ELS

Chapter 20

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    : January 31, 1998

Archive Entry   : "ELS" Chapter 20/?

Classification  : SRA MSR

Chapter Rating  : R

Story Rating    : NC-17

Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm

Spoilers        : Detour

Casting         : Russell Crowe, "Mark Dupree"

                  Helen Hunt, "Deputy Inspector Alex Cahill"   

                  Joan Chen, "Casey Tan"



Enjoy!

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	Casey Tan hung up the phone and smiled to herself. Thanks to the

information provided by Captain Stoltz, Casey now had Inspector

Cahill, the Citywide Major Case Squad and the NYPD (in that order,) in

the palm of her hand.

        The only part that troubled her was the promise she'd made not 

to run the story until the killer was caught. It was a stupid promise to

make, one she always ended up breaking. She couldn't count the number

of sources she'd burned over the years by running stories ahead of

time. Normally, it wouldn't have concerned her. This, however, was

different.

        Casey could feel it.

        This could be the story that launched her to the network. If she

handled it exactly right. The network news division frowned on

reporters that burned sources or ran stories early in an attempt to

garner sensationalistic ratings.

        Casey sighed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. It was such a

<good> story, she thought. Brilliant serial murderer, the NYPD and FBI

running around in circles, men posing as police officers living in

safehouses and being shuttled around the city in the dead of night by

ranking officers. The details were delicious and tantalizing. The

public would eat it up. Casey could almost see herself doing the

standup in front of One Police Plaza, the wind whipping at her trench

coat, her voice serious and hushed as she explained all about the

madman stalking the city, terrifying the citizenry.

        And the pursuit! Casey had been able to piece together a bit of

what happened. The killer, MrKnife, had struck again last night,

taking out a Mr. John Silver who lived in Midtown. Apparently Mr.

Silver had been born with a different name, a name Casey was still

struggling to discover. The other interesting thing about Mr. Silver

was that he had put up a fight. The rumor was that MrKnife had been

wounded at the scene, and that the victim had lived long enough to

give a description to the police before dying on the table in the St.

Lukes ER. Another troublesome rumor had surfaced not long after,

indicating that Silver had in fact lived, and had been taken to

surgery for repair of a bullet wound, and then had died in SICU a few

hours later. And yet a third rumor, from another one of Casey's

sources inside the hospital; this one saying that Silver _had_ died in

the ER, but the Byers man and the FBI agent Mulder had faked his...

        What, death?

        No, faked his rebirth. They had listed him as alive hoping that

MrKnife would make another attempt and they could trap him.

        When pressed for details about what Byers had been doing to help

the investigation, Casey's sources were apologetic, but uninformed.

They had no idea. They reported that he'd been carrying a briefcase

made out of the same material expensive electronics were shipped in; a

hardened plastic shell with metal corners and twisting latches.

        Anvil cases, the videographers called them.

        There was something more going on. MrKnife had posted the 

pictures from the Central Park murder on the Internet. Casey had

her own set of them and referred to them often, knowing that they

would make great video if the news director would only allow her

to air them.

        She'd begged and pleaded (and promised a week of nonstop carnal

delights in the motel of his choosing,) but in the end he'd refused,

insisting that it was in poor taste. Casey had tried to talk him into

blurring the more gory portions and preceding the entire story with

the standard "may be too intense for younger viewers" message, but the

news director had remained steadfast. No fucking way.

        Infuriated, Casey had taken it to the station manager, and had

used all her charm on him as well. It hadn't worked. WCBS was not

going to air the pictures. It frustrated Casey to no end; she _knew_

that the station's ratings would climb through the roof if they aired

the damn things; people would be clamoring for it, videotaping it,

reviewing it again and again. It would become a party tape, a

discussion piece. A cultural touchstone for late twentieth century law

enforcement. The public's fascination with serial killers, their

victims and the twisted mental pathology that drove them on was almost

insatiable. And no matter how horrendous, how vicious, how sick the

killers and the murders were, the public ached for more.

        It was frustrating in the extreme.

        A small pink piece of paper on Casey's desk caught her eye. A

phone message, taken by one of her three assistants. The independent

television news magazine "Inside Report" had left yet another message

offering her a job.

        Casey toyed with the slip of paper, chewing on one corner of her

bottom lip. The offer was tempting; the money was spectacular. A

million a year to do what she did best: Peek into other people's lives

with a camera behind her and a microphone in front of her, asking

those wonderful "Have you stopped beating your wife yet?" questions.

        It was easy for a TV reporter from the largest market in the

country to go from CBS to "Inside Report." Impossible to go the other

way; once she jumped ship for the money and the freedom, she'd never

be able to make it to Washington, to the national news bureau of the

CBS News Division.

        And that was the only thing holding Casey back. Her drive, her

ambition, her desire to rise to the very top of a business that

claimed to value integrity and ethics above all else (and in fact,

made a great deal of both money and noise rushing around like rutting

elephants every time anyone but one of _them_ made a mistake,) and

yet subtlety encouraged its members to dig for dirt and air as much of

it as possible, while professing only the public's best interest the

entire time.

        What a load of shit, Casey thought.

        She knew. Every time she heard someone call her a member of "the

liberal media" she wanted to laugh out loud. It would be hard to find

a more conservative business than the media. It was all about money.

Money generated by advertising revenues. And the pricing for

advertising was set by the ratings; ratings ruled all.

        Ratings were king.

        The presidents and chairmen of the networks were all, to a 

person, rich, white males that wanted to be richer and whiter, if

that were possible. And so the pressure, subtle at first, had

slowly grown over the years. Do whatever it takes to get ratings,

but don't compromise your integrity. The message was clear: Dig

for dirt, air it, but if you get caught -- you're on your own.

        At least "Inside Report" was honest about it. They hired only 

the nosiest, sleaziest reporters in town, journalists that loved digging

into other people's lives, loved sticking the camera in people's faces

and asking horrendous, embarrassing questions.

        Casey faced the facts. She wanted to run the MrKnife story as 

soon as possible. But if she wanted to go to Washington and the network,

she was going to have to play by the rules this time. This case was

just too high profile, too visible for her to pull her usual tricks.

        Sighing, Casey turned to her personal, private phone directory 

and began calling sources, digging for information, doing what she did

best.



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        Scully had driven as quickly as she dared back to the hotel,

trying extremely hard not to dwell on why she was hurrying. Mulder's

call had sent a chill of anticipation up her spine, a warm flush to

her face, and a growing heaviness in points due south.

        The image of a naked Mulder in his bed, waiting for her with

carnal intentions on his mind, an image Scully had more than once

teased herself with, was almost more than she could bear to handle in

reality.

        It's true, she thought. We're finally lovers.

        Funny how that word takes on a whole new meaning when it's 

applied to me, she thought. She tried the word in her mouth once or 

twice, whispering it softly to herself as she waited at a red light. She

tried each syllable at least twice, feeling her bottom lip snapping

over her front teeth as she passed the "V".

        Scully found the hotel and parked the rental in the underground

garage. The elevator ride to their floor was interminable. Finally the

doors slid open. Scully turned left and all but ran down the hall,

ashamed at herself for the image of a woman running after a man that

popped into her head.

        But it was Mulder, she tried to convince herself.

        Mulder.

        She slid the key into her lock and twisted, turning the knob at

the same time with the other hand. The door slid open and Scully

stepped in, closing it quickly behind her, toeing her shoes off at the

same time. She undressed as she walked, honest enough with herself to

admit that she wanted to be with him, she wanted to be with him in

bed, she wanted to be with him in his bed, and she wanted to be with

him in his bed naked.

        Mulder was asleep.

        The covers were at his waist, and he slept with one arm tucked

behind his head, his face turned to the side, his soft, almost

feminine lashes lying gently against his cheeks.

        Scully felt her pulse quicken juuuuust a notch.

        Naked, she slipped into his bed.

        He stirred, mumbling in his sleep. Taking a deep breath (and

wondering more than just a little bit if she was making a mistake,)

Scully slid across the sheets, lifting a leg to drape it over his hip,

turning her face into his chest and wrapping her arm around him.

        She felt his arm come up, his hand finding her back and 

stroking.

        Scully sighed as the tension flowed from her body. She hadn't

realized until this moment how tightly wound she'd been. Hating

herself for it, Scully admitted that this was one of the reasons

she'd feared becoming intimate with her partner. She'd known

that once the dark, rich texture of making love with Mulder had been

sampled, she would be helpless to resist the pulling physical ache

being apart from him would cause.

        "Missed you," Mulder mumbled.

        "Me, too," she said, meaning it.

        He kissed the top of her head and she smiled into his chest,

tightening her arm around him.

        "How did it go with your witness?" he asked.

        "We have a sketch. It's not much to go on, but we have a sketch.

We found the magazine for a high-capacity .45 at the scene; Daryl and

Sam are trying to track it down. See if it's some sort of special kind

or something. It came back negative for prints. The bullet we

recovered at the scene was nothing special. I have the victim's

autopsy in about seven hours. According to our witness, Sidney-"

        "Witness?" he asked sleepily.

        "Yeah, that interview I was on when you called me. Sidney, a

neighbor of the victim, stuck his head out the door when he heard

our UNSUB and the victim throwing shots at each other."

        "Throwing shots?" Mulder asked. "You're starting to sound like

Alex."

        "Is that a good thing?" Scully asked quietly, teasing.

        "No. I prefer my cops to be short, feisty redheads, not tall,

leggy blondes."

        "Leggy?"

        "Should have stuck with just 'tall,' huh?"

        "She does have nice legs," Scully admitted.

        She felt his hand moving a moment later, dipping slow at the 

small of her back, and then gently resting on the soft flesh of her left

buttock.

        "But she can't touch your ass," Mulder said.

        "No, only you can," Scully replied, turning her head to kiss

Mulder's chest once.

        "What I mean is," Mulder explained patiently, slowly becoming

more awake, "is that I've had the absolute pleasure of watching this,"

he gently patted her rump, "for the last five years."

        "I'm kind of glad this happened now, instead of earlier," Scully

said softly.

        She could almost feel Mulder frowning. "Why?"

        "When I was sick...my body...I started to waste a little, and I

was atrophying here and there. I hated it. I hated looking at myself

in the mirror."

        Mulder didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

        "In case I never said it..." Scully continued, "Thanks."

        "For making love with you? You're welcome!"

        "For...sticking by me, I guess."

        "Ah, shit, Scul. You stuck by me through situations that were

almost as bad." He rolled gently, bringing his face to hers. "And I'm

glad to finally be able to tell you that there was no place that I

rather would have been than by your side."

        They kissed.

        Breaking apart, Mulder rolled onto his back again.

        "How did yours go?" Scully asked.

        "Is this what it's going to be like now?" he asked. "No 

ditching, each of us contributing to the case, and then coming back home 

to sit in bed naked and talk about our day, how we went out to battle 

the forces of evil?"

        She jabbed him in the ribs with two fingers. He yelped. "This,"

she said, laughing, "is what it should have been like from the

beginning."

        "Really? You wanted me that far back?"

        "You bastard," she giggled. "I meant the sharing, the no-

ditching policy, that. Not...this," she said, waving a hand at their 

bodies.

        "Well, to answer your original question, both good and bad. 

Good, because I was able to accurately predict this asshole's actions. 

He did try and break into the computer system, and he tried to kill our

already-dead patient. Prescribed penicillin for him, twenty milligrams

IV, which would have killed Mr. Silver if he weren't already dead."

        "I didn't know Silver was allergic," Scully said.

        "Neither did I, nor would I suspect Alex, Cross or Hicks or 

Doctor Payne-in-the-ass."

        "So how did-"

        "That's part of the good and part of the bad. That means our 

UNSUB has access that we can only dream about. We are now able to 

approach the Marshals with almost irrefutable evidence that this guy has

compromised their systems."

        "Irrefutable?"

        "He waltzed into the system at St. Lukes like he owned them, and

then when we set the trap, found a back door that I didn't even know

about. Let me put it this way...Byers was very impressed with this

guy. His technical competence."

        "Byers?"

        "Yeah, he made some remark about the Dark Side of the Force. He

was pretty out of it by that point. But if this guy impressed the

Gunmen..." Mulder didn't finish his thought.

        He didn't need to.

        "So what's next?" Scully asked. "For you, I mean."

        "After we get some sleep-"

        "Oh? Is that what we're going to do?"

        "Eventually. Anyway...after we get some sleep, I'm going back to

the interrogation room. I want to talk to Sidney, so I may rope Cross

into a ride over. I assume you let the poor man go home."

        "No, Alex has him stashed at a hotel with ten cops guarding him.

She's convinced that the UNSUB will make another attempt at him."

        "I doubt it," Mulder said after a moment's consideration. "This

guy's ego is so huge that he won't consider Sidney a threat, first of

all. And second, if we manage to keep it quiet that we even have a

witness, I doubt that the UNSUB will even think of him."

        Scully chewed her lip, drawing small circles on Mulder's chest

with her finger.

        "What?" he asked.

        "What, what?"

        "You do the same thing with your finger on the mousepad on your

desk when you have something to tell me that you think I'm not going

to like."

        She lifted her head and kissed him again. "You know me that 

well?"

        "I could write a book. Now give."

        Scully sighed. "We got a call from a reporter. They're onto 

Byers, possibly the whole setup with the guys. When you asked for a car 

for Byers, a Special Services Captain named Stoltz picked him up, asked

some questions, and got some wrong answers. Alex thinks he tipped this

Casey Tan woman, and she did some investigating on her own. She's got

an interview with us tomorrow morning at ten."

        Scully paused and then added. "Alex wants to know if you're up

to...your usual bag of tricks."

        "She wants me to mind fuck the reporter."

        "Something like that," Scully agreed.

        Mulder shrugged. "Sure. I can give her the usual song and dance.

What did we get for the interview?"

        "She'll hold the story until we catch him."

        "Good thing this isn't Seattle. They've been chasing that Green

River asshole for how many years?"

        Scully shrugged. She'd lost count.

        "So she's going to hold the story. What does Alex think? What do

you think?"

        Scully shrugged again. "This is Alex's city. She knows the

reporter, isn't very fond of her, and is convinced that Tan is going

to try and slip a recording device into the meeting and run with the

story."

        "You can take care of that," Mulder said. "Strip search her in 

an interrogation room."

        Scully smiled at that. It might take a bit of wind out of the

sails of Casey Tan. She doubted that the woman would consent to it,

but it was a nice thought just the same.

        "What do you think?"

        "I think we have no choice. We need Byers and the guys. We can't

have them compromised."

        "I have an idea," Mulder said. He rolled again, dragging his 

chest across Scully's breasts. She groaned low in her throat at the 

contact, taking the opportunity to wrap both arms around his back.

        "Nice," she cooed.

        "Down, woman!" Mulder joked. "I'm working!"

        "Work all you want, I'm playing," Scully teased, lifting her 

head and kissing one of Mulder's nipples.

        "Cut it out, I'm calling Skinner," he grunted, dialing.

        Chastised, Scully dropped her head back onto the pillow and 

closed her eyes, losing herself in the feeling of Mulder's soft, warm 

weight on top of her.

        "Sir, it's Mulder," Mulder said. "I need a favor. Can you call 

one of your friends in Intelligence and have them FedEx for 8:00am

delivery a Federal Non-Disclosure Agreement form and a National

Security Act oath statement? I have a situation here." He paused.

"Yeah, a reporter that's gotten onto some things. Yes. Yes. Thank you,

sir. She's fine."

        Mulder hung up the phone and lowered himself more fully on top 

of his partner. "Skinner will play ball," he whispered, kissing the tip

of her nose.

        "All you ever think about is work," Scully complained.

        "Does this feel like work?" he asked, moving against her.

        "Hard work," Scully whispered back, lifting her mouth to his.



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        Mark Dupree woke in a hazy fog of combined pain and numbness. 

His leg ached; it had been several hours since his last Percodan. And

numbness; he'd slept on his strong side all night, afraid to move or

jostle his leg.

        Rolling over slowly, he found the remote for his television and

punched the power button just in time to hear the ending strains of

the theme music for the noon CBS broadcast.

        "WCBS has learned that the latest victim of the serial killer

calling himself MrKnife managed to give police a statement before his

death at St. Lukes emergency room. The police department will not

confirm or deny this, but sources inside the department report that a

sketch artist was able to develop a composite from the victim's

description."

        Dupree felt faint.

        He closed his eyes, thinking. If it was true, if Strimnovitch 

had managed to give a description good enough for a composite, the NYPD

would have to release it. Dupree decided to put off any further worry

until he saw the sketch.

        What was more important now was finding a new Chosen.

        Dupree hit the AUX button on his remote. A small box that sat on

top of his VCR kicked into life; it was an interface between Dupree's

personal computer network and the television. He could scan files on

his servers from the bed, complete with images and sounds.

        He opened his personal folder of possible Chosens and began

shopping for a new victim to kill.

        It took him almost an hour to find what he was looking for. It

still had to be confirmed; the name still had to be in the matrix, but

Dupree was sure that he would find the match he needed.

        A woman this time. Good, Dupree thought. That would throw off 

the FBI's profiler. Crossing gender lines was always productive. And 

this particular victim was not only female, but Asian.

        Yuki Tanaka, the file read. Wife of Akira Tanaka, deceased. 

Akira had been a member of the famed Japanese Yakuza organized crime

syndicate. He'd come to this country to try and extend the reach of

the Yakuza into the heart of America. Settling in Dallas, Akira had

wasted little time in setting up his little mini-syndicate, complete

with loan sharking operations, a string of prostitutes and some drug

peddling.

        He'd made his big mistake when he attempted to move into the

importation and distribution of illegal firearms, specifically fully

automatic assault weapons. Akira, at the time of his arrest, had

patiently explained to his defense attorney (who went on to write a

book about the case shortly after the death of Mr. Tanaka in prison,)

that he'd had the brilliant idea of selling these fully automatic

assault weapons to the gang members that plagued Dallas in the theory

that once they were well-armed with bargain-priced killing sticks,

they'd go on a shooting rampage, killing each other (and the

occasional innocent bystander or six) in an orgy of violence and

murder. Then, Akira went on to explain, with all the gang members

lying dead in the gutters in pools of their own blood, he, Akira,

would be free to move in and take over their territory.

        Social Darwinism at its best, he'd explained.

        The ATF and FBI had made a joint raid on one of Tanaka's 

hideouts, catching him in the act of purchasing several cases of stolen 

M16A2s, including one case of the M203 variant. That had caused the ATF 

some minor heartburn, since the M203 came with a 40mm grenade launcher

mounted where the forearm would normally go on an M16. Only the fact

that Akira Tanaka had been unable to get his hands on actual

ammunition for the grenade launchers had saved the Director of the ATF

from a premature coronary. The thought of drugged-up gang members

firing military ordnance into a nursery school had not played well in

Washington.

        What had played well was Akira's deal with the feds. In exchange

for fingering his suppliers of illegal weapons (four US Army sergeants

assigned to bases throughout the southeast,) Akira had asked only that

his wife be protected. At all costs. He knew that he could handle

himself in prison, but he was afraid for his timid, shy wife.

        According to surveillance reports, Yuki had taken the separation

well. She had entered the WITSEC program eagerly, happy to be away

from her husband and all his thuggish friends.

        Neither of them were aware of the Fifth Hand. The Fifth Hand, 

one of the literally hundreds of gangs that had sprouted up in the 

super-max state and federal prisons in the last twenty years had cut a 

truce with another gang, the Jade Knives. Jade Knives were Chinese, but 

they had familial connections to the Yakuza.

        In Narita, Japan, the head of the Yakuza cell that Akira 

belonged to was given word that one of his men had broken the solemn vow 

of silence that all Japanese gangsters swore to. A decision was made, an

order given, and through channels the desire for the death of Mr.

Akira Tanaka was communicated. A friend told a friend who told a

girlfriend who told a boyfriend who told his prison cellmate who told

another friend...and on up the line until it reached the head of the

Fifth Hand chapter in the Parchmont Federal Penitentiary, where Mr.

Akira Tanaka was scheduled to reside for the next forty years to

life.

        Akira had been taken in the shower. A metal file, stolen from 

the workshop where the prisoners made furniture for use in federal

facilities had been sharpened to a deadly point and then inserted

vigorously into the throat of Mr. Tanaka, who had promptly died.

        As the executor of her husband's estate, Yuki Tanaka had been

excited to discover that he had a hereto unknown life insurance policy

in the amount of six million yen. After currency conversion, she was

even more happy to discover the intricacies of international finance.

Her husband's timely death had made her a very rich woman.

        But still, a hunted woman. A rumor had been spread that she had

cooperated with investigators just as her husband had, naming names

and pointing fingers. The wives were held to the same standard as the

gangsters, and a million-yen bounty was placed on her head.

        So Yuki Tanaka, now rechristened Melissa Shirro (Mel to her

friends,) had remained in the WITSEC program and was currently

residing in Staten Island in a house that had cost her the better part

of almost half a million dollars. The purchase of the house aside, Mel

had chosen to live a rather Spartan life, with no servants or staff.

She spent her time reading and writing Haiku, tending to her garden

and writing checks to charity.

        She was a perfect Chosen, because she had sold her husband out,

because she had sold her country out, and because she didn't have the

common decency to return the money she'd obtained when Akira had died.

        She was a whore.

        Humming to himself, Dupree began to plot her murder.



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

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner's Office

New York City, New York



        Scully skimmed a hand over her head, taking the surgical cap 

with it. Pulling the scrunchy out of her hair, she rolled her neck from

side to side, seeking to lessen the tension.

        "So?" Mulder asked.

        "As I thought. The bullet tore through the chest at the perfect

angle. No matter how good Payne thinks himself a doctor, Mr. Silver

would have died no matter what."

        Mulder nodded. He had fully expected that Strimnovitch's autopsy

would yield precious little information about their UNSUB.

        "But it was a .45?"

        Scully nodded. "Yes. The police recovered it from the apartment.

It wasn't that badly damaged, actually. If we get a weapon to test it

against, we might be able to get a match."

        "That's something anyway. But we need a suspect first."

        Scully nodded. "Yes we do."

        "Let's get dinner, go back to the hotel and...discuss the case."

        Scully grinned as she moved to the sink to wash the smell of 

latex off her hands. "I thought you would get tired of...talking about 

the case."

        "I could never get tired of talking to you, Scully," he said.

        "Maybe...my voice is tired."

        "Is it?" he asked, obviously worried. He hadn't considered that.

        "No, but you should see the look on your face."



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

One Police Plaza

The Next Morning



        The FedEx man, actually a lady this time, had just left after

forcing someone to sign for the package. It had appeared on the edge

of the desk Scully was borrowing as if by magic, and no amount of

squinting at the signature would reveal the identity of the signer.

        Scully tore the small cardboard strip off of the flap and 

removed the contents. Four copies each of the Non-Disclosure Agreement 

and the National Security Oath. Scully had no idea how Mulder was 

planning to get the reporter to sign either one of them, let alone both, 

but she had faith in him.

        She dialed the number of the interrogation room.

        "Mulder."

        "They're here."

        "Do me a favor, please? Fill it out with our names and hers?"

        "They sent four each. What do you want me to do with the 

others?"

        Mulder chuckled. "Skinner must know this trick. Fill one out for

Alex, Cross and Hicks each and have them sign it. Pre-date it to the

first day we were in town, and then try and make them look older,

used, like they've been handled. If you have to, spill some coffee on

Alex's."

        Scully grinned. Mulder, when he wanted to be, was one devious 

son of a bitch. She still had no idea how he was planning on convincing

the reporter that this was a National Security case.

        "Ok, I'd better get to work. She's due in half an hour."

        Mulder hung up without another word. Scully turned to the

typewriter sitting on the small secretary's return next to the desk

and rolled the first sheet in and began typing.



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



        Casey Tan showed up exactly at ten. Scully glanced at her watch 

as the reporter strolled into the bullpen. The second hand had just

passed the twelve.

        Impressive.

        "Miss Tan?" Scully said, rising to greet her. "I'm Special 

Agent-"

        "Dana Scully, MD," Tan finished. "Undergraduate degree, Physics,

U of Maryland, medical school at Johns Hopkins, graduated both Magna

Cum Laude, member of the number one RT team from VICAP when you're not

chasing little green men." The reporter smiled, obviously pleased with

herself.

        Scully shook her hand. "Casey Tan," Scully said. "Graduated from

CCNY...not Magna Cum Laude, but still a respectful showing. Took two

years off to work as a model for a small lingerie shop in the garment

district, and then went to the J-school at Columbia. Hired as a cub

reporter for the Post, you jumped to TV when Channel 9 made the offer.

You did a lot of elephant-birthday-party stories for two years, then

broke a story about a drug scandal in the Trenton Police Department.

WCBS hired you as a general assignment reporter, and since then you've

slowly worked your way up to the Investigative desk. You've won six

local news Emmys, the latest for a story about the Highway Department's 

tendency to tow cars that aren't parked in tow-away zones."

        Scully smiled back. She'd done her research as well.

        "Where is Agent Mulder?" Tan asked. "And for that matter,

Inspector Cahill?"

        Alex was resting in her office, Scully knew, and Mulder was

still...dressing the set, as he called it.

        Mulder had gotten them up at the crack of dawn. He'd made 

several fast phone calls, and then headed down to Federal Plaza to the 

local FBI office for "supplies."

        And now, it was showtime.

        Scully buzzed Alex. "Inspector, Miss Tan is here."

        "I'll join you in interrogation 'C,'" Alex replied through the

speakerphone.

        Scully opened a drawer and found the first item that Mulder had

obtained from the local Field Office. It was an FBI visitor's badge,

but not a normal one. It was for the secure communications vault of

the New York Field Office. Only the crypto clerks, the SAC and three 

ASACs (Criminal,Administrative and Civil Affairs,) and those employees 

of the companies that manufactured the cryptographic equipment were

allowed inside the crypto vault. With the high concentration of

diplomats in New York due to the UN, FBI Intelligence and

counterintelligence agents spent a great deal of time transmitting

classified reports to Washington. The visitor's badge was impressive;

it had a huge, bold, bright blue "V" on the front, the six-color seal

of the Department of Justice above that, and the four-color seal of

the FBI beneath it. In printing large enough to be seen from six feet

away, it said "CLEARENCE-TOP SECRET."

        "What's this?" Tan asked.

        "Where we're going, you'll need it," Scully promised.

        Dutifully, Tan clipped it to the lapel of the fashionable suit 

she wore, a suit Scully was more than aware cost more than her monthly

salary.

        Scully had her own FBI ID on, and she led Casey Tan through the

bullpen and down the hall towards Interrogation 'C'. Two immense ESU

officers were standing guard in the hallway, one armed with a shotgun,

the other with a carefully displayed (for effect,) Heckler & Koch

MP-5. They had moved a small desk into the hallway where it widened

before entering the bullpen. A small red phone sat on the desk.

        "Miss Scully," one of them said politely.

        "This is Miss Tan," Scully said. "She has been cleared by SAC

Mulder for access to the room."

        "Of course," the man said, lifting the phone. "I'll just check."

        Scully smiled; the man was playing his role perfectly. No one in

the hallway, if they hadn't known, would be able to tell that the cord

leading out of the back of the phone wasn't plugged into anything.

        "Agent Mulder, this is Stevens. We have Miss Scully and a 

Miss..."

He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. "I'm sorry, your name again?"

        "Tan," Casey said slowly, "Casey Tan."

        "...a Miss Casey Tan here." He paused. "Of course."

        Reaching down to the top drawer, he removed a clipboard and 

handed it to Scully. Scully signed it, entered the date and time, and 

then handed it back to Stevens. Then, reaching under her jacket to the

small of her back, Scully unlimbered her weapon and handed it

butt-first to the other officer.

        "Miss Tan, if you please?" the officer said, holding the 

clipboard out for her.

        Casey took it and scanned it. The document had been prepared by

Mulder only minutes before. It showed various people logging in and

out of Interrogation Room "C". In the column marked "Agency," he'd

written FBI, ATF, DOJ, NYPD, and a scattered "C12" here and there.

        "What's C12?" Tan asked.

        Scully shook her head, smiling. "Not yet. That's classified."

        Tan frowned. She'd never heard of anything called "C12," and she

had excellent contacts in law enforcement.

        Signing her name and entering WCBS-TV as the agency, Tan handed

the clipboard back and smiled brightly. "Are we done here?" she asked.

        "Not quite," Stevens said. He pulled a black plastic wand with a

handle out of the drawer next and quickly passed it over Scully's

body. Scully couldn't resist a small shudder as the wand passed the

back of her neck.

        Tan tried to hide her displeasure. The small digital recording 

pen was in the inside top pocket of her jacket. The metal detector was

sure to find it, and she desperately wanted to take it inside room

"C".

        "Is that really necessary?" she asked.

        "Yes," Stevens grinned. "Or you don't get in the room. I'm sorry

ma'am, but I don't make the rules."

        "Even I have to do it every time I go in or out," Scully said.

"That's the rules."

        "What's in there?"

        Scully shook her head again, chuckling. "Miss Tan, these two 

nice gentlemen are not cleared to know what's in the room, so I cannot

answer the question here in the hall."

        At that moment Alex Cahill appeared. She already had her weapon 

in her hand, a nasty-looking Glock in 9mm. She handed it without a word

to Stevens, signed the clipboard and  then held her arms out at her

sides as the other officer waved the wand over her body.

        "Ready?" she asked.

        "Almost," Scully said, wanting desperately to wink at her 

friend.

        Casey sighed and held her arms out.

        The wand beeped over her pocket.

        "Please take any metal objects out of your pockets and put them 

on the table," Stevens said, as if by rote. His voice sounded bored, the

tone of a man who had repeated a phrase a million times before.

        Casey took her keys and some loose change out of her pockets and

then the pen, tossing all of it on the table and hoping that no one

would notice what it was.

        "Well, lookee here," Stevens said, holding up the pen. "A 

RamDyne 1200." He waggled the pen at Casey. "You really should have 

gotten the 2000 model. It has ten times the recording capacity of this 

little thing."

        "What is it?" Cahill asked.

        "A digital recorder. This one can record up to two minutes on a

digital chip." He waggled his finger at Tam. "Bad girl!" he teased.

        "Can't blame a girl for trying," Casey said, flashing her most

brilliant smile at Stevens, all the while thinking: Asshole.

        Stevens passed the wand over the rest of Tan's body and then

nodded to Scully.

        The three women walked down the short hallway and entered

Interrogation Room "C."



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



        Mulder had done a spectacular job.

        The room looked like what some Hollywood set dresser might have

imagined the Situation Room in the White House looked like. Two easels

were set up, each of them covered by an opaque piece of plastic that

had the seal of the FBI on it and the words TOP SECRET in six-inch

high red letters on the top and bottom. A small table in the back held

a computer and several other electronic devices that defied

description. They looked, however, very important, very official.

        Mulder had organized a lot of the material. A map of the city 

was tacked to one wall, with red pins stuck in at the locations of the 

five murders. Blue, green and yellow pins were also poking out of the 

map. Only Scully and Cahill knew that Mulder had jammed them in at 

random.

        Another computer was in the opposite corner. It was displaying

mugshots on one side of the screen, and the composite of their UNSUB

on the other. Every few seconds a mugshot would change, and a red bar

would scan from the top of the image to the bottom. A series of

numbers and letters would flash, and then the mugshot would change.

        Frohike had downloaded the software from a friend who worked for 

a Hollywood prop house. It was dressing, nothing more.

        Mulder wore his FBI ID clipped to the handkerchief pocket of his

jacket. From a chain around his neck hung three more laminated ID

cards, each bearing his picture. They had nonsensical numbers and

letters and stripes running diagonally from corner to corner. One of

them said "WHITE HOUSE-ALL ACCESS."

        All of it, all of these little touches were for the benefit and

intention of awing Casey Tan.

        And it worked.

        Casey glanced around, trying not to look like she was looking.

        Mulder let her eyes flit around the room for a few moments 

before opening his mouth.

        Stepping forward and offering his hand, Mulder said, "Miss Tan,

I'm SAC Mulder with the VICAP RT out of FBI ISU in Quantico."

        "That's quite a mouthful," Tan observed dryly.

        "You know the government," Mulder said, smiling, turning on the

charm. "We love acronyms."

        "Quite."

        "Anyway, we have a little paperwork to complete, and then we can

get down to business."

        "I already signed in," Casey pointed out. What the hell was 

going on here?

        "I'm aware of that, Miss Tan. We just have some forms for you to

sign. Pretty standard stuff."

        Mulder handed her a clipboard. "Please read that and sign your

name at the bottom and date it. Agent Scully will witness your

signature."

        Casey read what she'd been handed. It was a standard Federal

Non-Disclosure agreement. By affixing her name to the bottom, she

agreed not to disclose anything discussed between herself, Agent

Mulder, Agent Scully and Inspector Cahill until such time as one of

the three granted her explicit, written permission, or the document

was obviated by a court order, or a certain time limit had expired. In

the box that contained the time limit, Mulder had written "30 days."

        "So I can't run a story for a month?"

        Mulder shrugged. "That's the minimum I can put there. If we 

catch the UNSUB before then, I'll give you this." He handed her another

sheet of paper. It was an undated and unsigned letter on FBI

stationary that said he, Fox Mulder, SAC of the VICAP RT1, was hereby

granting permission for one Casey Tan to reveal information disclosed

to her by the FBI relating to a specific FBI case number.

        "You can keep that document," Mulder said. "When the case 

breaks, bring it by, and I'll sign it."

        Casey felt better knowing she'd be able to take the document 

with her. Later, if this Mulder character reneged on his offer, she'd 

air a close-up of the letter and make a point about prior restraint and

government censorship of the press.

        Casey signed.

        Mulder took the document back from her and began speaking. "One

more thing, Miss Tan. The matters we are about to discuss have a

certain...problem associated with them. Evidence which I will disclose

to you in a minute indicates that there might be a National Security

concern relating to this case."

        "Such as?"

        Mulder shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, but I can't disclose 

that until you complete some more paperwork."

        Casey clenched her jaw. "More paperwork?"

        "Just one more," Mulder said, handing her what he'd been calling

the "torpedo" all morning (much to Scully and Alex's combined

annoyance and amusement.)

        Casey saw the seal of the National Security Agency at the top 

and gulped. She read the introductory paragraphs and started to feel

light-headed.

        These people were _not_ playing around, she decided. The 

document outlined the fact that information that was about to be 

disclosed to her was considered classified by the United States 

Government, and that she was being trusted for the rest of her life to 

keep this information confidential. She was not to tell anyone. 

Furthermore, if she had to leave the country in the next twelve months, 

she had to notify the government, in writing, 30 days prior to 

departure. In an emergency situation where she was unable to provide 

such notification prior to departure, she was to notify the government 

within 18 hours of her return to US soil. Failure to do so was a "courts 

martial or civilian criminal offense, inclusive."

        Further, she read, if she did disclose the information she was

about to learn, she agreed by signing the document that she understood

that the information was of such a delicate, sensitive nature that

Federal Law provided not only extremely severe penalties ("in such

time of war, up to and including death,") but broad investigative and

arrest powers to the Federal government as far as she was concerned,

up to and including "the suspension of your personal liberties."

        "What does this mean?" she asked, pointing at the phrase.

        Scully glanced at it. "It's boilerplate. The NSA lawyers insist

that it be in there. Basically it means that if you open your mouth

before we approve it, we can arrest you and confine you indefinitely.

Miranda will not apply; we don't have to let you talk to a lawyer or

make a phone call."

        "Lock me up and throw away the key?"

        "Something like that," Scully agreed.

        "Has it...uh, ever happened?" she asked.

        "Classified," Scully and Mulder said in unison.

        "If I sign it, will you tell me?"

        The two agents exchanged a glance. Scully shrugged.

        "Sure," Mulder said.

        Casey signed.

        Mulder grinned. Scully grinned.

        Take that, bitch, Alex thought. We got your ass now.



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



        "So," Casey said. "Have you ever had to invoke that particular

clause of your agreement?"

        "Thirty-six times since it was first used," Mulder said, making

the number up.

        "And what happened to those people?"

        "They're serving time in a special federal facility located at 

an undisclosed location."

        What a story! Casey thought. And then she realized the trap. 

She'd already signed. She couldn't broadcast it.

        Shit.

        "Well, now that you've effectively gagged me, do you want to 

tell me what all the secrecy is about?"

        "Sure," Mulder said, walking over to the computer and studying 

it. "Our killer is most likely an ex-case officer."

        "A what?"

        "Spy," Scully provided. "But we don't call them that. Case

officer is the official term. We have case officers, our enemies have

spies."

        "What makes you say that?" Casey asked. "That he's a spy, I 

mean?"

        "The methods he's used to select and kill his victims. The 

weapons he uses. The way he's managed to escape our dragnet."

        Casey nodded, absorbing this. "I see. Do you know his identity?"

        "Well, no," Mulder admitted. "But we're getting closer."

        "Why is that machine scanning mugshots?" she asked.

        She's sharp, Scully thought. That's dangerous.

        "Because he might have been arrested after he stopped being a

spy," Mulder explained blithely.

        Tan nodded. "What was your first indication that he was a spy?"

        "His first victim was an ex-spy. So was his third. And his 

fifth."

        "What about the other two?"

        "Common criminals," Mulder explained. "He's alternating. His 

next victim is going to be...a female, probably. A woman who didn't 

commit a major crime, but something serious enough to warrant federal

attention."

        Scully sighed quietly. Mulder was playing a _very_ dangerous 

game. If the UNSUB struck again and it wasn't a female, they would have 

a LOT of explaining to do.

        "Of course," Mulder said, continuing on as if he'd read her 

mind, "the next victim might also have been born a man, like our fourth

victim."

        Scully had to try hard to contain her surprise.

        Mulder went on, describing the bare outlines of the case, 

filling in some of the details that Casey had only guessed at. He 

confirmed that all the victims were federally protected witnesses, and 

that the killer obviously had access to the system at some point. He 

continued on with some of the things they were doing to track the 

killer.

        He omitted Byers and the gunmen, setting the trap, letting Casey

step into it.

        "So who is this man Byers?" she finally asked.

        Mulder pretended to become uncomfortable. "Byers 

is...classified,

I'm afraid. Even above your classification." He paused. "I don't think

Byers is even his real name."

        Nice touch, Scully thought.

        "Who does he work for?"

        "I don't know. All I know is that he helps us with certain ...

aspects of our investigations."

        "Such as?"

        Mulder hesitated. "Technical aspects. You might say he's a

mechanic."

        Scully sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her nose,

trying to hide a smile. Casey Tan obviously thought of herself as a

well-connected young reporter, a hip, knowledgeable member of the

Fourth Estate. "Mechanic" was a term that used to mean "assassin."

        "I see," Casey said.

        The "briefing" went on for another half hour. At the end of it,

Mulder promised to keep Tan updated with any new information, and

reiterated the government's seriousness when it came to security

matters.

        For her part, Tan agreed to keep the meeting and the information

in confidence until such time as the FBI or the NYPD told her she

could air it.

        Alex offered to escort Casey out, leaving Mulder and Scully 

alone.

        Scully waited fifteen seconds after the door closed, and then

softly clapped her hands together three times. "Bravo," she whispered,

smiling at her partner. "You should get a Screen Actors Guild award,"

she smiled.

        Mulder blushed and shuffled his feet. "Aw, shucks, ma'am.

T'weren't nothing."

        Seconds later Cahill let herself back into the room. "Think she

bought it?" she asked.

        "I hope so," Scully said. "I really hope so."



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



        The planning was almost complete.

        Not surprisingly, the matrix was complete. Yuki's fate was 

sealed. All that was left were the smaller details. After the fiasco 

with Strimnovitch, Dupree had decided to do a bit more research before

attempting his next Chosen.

        Starting tomorrow, he would place Yuki Tanaka under surveillance

for a minimum of three days. At first, he'd wanted a week, and then

he'd waffled and considered not doing it at all.

        And then something had occurred to him.

        By watching and waiting and dreaming about this Chosen, it would

make the final taking that much richer an experience. He could sit

from his vantage point (as yet undiscovered,) and dream of what he was

going to do to her and with her.

        Dupree had spent the last day and a half exercising his leg. It

was still tender, but healing nicely. He practiced walking without a

limp. He didn't want any of his neighbors remembering that the nice

man who lived next door was suddenly walking weird if the cops ever

came around asking questions.

        Dupree took a quick foray into the world that night. He took a

subway to midtown near Times Square and walked to one of the

electronics stores and purchased a digital camera. He asked about

attachments for it, and also purchased a powerful laptop computer that

he could use to manipulate and render the images he would capture with

the camera. He also purchased a cigarette-lighter attachment for the

laptop and two extra batteries.

        Returning to his house, Dupree cracked the manual on the camera

and quickly learned how to use it. It would suit his needs perfectly,

he discovered. And the best part was that he would mail the images to

the police and the FBI after the deed was done. They'd know that he'd

been stalking her, watching her right under their noses.

        Sighing happily with his plans, Dupree lay down and went to 

sleep.



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



        Dinner had been a quick bite in the hotel's dining room, 

followed by a slow walk to the elevator and a silent ride upstairs.

        Mulder had turned to Scully in the elevator and wrapped her up 

in his arms, kissing the top of her head softly.

        "I don't know about you," he said gently, "but the idea of 

hanging out with you tonight is kind of appealing."

        She chuckled against him, amazed at the comfort with which they

were both dealing with their new closeness.

        "What do you want to do?" he asked.

        "I'm going to read. I have a book I've been trying to get to for

almost a month. You?"

        "Probably the same. I have some reading I want to do, too."

        And so they did. Mulder's room came with a small three-cushion

couch, and he plopped on one end, and Scully took the other. At some

point during the evening, Scully toed her shoes off as she read.

        Mulder glanced down at her feet.

        They, he thought, look like _they_ could use a rub.

        He reached down and scooped her feet up and swung Scully so that

they rested in his lap. Balancing his magazine on the arm of the

couch, he used both hands to stroke and knead her feet, taking the

time to do every square inch exactly right.

        Finished, he glanced over and smiled. Scully, her book long

forgotten, was leaning her head against the other arm of the couch,

her own arm tossed across her eyes.

        "Oh my God," she whispered, realizing that Mulder was finished.

"Please don't take this the wrong way...but is that something I can

come to _expect_ from you now that we're...involved?"

        "Sure," Mulder said after a minute.

        "Tell me again why we waited so long," Scully demanded.

        "Let's see...five years of foreplay, I'm a headcase, you didn't

want to be a cliche...am I forgetting anything?"

        "Nope," Scully said, pulling her feet out of his lap and moving 

to his side. "Not a thing."

        They kissed softly.

        "I have good news and I have better news."

        "I'm listening."

        "The good news is that I give backrubs."

        "And the better news?"

        Her hand drifted to his lap, tracing his inner thigh with her

delicate doctor's touch.

        "I give front-rubs, too."

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

END CHAPTER 20