetorically. 
	Scully snorted. 
	Mulder leaned back, hands at the small of his back, waiting for  
the satisfying crunch! as his vertebrae snapped. "Well...classic  
profiling says that the UNSUB doesn't want the victim to see him do the  
deed, but both of the eye jobs were post-mortum, so that's out. Part of  
the problem is figuring out what is significant and what isn't. This guy  
gets off on playing games. He gets off on...taunting us. It could be  
just something to throw us off track. We have to look at what was the  
same between all the cases." 
	"Evolving?" she asked. 
	He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Evolution takes place  
over a longer time. No killer I've ever profiled has evolved this  
quickly. So, anything that's not the same between the cases should be  
discarded, or at least looked at much harder than normal." 
	"So, what's the same?" 
	He shrugged. "Knife or cutting instrument on three of four, and  
the fact that they're all protected witnesses. That's the only common  
thread that I can find. This is going to be hard." 
	She nodded.  
	Mulder started rotating his neck, listening to his neck pop.  
Scully got up and walked over to where he sat, gently laying her palms  
on his shoulders, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles on his back. 
	Mulder closed his eyes, drowning in the sensation of her touching  
him. 
	She leaned close, bending down to whisper in his ear. "I'm glad  
you're here," she intoned softly. 
	Me, too, he thought. 
	Scully turned her head and kissed him softly on the cheek. "I'm  
going to bed," she said, rising to go. 
	Mulder twisted in his seat, grabbing Scully around the waist as  
she passed. Startled, she stopped, waiting. 
	He turned her with his fingers until she faced him. Tugging  
gently, he pulled her into his lap. 
	Scully settled slowly, her body tense. 
	Seated this way, she could see the profile of Mulder's face as he  
stared at the computer. 
	He reached a hand around her waist and typed a few keys on the  
laptop, saving his file. 
	"Mulder?" she asked. 
	"Shh," he said, his arm coming up to stroke her back. 
	Scully waited.  
	"Sometimes," he said softly, "the...want inside me to touch you,  
to hold you, is so strong that I can't begin to imagine how I resist  
it." 
	"Mulder-" 
	"Shhh...let me finish." 
	Scully nodded, acquiescing. 
	"...sometimes, I just want to sit and stare at you, Scully. I want  
to just look at your face, your eyes, for hours on end. When I look at  
you, when I sneak peeks at the office, or on the road, on the airplanes,  
when you're sleeping...I..." He sighed. "I...you are so beautiful. I  
hope you know that. I wish I could manage to make you feel what I feel  
when I look at you." 
	Scully waited, wondering where he was going with this. 
	"I understand if...what I told you makes it harder for you to feel  
close to me. Remember when I told you that I wasn't exactly what any  
rational woman would consider a catch? Well...this is what I mean. My  
demons. My problems. The way I live my life." 
	Scully had a sudden insight, a disquieting one. 
	Mulder wouldn't be Mulder, and he wouldn't be nearly as  
interesting a man, without his demons. And on the heels of that, another  
thought struck her.  
	"I..." she said. 
	Mulder moved as if to silence her. Scully placed two fingers  
across his lips, quieting him. "Me, now," she said. 
	He nodded, waiting. 
	"I...you're so <much> a part of my life, Mulder...it's... your  
demons, your problems...it's like they're...part of me, too. I've tried  
to help you with them for so long that it's almost as if I don't know  
who <I> am unless I am who I am when I'm with you and you're... the way  
you are." 
	"We have a term for that," Mulder observed. 
	"Co-dependent," Scully said, nodding. 
	"Maybe we're just in synch," Mulder said. 
	She smiled, chortling softly. "It'd be nice, Mulder." 
	"It's who we are," he pointed out. 
	"Is it who we want to be?" she asked. 
	"I can't slay all my demons, Scully." 
	"And I can't do it for you." 
	As much as I'd like to, she thought. 
	"Yeah," he sighed. He loosened his grip on her, but Scully  
remained where she was. 
	"When we're...like this...I think that there isn't anything we  
can't overcome, Mulder. When we sit. And talk. And...communicate. When  
we're like this, it's like I know you better than I know myself." 
	His head bobbed, accepting her logic. 
	"So, we need to cuddle more?" 
	She smiled. "What's wrong with cuddling?" 
	"Nothing." 
	"So...?" 
	"I want to..." 
	"But on your terms? When you need it?" 
	He nodded. That was the truth. "And that-" 
	"Hookers," she finished, not angry, just...frustrated. "Another  
on-demand service, huh?" 
	He shrugged. "Or the..." 
	"Videos." 
	He shrugged again. 
	"What about what I need?" she asked. 
	He sighed. 
	"Look at me," she requested. 
	Mulder glanced up and then away. Her hand found his chin. "Look at  
me, Mulder. As long as you want. As much as you want. Look at me." 
	He did. 
	She looked so...sad, he thought. As sad as I feel. 
	He continued to stare at her, letting his gaze skip from her eyes  
to her nose to her mouth to her ears back to her eyes and then over and  
over again, drinking in the sight of her, wallowing in her beauty. He  
could see the tiny, fine hairs on her upper lip, the small, tiny patch  
of moisture on her bottom lip, the way one perfect, gossamer eyelash was  
bent just slightly, the way she'd tucked her hair behind her ears. 
	Mulder noticed when Scully's eyes dropped to his mouth. 
	He watched her watch him. 
	She moved slightly, a fraction of an inch towards him. 
	He mirrored the motion, asking. 
	She moved again, granting permission and asking a question at the  
same time. 
	Slowly, they inched closer. He felt her arm snake around his neck,  
bringing him closer still. 
	She tilted her head, her eyes slowly closing, reaching for him  
with her mouth. And he was there, waiting, eager for her, sighing as he  
felt her lips pressing against his, a tease, nothing more, a feather- 
light brush of skin against skin. Her lips were so soft, so red, so  
perfect, so utterly Scully that Mulder gasped, stiffening. 
	Scully knew what it was this time, knew that he was reacting to  
her, not away from her and deepened the kiss, sliding closer to him.  
	After an eternity that lasted a fraction of a second, she pulled  
away, touching her forehead to his. 
	"Do you know what this means?" she asked. 
	You forgive me? he wanted to ask. 
	"We're in this together," he said softly. 
	Scully nodded, her lips pressed together. "We may not be perfect,  
Mulder. We may not be the best thing for each other -- but we're all  
we've got." 
	How romantic, Scully thought, grinning wryly. 
	"I think you're good for me," he whispered. 
	Scully nodded, accepting this. "But you may not be for me," she  
said softly, almost sadly. 
	"I'll try," he promised. 
	"I know you will. And I'll help you." 
	It's what I do, she thought.  
	I. Help. You. 
	She kissed him again and got up. "Don't stay up too late," she  
admonished, vanishing into her room. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
New York Police Department 
One Police Plaza 
New York City 
The Next Morning 
 
	Mulder locked himself in the conference room that Alex had  
provided for most of the morning. Cross and Hicks, as well as the rest  
of the squad was busy in the park, canvassing. The ME had set the time  
of death closer to midnight than before, and they had spent the previous  
night in the park, looking for people that frequented the park at the  
time of night. It was boring, exhausting work, and judging by the faces  
of the detectives in the squad before they had left for the morning, no  
progress had been made. 
	Scully was seated at an empty desk, wondering what she could  
contribute to the case. Mulder had gently insisted that he be left alone  
so that he could "zone" into the case. Shaking her head, Scully wondered  
how he managed. So soon after the Portland case, and then Jarvis in  
Seattle, and now this.  
	Scully decided to call down to Baltimore. 
	She dialed on the cell, not wanting the number to appear on any of  
the NYPD billing statements. Someone like Sam Cross would be smart  
enough to go through the billing records detail looking for interesting  
numbers. 
	"Lone Gunmen," Frohicke answered. 
	"Scully," she said.  
	"Hello, Agent Scully," the troll-like software genius answered. "I  
suppose you're calling about the disk you sent?" 
	"Yes, as a matter of fact." 
	"Well, we have come up with some ideas. Is Agent Mulder there?" 
	"He's...busy," Scully said. 
	"I see. Well, you were right -- the numbers are some kind of code.  
We ran them against several programs we designed looking for some kind  
of patterns between the notes. We found none. Langly has some ideas, as  
does Byers. We're looking at them now." 
	"Like what?" 
	"Byers thought it might be an ELS." 
	Scully perked up. If it had an acronym, that meant that somewhere,  
there was an expert. 
	"What's an ELS?"	 
	"Equidistant Letter Sequence." 
	Scully frowned. 
	"Ok...what's that?" 
	"It's rather complicated to explain..." He sighed, realizing that  
he'd just said the wrong thing. "Ok, here's how it works. Do you know  
what a book cipher is?" 
	"No. Explain it to me." 
	"Ok, assume you're a secret agent, and you want to send a message  
to your handlers, but you need a simple, easy to use code that's hard to  
break. A book cipher requires that the sender and receiver each have a  
copy of the same exact book. Instead of sending words and phrases, you  
send numbers, usually page, line and word numbers. Then you can assemble  
words from that code and send secure messages. The problem is that, like  
I said, each party to the message has to have the same _exact_ book,  
otherwise the code fails. The problem in trying to break that kind of  
code is, unless you have the book, you'll never be able to crack it.  
There's just too many books, and too many different versions of given  
books. Even paperback books you buy at the drugstore are sometimes  
reformatted between printings, and that would screw it up." 
	"So what is an ELS?" Scully asked. 
	"A variation, I guess, on that concept. Basically, it deals with  
the spaces between letters, rather than pages, lines and words. Your  
favorite novel is...what?" 
	"Moby Dick," Scully replied. 
	"An excellent choice," Frohicke observed. "Now, imagine if you  
were able to load the entire text into a computer. Only, remove all the  
spaces and punctuation. Imagine having the entire text of the novel as  
just one long string of characters. Now imagine being able to have a  
computer screen wide enough to see the entire string at once." 
	"That's impossible!" Scully objected. 
	"In a computer's memory, it isn't. But work with me, Agent Scully.  
Now, if you wanted to send a code using the ELS method, you'd pick a  
random starting position. Say, four thousand, six hundred and nine  
characters from the first. Then, you could send a message by using  
numbers forward from that position. Your message might be 4021, 10, 430, 
9143, and so forth. You use the computer to count forward each  
subsequent number of characters, and you have a message. Again,  
incredibly hard to break." 
	"You said `equidistant,'" Scully pointed out. 
	"Yes, and that's where this comes in. There is a school of thought  
that there are messages imbedded in certain texts. But imbedded in a  
very specific way. Remember I asked you to think about the text of Moby  
Dick as a long string of characters? A single string?" 
	"Sure," Scully nodded.  
	"Ok, now imagine taking a given number, say four thousand even. 
At the four thousandth and first character, start a new line. And then,  
on the four thousandth and first character of the second line, you start  
a new line again. Slowly, you begin to have a series of lines, each four  
thousand characters long. With me so far?" 
	"Yeah, like a matrix," Scully observed. 
	"Exactly!" Frohicke exclaimed. "A series of lines. Now, ELS theory  
states that you can find words buried in the text, crossword-puzzle  
style. So, if you had a powerful enough computer, you could tell it to  
try all possible combinations of the text, using varying line lengths to  
shift the matrix in either direction, and when it finds the word you're  
looking for, you have your ELS code." 
	"But you need to know the text...and what exact version you're  
using." 
	"That's correct," Frohicke said. 
	"Well, keep working on it," Scully said. "Call me if you figure  
anything else out." 
	Frohicke agreed that he would and rang off. 
	Scully sat, toying with the idea that Frohicke had planted in her  
head. She took a pen and wrote: 
 
NOWISTHETIMEFORALLGOODMENTOCOMETOTHEAIDOFTHEIRCOUNTRY. 
 
	Then she broke it into four-character segments: 
 
NOWI 
STHE 
TIME 
FORA 
LLGO 
ODME 
NTOC 
OMET 
OTHE 
AIDO 
FTHE 
IRCO 
UNTR 
Y 
 
	After a moment's study, she saw the world "OLD" appear. Fourth  
line, second character, moving down two more lines. She repeated the  
process, using six-character spaces: 
 
NOWIST 
HETIME 
FORALL 
GOODME 
NTOCOM 
ETOTHE 
AIDOFT 
HEIRCO 
UNTRY. 
 
	The word vanished. 
	So, if it _was_ an ELS, Scully thought, then the killer was trying  
to send us a message. But what message? What text? 
	"Hey."  
	Scully glanced up and saw Mulder standing over her. He was reading  
what she wrote. His gaze clouded. "Holy shit..." 
	"What?" she asked. 
	He leaned down, grabbed her head and kissed her on the forehead.  
"Scully! You're a genius! I never would have thought of an ELS!"  
	He turned and ran back to the interrogation room. Scully almost  
didn't have the heart to tell him. Gathering her stuff together, she  
stood and made her way through the desks to the room, knocking on the  
door. 
	"Come in," he called. 
	Scully entered a madhouse. 
	Mulder had pinned crime scene photographs to every flat surface in  
the room: The walls, the table, even a wooden blackboard that someone  
had pushed in there. He was sitting at the table, arms crossed, staring  
at the far wall. Xerox copies of the notes had been taped there. 
	"Mulder," she said softly. 
	"I didn't know cryptography was a hobby of yours," he joked. 
	"It's not. The guys cracked it. I was on the phone with Frohicke  
before you came up." 
	He nodded, obviously distracted. 
	"What text?" he said aloud. 
	Scully didn't know. 
	"Moby Dick?" she offered. 
	He shrugged. "Could be the Kama Sutra, for all we know." 
	"Bible?" 
	He shrugged again. "Possible, but too many possible variations,  
too many versions. I don't know where we can get any computer time to  
try them all. And none of the murders had a religious overtone." 
	Scully accepted this with a curt nod. 
	"Is the message key to solving this?" 
	Mulder shook his head. "Nope. Neither are the puzzles." 
	"So...how many birthdays does the average man have?" Scully asked. 
	"One." 
	"Unless he's a clone," Scully said. 
	Mulder laughed, appreciating the joke.  
	He snapped his fingers. "Maybe...maybe we might just be able to...  
reverse engineer it." 
	"What?" 
	Mulder turned to her. "What if we could figure out what he's  
trying to tell us, and then from there, look for occurrences of that  
message?" 
	Scully shrugged. "I'm not sure I-" 
	"Look at it this way. These victims have been picked. The only  
thing in common they have is that they're federally protected witnesses,  
right?" 
	She nodded.  
	"I think..." Mulder stood, walking to where the notes were taped  
to the wall. "I...think that the names of the victims are what he's  
encoding. That...and something else. Maybe his own name. Maybe a keyword  
of choice." 
	"Keyword?" 
	"Sure, like "Liar" or "criminal" or something like that. He runs a  
program against a known text, looking for the victim's names and a cross  
reference to his base word. If he finds a match, he knows that his  
choice is just. That they are chosen." 
	"So how do we crack it?" Scully asked, and then got it. "We tell  
someone with a really big computer and lots of text available to look  
for all occurrences of the victim's names using the ELS sequence he gave  
us. When we find two matches, we have our text." 
	Mulder nodded. "But...there's no way we can get computer time. Not  
on something this big." 
	"And we don't know for sure that it's their names," Scully pointed  
out. 
	"Sure," Mulder said, nodding. "Could be their crimes. Or their  
birthdates. Or something about them that he's looking for. Scully, he  
doesn't need much. He's moving so quickly that he'll accept the most  
tenuous connection to justify his actions. All we need to do is get one  
match, at most maybe two, and we'll have broken the code. And that we  
can use against him." 
	"How?" 
	"Pride," Mulder said simply. "When we break the damn code, we go  
on TV and tell this asshole that we broke it and we know what he's using  
as a source document and how he picks them. We'll say that it's just a  
matter of time before we catch him. That we already know who we're  
looking for. That'll put the pressure on. He'll make a mistake, and then  
we'll get him." 
	Mulder turned back to face the notes. 
	"I just hope it's in time," he muttered. 
 
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= 
END CHAPTER 15

No offense intended towards those that don't believe in Santa 
Claus, or subscribe to the Christian neo-pagan belief system)

Merry Christmas Everyone!
And/or Happy Holidays
Happy Hannakauh (sp?)
Or the Winter Solstice Celebration of Your Choice, with the
following limitations: 

Whereas, on or about the night prior to Christmas, there did occur
at a certain improved piece of real property (hereinafter "the
House") a general lack of stirring by all creatures therein,
including, but not limited to a mouse.

A variety of foot apparel, e.g. stocking, socks, etc., had been
affixed by and around the chimney in said House in the hope
and/or belief that St. Nick a/k/a/ St. Nicholas a/k/a/ Santa Claus
(hereinafter "Claus") would arrive at sometime thereafter.

The minor residents, i.e. the children, of the aforementioned
House were located in their individual beds and were engaged in
nocturnal hallucinations, i.e. dreams, wherein vision of confectionery
treats, including, but not limited to, candies, nuts and/or sugar plums,
did dance, cavort and otherwise appear in said dreams.

Whereupon the party of the first part (sometimes hereinafter
referred to as "I"), being the joint-owner in fee simple of the
House with the parts of the second part (hereinafter "Mamma"), and said
Mamma had retired for a sustained period of sleep. (At such time, the
parties were clad in various forms of headgear, e.g.
kerchief and cap.)

Suddenly, and without prior notice or warning, there did occur
upon the unimproved real property adjacent and appurtent to
said House, i.e. the lawn, a certain disruption of unknown nature,
cause and/or circumstance. The party of the first part did
immediately rush to a window in the House to investigate the
cause of such disturbance.

At that time, the party of the first part did observe, with some
degree of wonder and/or disbelief, a miniature sleigh (hereinafter
"the Vehicle") being pulled and/or drawn very rapidly through the
air by approximately eight (8) reindeer. The driver of the Vehicle
appeared to be and in fact was, the previously referenced Claus.

Said Claus was providing specific direction, instruction and
guidance to the approximately eight (8) reindeer and specifically
indentified the animal co-conspirators by name: Dasher, Dancer,
Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen (hereinafter
"the Deer"). (Upon information and belief, it is further asserted that
an additional co-conspirator named "Rudolph"may have been involved.)

The party of the first part witnessed Claus, the Vehicle and the Deer
intentionally and willfully trespass upon the roofs of several
residences located adjacent to and in the vicinity of the House,
and noted that the Vehicle was heavily laden with packages, toys
and other items of unknown origin or nature. Suddenly, without prior
invitation or permission, either express or implied, the Vehicle
arrived at the House, and Claus entered said House via the chimney.

Said Claus was clad in a red fur suit, which was partially covered
with residue from the chimney, and he carried a large sack containing a
portion of the aforementioned packages, toys, and other unknown items.
He was smoking what appeared to be tobacco in a small pipe in blatant
violation of local ordinances and health regulations.

Claus did not speak, but immediately began to fill the stocking of
the minor children, which hung adjacent to the chimney, with toys
and other small gifts. (Said items did not, however, constitute
"gifts" to said minor pursuant to the applicable provisions of the
U.S. Tax Code.)

Upon completion of such task, Claus touched the side of his nose
and flew, rose and/or ascended up the chimney of the House
to the roof where the Vehicle and Deer waited and/or served as
"lookouts." Claus immediately departed for an unknown destination.

However, prior to the departure of the Vehicle, Deer and Claus from
said House, the party of the first part did hear Claus state
and/or exclaim: "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!"
Or words to that effect.

:P
D