ELS
Chapter 21
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	: February 13, 1998
Archive Entry	: "ELS" Chapter 21/?
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"
		  Chaz Palmentari, "Tim Everett"
		  Matthew Modine, "Detective Sam Cross"
		  Garth Brooks, "Detective Daryl Hicks"
		  Tamalyn Tomita, "Yuki Tanaka"

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

	Dupree prepared to set up his surveillance the next morning. His
leg was a little stiff, and he knew that sitting in the rental car
for hours on end wasn't going to make matters any better, but the
facts had to be recognized: He had to take Yuki.
	She was Chosen, after all.
	And more than that, the need was growing again. Strimnovitch had
been an incomplete Taking. Discounting for the moment that the bastard
had actually shot back, Dupree hadn't had the delicious, invigorating
pleasure of using his straight razor on the man's flesh. He hadn't had
the pleasure of that beautiful copper-sweat-spice smell as the man's
blood spilled out of his wounds. Instead, he'd gotten shot for his
troubles and had been forced to break into a computer and kill Ivan
the hard way.
	And let's not forget, Dupree thought, that the FBI is a hell of a
lot smarter than I originally gave them credit for.
	The bastard was actually waiting for me.
	Dupree had given the entire St. Lukes computer fiasco a lot of
thought. He realized fairly quickly that he'd all but telegraphed that
move by posting those pictures from Central Park onto the internet,
and doing it in such a way as not to leave a trace. Add that to the
ELS code he was sending, and the obvious hints with the NYPD booking
numbers and the USMS case numbers included with the notes, and he was
all but begging them to try and figure out his secret.
	So it was only natural that a brighter-than-average FBI agent,
someone assigned to the VICAP Response Teams would take little time to
figure out that if he, Dupree, hadn't managed to kill Ivan the first
time that he couldn't risk the victim giving a description to the
police. From there it was a very short jump to the computer systems.
	So Dupree blamed himself for that more than he did the RT guy.
	And that was another thing. A quick peek into the FBI's computer
that morning had revealed that F. Mulder, as the red-headed little
bitch referred to him as, was one Fox William Mulder. Dupree had read
what little information was available on Mulder and was impressed.
He'd been a star a decade ago, and then had all but vanished six years
before. His records of that time were classified, but there was an
occasional blip in another report.
	Dupree had read with barely controlled glee the account of the
Roche case. Mulder was apparently some kind of semipsychic certified
genius birddog of an FBI agent. He had read some case reports filed by
Dana Scully, and she seemed like an awful stick in the mud.
	Dupree had come away from his session with the FBI computer with a
new understanding of what he was up against. He also realized that he
had to watch his reaction to the press coverage from now on. Mulder
was not above using the media to his own ends; his efficiency reports
clearly indicated that he was a rogue, someone who had no aspirations
to get promoted, someone who didn't care whose toes he stepped on as
long as he got his man.
	Mulder would have made a good Mountie, Dupree thought. Always gets
his man.
	Dupree went through his mental checklist again. He had food for
the day, and a silver thermos of strong coffee. He had the laptop,
the digital camera, books to read, his notebook, the ParaOrdnance,
an extra magazine, and the straight razor he hadn't gotten to use on
Strimnovitch. A driver's license, three credit cards, a social
security card and a gas company card all bearing a name that was not
his. Enough to pass a casual identity check, but not enough to stand
up under any deep scrutiny; if he felt that he was in danger of being
unmasked or arrested, Dupree had no compunction about using the
pistol.
	He'd proved that last night.
	He decided to take the Department of Justice file on Yuki Tanaka
with him for some light reading. He'd already memorized the file, but
there was something in the actual process of opening it, of flipping
through the pages, reading the interviews, even just running the pads
of his fingers over the loops and whirls of her fingerprints that
aroused Dupree, that fed the anticipation, that stoked the fires that
fed his hunger.
	Glancing at his watch, Dupree saw that it was almost six in the
morning. Time to go.

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

	Special Agent Dana Scully rolled over into a warm, naked body.
	At first, this caused her half-asleep mind a moment of concern. A
naked body next to her in bed had not become so commonplace yet that
her subconscious had accepted it. On the heels of that, she realized
that she was not, in fact, in her personal bed. This fact, coupled with
the previous message regarding the naked body, caused Scully to wake up
a little more suddenly than she was used to.
	As her mind swam up through the hazy layers of sleep, she became
aware of some more things, more sensations. She had rolled into
Mulder's back, she realized. He was turned away from her and actually
asleep, rare as that was. He was half on his side, half on his
stomach, and at some point during the night he had tossed his share of
the covers off.
	Scully opened sleepy eyes to the sight of Mulder's smoothly
muscled back. She sighed softly to herself, smiling and closing her
eyes again. She slid an arm around his middle, stopping only to tease
the dark hairs around his navel.
	He grunted and pressed back against her; she felt the warm press
of his buttocks against her upper thighs. Scully felt her jaw shift as
she trapped her tongue between her teeth to keep from moaning out
loud.
	I could get used to this, Scully thought. And that's dangerous.
The endless internal dialog started up again, completely unbidden this
time. As her hand continued to stroke the soft, warm skin of Mulder's
abdomen, she tried to convince herself yet one more time that she
could have a relationship with her partner, she could be in love with
this incredibly challenging, complex man, she could devote her life to
what she knew was right and yet not be the cliche of the female agent
who hopped into bed with her partner.
	Well, hopped into bed was a bit of a stretch, Scully reasoned. If
the Bureau's policies about fraternization between partners was
designed to protect the virtue of the female, she'd given the rules a
run for their money. It had taken them five years to cross the line, a
line that Scully had no desire to return across.
	Scully once again held the mental dialogs with her superiors,
Skinner included, with her mother, with the two or three other agents
that she considered herself friendly with...she heard them asking the
questions, some with kindness, some not.
	How to approach it? Scully asked herself. Do we sneak around for
the rest of our lives, hiding it? That might work for the first month
or two, but before long one of them would mess up, would make a
mistake, do something dumb and obvious and then the secret would be
out, would be known. And they would look twice as guilty, twice as
stupid for having gotten caught; the very fact that they would be
sneaking around would only add grist to the rumor mill. The reasoning
would be that there had to be something very juicy about the
relationship for them to be circumspect about it, right? Maybe Mulder
likes to be tied up, and maybe Scully is the one who likes to wield
the whip.
	A mental image of herself dressed in a dominatrix costume flashed
across Scully's mind and she grinned. No, Mulder didn't need to be
tied up. He needed to be held, like most people. He liked to be held
and stroked and kissed and touched. Nothing 'Spooky' about that.
	So what was her other option? Stand on a table in the cafeteria
and hold an impromptu press conference? Ask any question and it shall
be answered? That didn't present an attractive picture either, Scully
thought. Images of drooling secretaries (administrative assistants in
the politically correct 90s) begging morsels of information about the
intimate details of her sex life...the thought was repulsive.
	So, obviously, there was a third option.
	There had to be.
	And she knew what it was, and it was the hardest of the three to
accept. The third option was to proceed as normal. Be adult about it.
We won't go out of our way to hide it, OR to flaunt it. We'll proceed
as we are right now, and let our casework, our investigations and our
closure and our solve rates speak for themselves.
	Scully was convinced that it was the right thing to do.
	So why, she asked herself, did the right thing to do feel like
such a risk?
	Putting that problem out of her mind for the time being, Scully
mentally calculated her schedule for the day. She and Mulder were
going to swing by the Gunmen's safehouse and have a talk with Byers
about Casey Tan and other matters. After that, Scully wanted to go to
the NYPD lab and go over the forensics reports from the Strimnovitch
crime scene. The NYPD CSU officers were still running fingerprints.
There had been a great many latent prints in the apartment, and they
weren't taking any chances.
	Mulder wanted to interview Sidney. He and Cross were going to go
over to the hotel that Alex had stashed the scared little man at and
see if he had anything more to add to his story. The FBI had learned a
long time ago that putting up a reluctant witness in a four-star hotel
with hot and cold running room service tended to loosen their tounge
over time; it was more than apparent that the NYPD had learned the
same lesson from its Federal big brother.
	And then Mulder wanted to go to the New York Public Library. He
wanted to spend the afternoon in the stacks, thinking about the ELS,
thinking about what classic text the UNSUB was using to encrypt his
ELS with.
	The gunmen would be working on the ELSs themselves, as well as
that new cryptic piece of the puzzle, the file the UNSUB had left in
the St. Lukes hospital computer.
	 A full day, Scully thought, spent fighting the Forces of Evil.
	She kissed Mulder square between his shoulder blades.
	"Mmmmmf," he mumbled into his pillow.
	She smiled against his skin and kissed him again.
	"Mulder..." she teased softly, her hand drifting down from his
navel, "...time to wake up...."
	He rolled, pulling her to him. He moved to kiss her and she turned
her head. "Ew, morning breath," she said.
	"Me?" Mulder asked.
	"No, me," Scully said, turning her head further away. A finger
caught her cheek and turned it back just in time to allow Mulder's
mouth to capture hers.
	"Give me a break," he said, the smile in his eyes matching the one
his face. "Morning breath." Kissing her again, he rolled more fully on
top of her.
	She felt him against her, warm and hard, and wondered if his
apparent interest in her was more the product of lust or a full
bladder. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, she reached a
hand down and grasped him just as the phone rang.
	"Oh, please," Scully muttered, reaching for it.
	"Scully," she answered.
	There was a pause, and then Skinner's voice came over the line.
"Good morning, Agent Scully," he said smoothly.
	Oh shit.
	"Good morning, sir," she said, going for 'chipper' and falling
short by quite a bit.
	"Is Agent Mulder about?"
	About six inches away from me, she thought. Well, Dana, time to
put plan "A" to the test. "We just woke up, sir," she said. She could
almost _feel_ Mulder's eyes widening behind her. "Just a moment," she
added, holding the phone over her shoulder for him to take.
	For a long moment, he didn't. Two hands captured the phone from
hers, one of them cupping the mouthpiece. "Are you _insane_?" he
whispered in her ear.
	She shrugged.
	"Good morning, sir," Mulder said.
	"Good morning Agent Mulder. Sorry to bother you so early in the
morning, but the Documents Section just gave me a call and I have a
question or two for you."
	Mulder waited.
	"An Officer John Byers of the NYPD called asking for some texts to
be uploaded into one of our mainframes for some kind of pattern
search. He gave your name as authorization."
	Mulder rubbed a hand over his face. "Is there a problem, sir?"
	"No, I just wanted to make sure you had authorized it, since I
hadn't heard anything about it."
	"Officer Byers is operating under my authorization, sir."
	"Very well. I was wondering if you had a minute to explain to me
the significance of the text that has been requested."
	Mulder groaned silently. What had Byers asked for? The Kama
Sutra?
	"Sir?"
	"He requested the complete works of William Shakespeare, Charles
Dickens, and Lewis Carrol."
	"Yes, sir," Mulder said, immediately impressed with Byers'
selections.
	"And the significance is...?"
	"Sir, the codes that we're trying to break are most likely what is
known as an ELS..." Mulder quickly explained all that he could. Scully
busied herself by playing with the hair on Mulder's chest. He tried
slapping her hands away but she kept returning to his chest.
	I love touching him, she thought. Especially now that I can.
	"So you see, Officer Byers is probably trying to get a fix on
general usage patterns and things of that nature. We're trying to
narrow the selection of texts down."
	"But Mulder, there are possibly thousands...hundreds of thousands
of possible texts he could pick from."
	"That much is true, sir, but what I think Officer Byers is doing
is taking some educated guesses. In some historical novels there were
certain language usage patterns that were consistent among authors. If
we can find even a partial "fingerprint" of the ELS inside one of
those texts, we can narrow the search to other works of that period."
	There was a short pause. "That makes sense, Agent Mulder. Thank
you for your time."
	Mulder was about to hang up when Skinner added, "Please give my
regards to your partner."
	"Of course, sir."
	Mulder hung up.
	"Ok, I just explained to Skinner why John requested some texts to
be uploaded to one of the FBI mainframes. Do you want to explain to me
why you let the cat out of the bag with Skinner?"
	"Well, I answered your phone. I thought the cat was already out of
the bag," Scully said.
	Mulder pursed his lips. "You could have said I was in the shower,
Scully."
	She sighed. He was right. "You're right. Before you woke up, I'd
been thinking about how I want to handle...us."
	Mulder nodded, listening intently.
	"I don't want to skulk around like we're ashamed of it, and I
don't want to stand on top of the World Trade Center and shout it out
to the world. I want to be...adult about it. This seemed like a good
time to test the theory. Why? Did he say something?"
	"Just to give you his regards."
	"See?" she said. "It worked."
	"Well, remember, Skinner all but gave us permission for this, so
that's not a total victory. We still have to deal with...the rest of
them."
	Scully nodded; he was right again.
	"Race you to the shower," she said, slipping out of bed.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
NYPD Safehouse
Undisclosed Location

	Frohike looked like he hadn't slept in a week; he probably hadn't,
Mulder thought. Langly was crashed on the couch, watching MTV with the
sound off. Only Byers was working. He sat in front of a laptop
connected to its desktop dock, peering at the 19-inch monitor. Rows
and rows of text filled the screen. Certain letters were highlighted,
forming a crossword pattern.
	"What's up?" Mulder asked.
	"Well, once the FBI agreed to upload some text that I requested,
I've been able to make some educated guesses."
	"Let me guess," Mulder said. "Lewis Carrol, Dickens and
Shakespeare."
	Byers didn't even blink. "They called you," he accused.
	Mulder smiled. "Guilty."
	"Anyway...I was trying to see-"
	"If there are any period occurences," Mulder said, nodding.
	"But we just don't have enough from the ELS to go with."
	"What do you mean?"
	"Well, you know that the first number is the starting position and
the second number is the separation. From that, we get a block of text
so many columns wide. I put all three five ELS sequences through all
three texts. If the theory of uniform character distribution holds-"
	"Uniform what?"
	"Ok...the letter "E" appears more often than any letter in
English, right? And then "T" and so on. Given two texts from
approximately the same period, using the ELS generated, similar words
should appear in the matrix close to each other."
	"You've lost me."
	Byers grunted, stroking his beard with one hand. "Ok, try this on
for size. Take two movies, say..."Con Air" and "Leathal Weapon." With
me so far?"
	Mulder nodded. "Ok...start them at exactly the same moment. You'll
notice that in both movies, even though they have different plots and
screenwriters and directors and so forth, have the action spaced
evenly throughout the movie, roughly in seven-to-nine minute
increments."
	Mulder thought about the two movies and realized that Byers was
right. "Why is that?"
	"Because someone figured out that the average attention span of
the average moviegoer is about that long. So even though you have two
different...texts, if you will, the two movies adhere to the same
psuedorandom distribution of "words," if action scenes were words. The
statistical probability exists that within seven to nine minutes of
any given action movie, something will explode, get shot or die.
	"The same theory holds true with the written word from the same
approximate time period. Certain words and phrases will repeat and
line up correctly given the same ELS sequence just by that same random
distribution; if not on the same exact ELS seperation, then it should
only be off by a dozen or two.
	"The FBI mainframe has reported back that both Caroll and Dickens,
when run though this analysis, have no common words or phrases that
are mapping. Not even close."
	Mulder walked to the couch and stood, staring down at Langly,
thinking.
	"Not in English," he finally said.
	"That's one possibility. Or we're just picking the wrong time
period."
	"Ok, keep on it. New business," Mulder announced. "If you are
contacted by a reporter named Casey Tan, you are to get ahold of me
immediately. You all have my cell number, as well as Scully's. Call
one or both of us. Do not speak to this woman, do not answer her
questions. If you are approached by anyone except myself, Scully,
Cahill, Cross or Hicks, you are to play as dumb as possible.
Questions?"
	"What happened?" Frohike asked.
	"Your cover was blown. Probably by that Stoltz character that
drove Byers to the hospital."
	"What does this mean?" Byers asked.
	"Just that we have to be extra careful. I've taken some steps to
try and control the situation. She thinks she's on the inside. In
reality, we're boxing her out. Scully and I have to head over to the
NYPD lab...so keep an eye out, OK?"
	All three nodded.
	"Frohike, anything on that file the asshole left at St. Lukes?"
	The little hacker was studying his computer screen, his forehead
cupped in one palm. "I'm not sure what it is, Mulder. But what I do
know is that it's not encrypted."
	"How do you know that?" Scully asked.
	"Forgive me, Agent Scully, but it would take too long to explain.
There's a certain...signature, if you will, of encrypted files.
There's no keyspace in this file, no markers, no checksums, none of
that."
	"So what is it then?"
	Frohike shrugged. "I have no idea."
	"If it makes no sense, doesn't that mean it's encrypted?" Scully
asked. "I mean...isn't that _what_ encryption is?"
	"There's a difference between encryption and encoding," Frohike
explained. "For example...a sound file. If you were to open a sound
file with a word processor, it looks like gibberish. To someone who
didn't realize what it was, it would look encrypted, but it's not.
It's encoded. You don't need a decryption key to read it, just the
right decoder."
	Mulder nodded, understanding. "Maybe it's simpler than that."
	"Such as?" Frohike asked.
	"You've tried all known file encoding schemes?" Scully
interjected.
	"Yes. Everything I can think of."
	"How big is the file?" Mulder asked. "If you were to print it
out?"
	Frohike tapped a few keys on his computer. "Thirty six pages."
	"Six by six," Mulder said.
	"What?"
	"The only evenly-distributed matrix you can make from the number
thirty-six is six squares by six squares. Print it out."
	"Why?"
	"Maybe, if we lay them down on the ground, they'll look like
something."
	Frohike shrugged and began typing again. A minute later a small
laser printer spooled up and began issuing pages. It took just over
five minutes. Mulder took the stack of paper and moved to one of the
empty bedrooms. There was only a bed and a small dresser in the room;
enough space to work.
	Dropping to his knees, he began carefully laying out the pages. It
took less than two minutes. Finished, Mulder stepped up on the bed and
looked at the picture he'd created.
	"It looks like..."
	"Nothing," Scully said from the doorway. "Nice idea, though."
	"Thanks," Mulder said, distracted.
	Walking back to the living room, Mulder began pacing, running one
hand through his hair again and again. "Ok, how's the attack on the
Marshals computer coming?"
	"Slowly," Langly said from the couch. "But I'm working on it."
	Scully cocked an eyebrow; he hadn't moved since they had arrived.
	"You look hard at work," she observed dryly.
	Shooting her a hurt look, Langly climbed off the couch and went to
his work area. Hitting the power switch on the monitor, he stepped
back, waiting for it to warm up.
	The diagram that appeared was impressive. If what was on the
screen could be believed, Langly was using no less than six separate
commercial sattellites to hide his attack. Anyone attempting to trace
the line would hit dead end after dead end. In the lower right corner
of the monitor, a small box displayed what appeared to be a random
sequence of characters; they changed on the average of about ten times
a second.
	"As soon as we get a nibble, I'll let you know."
	"Picture," Frohike muttered, staring at the screen. "Picture."
	"What is it, Frohike?" Scully asked.
	"I think Mulder may be on to something," he said.
	"We looked at the printout," Mulder protested. "It was garbage."
	"But you're using your eyes. You need to use a computer."
	Langly forgotten for the moment, Scully and Mulder moved to
Frohike's computer. "Explain," Mulder demanded.
	"Hold on..." Frohike said, his eyes staring at the monitor, lips
moving as he read. "How many possible colors with 16-bit hardware?"
	"What resolution?" Langly asked.
	"Figure...six forty by four eighty."
	"On the order of twenty-four million," Frohike replied.
	Frohike counted digits on the screen. "Holy shit."
	"What?" Mulder asked.
	"This may be an image file," Frohike said.
	"A what?"
	"Like a GIF or a JPEG."
	"I thought you said-" Scully started.
	"I said everyone I thought of. It's not a known image file format,
but the header detail is right for an image file. I'd just have to break
the encoding."
	"How long will that take?"
	"I won't know until I get started. Most of it can be automated."
	"Get started." Mulder turned to leave. Stopping at the doorway, he
faced his three friends. "In case I never mentioned it before...
thanks."
	As Scully passed him, Frohike said quietly, "Take care of him."
	"I always do," she said, patting his arm.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
NYPD Forensics Lab

	On the drive over, they'd held hands.
	Once there, Mulder had kept his distance, greatly relieving
Scully.
	Inside the lab, they were all business. Two of the CSU technicians
were in front of the FINEST computer, watching as it slowly ran
prints.
	"Anything?" Scully asked.
	"Two hits, both of them...classified," one technician reported.
	"Classified?"
	He nodded. "Both got hits off NCIC, not FINEST. We tried to RTA
them, but they both came back with a DOJ block on them. Probably the
victim's prints."
	Scully and Mulder exchanged a glance. "What makes you say that?"
	"Protected witness, right?"
	"How do you know that?" Scully asked.
	The CSU tech shrugged. "For 36,000 members, the NYPD is a small
department, Agent Scully. We hear things."
	"Just as long as you aren't _saying_ things," Mulder said.
	"No, sir."
	"Who told you?" Scully asked.
	The tech glanced between the FBI agents and then shook his head.
"Sorry."
	Scully cocked an eyebrow. She stepped away from the lab bench and
reached for her cellular. Mulder hid a smile behind a hand, knowing
what was coming. Five years had taught Mulder one thing: When Dana was
in "Scully" mode, you didn't tell her _no_.
	"Alex, Dana. A Detective..." She glanced back at the tech.
	"Marcus," he said.
	"Detective Marcus thinks he knows more about this investigation
then he really does, and does not desire to share with me the identity
of the person that shared the information with him." Scully paused.
"Of course." She disconnected the call.
	It took perhaps four minutes. A uniformed Captain appeared from
nowhere. "Where's Marcus?" he asked.
	"Here, sir."
	"Come with me, Marcus."
	"Where am I going?"
	"You're to report to the CofD forthwith."
	Detective Marcus glanced back at the two FBI agents with hatred in
his eyes. "I thought you guys were cops," he said.
	"We are," Scully said simply. "And we don't have time for the
usual brotherhood nonsense. Tell me who told you. Now."
	"Fuck you," Detective Marcus said slowly, carefully. "I'll call
the DEA and get my delegate in on this. You can't do this to me."
	"I just did," Scully said shortly. "And the Detective's Endowment
Association isn't going to be much help, I'm afraid."

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

	The CSU techs hadn't turned up much else. Before going over to the
hotel to interview Sidney, Mulder and Scully swung by the Major Case
Squad bullpen to see if anything interesting was going on. Alex wasn't
in her office, and Scully asked a passing MCS detective as to her
whereabouts.
	"She went to the CofD's office about half an hour ago," the
detective said and shrugged.
	Scully almost felt sorry for Detective Marcus.
	Almost.
	As Mulder conferred with Detectives Cross and Hicks about the
search for information about the high-capacity .45 magazine recovered
at the Strimnovitch scene, Scully took the opportunity to check hers
and Mulder's voice mail.
	She was in the process of clearing out the usual "call me when
you get back" messages from her mother when she felt a tap on her
shoulder.
	Turning, she saw a youngish uniform officer standing there,
nervously holding his hat in his hands. "Ma'am? Are you Inspector
Cahill?"
	"No, I'm not," Scully said.
	"I was...uh, told to report to her. Forthwith."
	"And you are?" Scully asked.
	"Officer O'Hara," he said, smiling.
	Scully saw the dark hair and blue eyes and thought the name fit
him well.
	"Do you know what this is about?" she asked.
	O'Hara shook his head.
	At that moment an obviously and extremely pissed-off Alex Cahill
pushed through the doors leading into the MCS bullpen. Spotting
O'Hara, she stalked over.
	"Officer Jason O'Hara?" she demanded.
	"Y-yes, Ma'am."
	"Come with me. Dana, Mulder...you're with me."
	Alex stood just inside her office, holding the door as O'Hara,
Scully and Mulder filed in. She shut the door with a slam and turned
to face O'Hara.
	"You were the first officer on the scene of the Silver shooting,
is that correct?"
	"Yes ma'am."
	"I am going to ask you this question once and once only. If you
give me the incorrect answer, you will spend the rest of your career
walking a foot post in Brooklyn South. Are we clear on that?"
	"Yes, ma'am."
	"What is your relationship with Detective Marcus?"
	O'Hara hesitated. "Uh, ma'am, may I ask why you're asking that?"
	"Answer the question!" Alex barked.
	"We're...friends," O'Hara said.
	"Did you tell him anything about the shooting? Anything at all?"
	O'Hara glanced at Mulder. Mulder's face was carefully
expressionless.
	"I might have."
	"Might have? Shit!" Alex said, moving behind her desk. "This man,"
she said to Scully, "overheard you, Mulder, myself, Cross or Hicks at
the scene. Someone mentioned the fact that Silver is a protected
witness. This man told his friend, who as you know until about ten
minutes ago was assigned to the Crime Scene Unit."
	"Was assigned?" O'Hara asked.
	Alex slammed both palms down on her desk. "Yes, Officer. WAS
assigned. He has recently been reassigned to the Academy until such
time as I can find a really SHITTY assignment for him. Maybe Auto
Theft or something equally horrible."
	"Ma'am...is...is there anything I can do to reverse your
decision?"
	"You seem awfully concerned about your friend," Alex observed.
	"I don't want him jammed up off my big mouth."
	"He's already jammed up, O'Hara. He won't tell us if he told
anyone. He's already asked for his delegate. He goes through with that
union bullshit, and he will spend the rest of his career filing stolen
car reports."
	"Ma'am, I know I shouldn't have told him."
	"When did you tell him?"
	"Last night. At home."
	Mulder, Scully and Alex exchanged a look.
	"You're in a relationship," Alex said, not unkindly.
	O'Hara nodded.
	"So you didn't shoot your mouth off to anyone else?" Alex asked.
	"No, ma'am."
	"Can Marcus be trusted?"
	"I think so."
	"How did you find out?"
	"I overheard one of your detectives talking to you, ma'am."
	"Very observant," Scully said.
	O'Hara looked like he wanted to thank her, but chose to remain
silent.
	Alex threw up her hands. "Jesus, save me from overeager cops!" She
looked at Mulder. "What do I do with him?"
	"How long you been on the job?" Mulder asked.
	"Five years May."
	"What color was the carpet at the crime scene?"
	"Burgundy," O'Hara replied immediately.
	"How many bloodstain circles inside?"
	"Seven."
	"What time did the first Detective sign off in your log book?"
	"Three-thirty two."
	Mulder glanced back at Alex. "Please excuse us, Officer O'Hara.
Please wait outside."
	O'Hara let himself out quickly and sat at a desk.
	"What do I do with him?" Alex asked.
	"Take him out of the bag, give him a gold shield and assign him to
us. We need a gofer, and he's obviously got a good head on his
shoulders. If he pays attention, he just might learn something."
	"Promote him?" Alex asked.
	Mulder nodded. "He's a good cop. He just...pillowtalked. I'm sure
you've done it."
	Alex opened her mouth to reply and then shut it.
	She had. More than once.
	"Oh, shit," she said. She picked up the phone and dialed four
numbers.
	"Chief, it's Alex. I need you down here right away."

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

	Zolinski was not happy, but he went along. The look on O'Hara's
face when Zolinski stormed through the MCS bullpen and into Alex's
office was priceless.
	"You want to WHAT?" he shouted.
	Alex explained Mulder's reasoning. Zolinski spun on the FBI agent
and tried to stare him down.
	It didn't work.
	Mulder smiled and shrugged. "If nothing else," Mulder explained,
"since he's close to the investigation, we can keep an eye on him. I'm
sure that Scully and I can come up with enough little jobs for him to
keep him busy."
	"I don't fucking believe this," Zolinski fumed. "He opens his
mouth to his LOVER, another cop, opens his goddamn mouth about the
most sensitive case this department has had this YEAR, and we're going
to PROMOTE him?"
	"He's a good cop," Mulder said.
	"They're ALL good cops," Zolinski pointed out.
	Mulder fell silent.
	"Fuck it," Zolinski said. Turning to Alex he asked, "Do you have a
spare?"
	She nodded.
	"Get him in here."
	Scully pointed at O'Hara through the glass and crooked her finger.
Nervously, O'Hara entered the office, shutting the door behind him.
	Zolinski walked up, hands on hips. "You listen to me, son. I don't
agree with what's about to happen. You open your fucking mouth about
this case one more time, and I'll have your ASS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
	O'Hara nodded, too scared to speak.
	Without looking, Zolinski held out his hand. Alex slipped
something into it.
	With his other hand, Zolinski grabbed one of O'Hara's hands and
slapped the gold shield into it.
	"Congratulations, _Detective_," he said, contempt filling his
voice.
	Moving around the stunned officer, Zolinski tore open Alex's door
and stormed into the bullpen. "Anyone opens their FUCKING mouth, and
I'll have their ASS!" he shouted.
	Scully shut the door.
	"Before you celebrate," Alex said, a warning in her voice, "you
have to understand a few things. First, this is highly unusual. You
are on probation for six months. You don't fuck up in that six months,
you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, you might learn a few
things. You do all right, that shield is yours to keep. You fuck up --
you're back in the bag. Understand?"
	O'Hara nodded.
	"You are assigned as of 0800 tomorrow morning to the Major Case
Squad as a Detective/Third. You report to Agents Mulder and Scully.
You are their shadow, understand? Where they go, you go. They want
anything done, you do it. Coffee, lunch, any errand... you do it. You
are on 24-hour call as of right now." Opening a drawer, Alex rooted
around and found a pager. Tossing it to O'Hara, she continued, "Give
that pager number to the wheelman, to these two agents, and to Central
Radio. You are relieved for the rest of the day. If you have a suit,
get it cleaned. If you don't...go buy one." She paused. "Now get out
of here."
	O'Hara turned and fled.
	"Now what?" Cahill asked.
	"Mulder and I are going to talk to Sidney. Cross is coming, too."
	"Wonderful. Keep me informed."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Staten Island

	Yuki was perfect.
	Dupree sat in the rental car and peered at her through the
viewfinder of his digital camera. A slim cord trailed out of the back
and into the laptop perched on the passenger seat.
	His target moved with the grace of a cat, working in her garden,
smiling at the sun.
	Whore, he thought.
	She was Chosen. She was perfect in every way for his needs, for
his purposes.
	Six hours into the surveillance, Dupree realized something.
	Yuki Tanaka was beautiful. She was model-gorgeous. Her classic
Asian features were...
	Interesting.
	Arousing.
	Dupree knew that he was punishing these people, his Chosen. Taking
their lives, opening them up, letting the evil out. He had a reason
and a purpose, a divine task given to him by God.
	He had been sent to kill her.
	And she had been sent to be killed.
	That was the equation, an equation Dupree was both familiar and
comfortable with. Until now, he'd felt little desire to change it.
	But Yuki changed that.
	He found himself wondering how many other ways he could cause her
pain and suffering, and before long he knew what he could do to make
sure that Yuki suffered for her sins.
	He wondered what it would be like to slit her throat as he raped
her.
	The thought was exciting, dangerous.
	Arousing in the extreme.
	He felt himself harden as his fantasies took over. The ultimate
dominance, he thought. The ultimate in control.
	Think, he commanded himself.
	If I rape her, what can the FBI learn? What evidence will I leave?
	Semen. From semen, they could type his blood. But only if he was a
secretor, and he didn't know if he was. And the police already had
that information from the blood found at the last scene. Pubic hairs
could reveal what color hair he had, and his approximate age.
	Dupree was not stupid. He knew that he fell within a specific
category of...the kind of people that did what he did. He knew that
they had already guessed his age.
	Transference, he thought. If she scratches me, they'll get skin.
	Dupree went over all the pros and cons and in the end decided to
play it by ear. If he managed to surprise her, to get control of her
before it happened, before the hunger took over...
	He would do her.
	Giggling, Dupree turned to his computer.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Four Seasons Hotel
Suite 1201

	Casey Tan rolled over and sighed deeply. Just as she'd imagined,
Tim Everett had been a remarkable lover. It was just something about
cops, she thought to herself. He'd been wildly energetic, eager to do
anything she asked.
	She was tempted to ask him some questions about the MrKnife case,
but she knew that would tip her hand. Mr. Everett was under the
mistaken impression that she had slept with him out of some
uncontrollable lust she had felt towards him; nothing, of course,
could be further from the truth. Casey knew that her face and her body
were tools, just as the camera, microphone and notepad were. During her
rise to the top, Casey had learned that it took four or five or six
sessions of frenzied, sweaty lovemaking before her sources were under
her thumb enough to be manipulated.
	And this was only session number two.
	Tim Everett, at once deeply satisfied and deeply ashamed, lay next
to her on the bed. His quickly wilting erection sagged against his
thigh. He thought that he'd never had a better screw than Casey Tan,
and the thought that she'd made it more than clear that the only thing
she was interested in was a series of afternoon delights -- no
long-term commitments, no home-wrecking, just energetic, no-holds-
barred lovemaking -- was making him feel pretty damn good about
himself.
	Then his pager went off.
	And then it went off again.
	Swearing, Tim moved to his pants and dug around, looking for the
offending device. Pulling it free, he turned it over in his hands and
read the four-line alphanumeric display.
	"Shit," he said softly.
	Reaching for his cellphone, he took it and went into the bathroom,
closing the door. He dialed a number from memory.
	"Dave, this better be good."
	"Hi, Tim. Our daily sweep of the lines detected a higher than
normal ambient traffic flashback."
	"And exactly what the fuck does that mean?"
	"That someone is trying to break into the system, and doing a very
good job of it."
	"Can we trace it?" Everett asked, thinking quickly.
	"No."
	"Why not?"
	"Too technical to go into over the phone. Basically, the guy is a
shadow. Any attempt to trace will trigger what amounts to a collapsing
circuit. We'll pull up short at the first satellite link."
	"Can we stop it?"
	"Not without shutting us off from the rest of the world."
	"What can we do?"
	"Padded cell," Dave said.
	"What...?"
	"We reroute all incoming traffic through another box so that when
this guy breaks in, he thinks he's in the real system. In reality,
we'll have him trapped in a fake system. It's an old NSA trick."
	"What will that gain us?"
	"Time, not much else."
	"Who do you think it is?"
	"Honestly?"
	"Of course."
	"NYPD. Or FBI. I think they're going after the list."
	Everett bit his lip, thinking furiously. Alex, if she was behind
this, was taking a huge chance. Goddamn it, _he_ was taking a huge
chance. Sitting naked in a hotel bathroom, cheating on his wife,
fucking a _reporter_ of all people (a gorgeous reporter, but a
_reporter!_) and actually thinking what he was thinking.
	"Ok, Dave...who else knows?"
	"Just me. I ran the scan myself."
	"You haven't told anyone else?"
	"No, and I don't plan on it."
	"Why not?"
	"Because I think we both know that you're about to order me to let
them in and get the list, and THEN cut the connection."
	He was good, Ted admitted to himself. Very good.
	"Ok, since we're both on the same wavelength -- how long before
they get in?"
	"Two, three days, max."
	"Can we make it easier...and not leave a trace when the audit
comes down?"
	Dave thought about it for close to two minutes. "Sure," he said.
	"Do it," Ted ordered. "Quietly. If anyone else finds out, we're
both going to be up to our respective asses in deep, deep trouble."
	"Done, Ted. And if it helps...I think you're doing the right
thing."
	"Will you testify for me in front of the Senate Judiciary Committie
when this blows up in our face?"
	"Sure, if you'll do the same for me." Ted could hear the smile in
his friend's voice and smiled in return.
	"Ok...how soon before you let them in?"
	"Two hours. I'll do some magic, and they'll be in. I'll leave the
file in an obvious place and only lightly encrypt it. It should take
them about an hour or two to break the code. Once they're in, I'll
wait forty-eight hours, and then "find" the hole and close it."
	"Deal," Tim said. "I gotta go." Tim Everett tried to calculate the
odds. If the person or persons attempting to break into the USMS
computer were not, in fact, the NYPD or FBI, and they got the list,
and it got out that they had the list, and it was discovered that by
actions undertaken by himself and Dave that they had gotten the
list... Spending the rest of his life at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas was
not out of the realm of possibility.
	"Where are you calling from, anyway?" Dave asked.
	Tim was about to answer when a knock came at the door. "Tim?"
Casey asked.
	"Gotta go," Tim said, hanging up.
	Casey pushed the door open and stood there, hands on her hips,
completely naked, eying Tim hungrily. "I wanna go again," she said
softly, licking her lips.
	"I don't think I can," Tim said.
	"Oh, I think you can," Casey said, slowly falling to her knees.
She crawled across the bathroom floor and promptly buried her face in
Tim Everett's lap.

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

	Sidney hadn't had much more information to give. Dejected, Mulder
and Scully were in the process of returning to the MCS bullpen when
Mulder's cell rang in the car.
	"Mulder."
	Frohike, obviously excited. "We're in."
	Mulder glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes."

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

	For the first time in recent memory, Mulder got to use the light
AND the siren. Traveling with Scully all over the country usually
meant rental cars, and there were no little red bubble lights and no
cool electronic sirens in rental cars.
	About six blocks away from the safehouse, Scully touched his arm.
"Might want to kill that," she said, nodding towards the flashing
light on the dashboard. "Don't want to call attention to the
safehouse."
	Mulder nodded and unplugged the light, and then killed the siren.
They drifted the last quarter mile in silence. They parked and got
out, all but sprinting to the safehouse.
	Frohike was staring at the monitor, licking his lips, an absurd
look of adolescent satisfaction plastered all over his face.
	"Give it to me in a nutshell, guys," Mulder said.
	Byers looked at Frohike, who was busy typing on his keyboard.
	"Basically, the security was a little less complex than we were
led to believe. We got in about thirty minutes ago. Frohike took a
quick look around, located the encrypted file we've been searching
for, and downloaded it. It's about the right size, and according to
the transaction history files on the machine, it has been rather
heavily used."
	"If it's encrypted, how do you know it's the right file?" Scully
asked.
	"Because it's the only file that is encrypted of its size and
location. We're fairly certain that it's the file, and judging by the
size of the keyspace in the file header, it's only using a 20 or 40
bit key. It should take us less than two hours to-"
	"Got it," Frohike said.
	"...crack it," Byers finished, smiling. With a deep bow and a wave
towards the computer, John Byers said, "Mulder, Scully...the Lone
Gunmen, at your service."
	Mulder moved in close, peering at the monitor. Names, dates,
faces. Real names, cover names, lists of conviction dates and other.
The list of names was staggering.
	"How many?" he asked.
	"Over two hundred," Frohike said after a moment. "But they're not
all active."
	"Why not?"
	"Well," he said with a smile, "we know of at least five that
aren't active any more."
	"That's sick," Scully said.
	"Sorry," Frohike said, and she saw that he was.
	"That's ok," she sad, touching his arm. "Are those the only
inactive ones?
	"No, ma'am. Some of them busted security by themselves. Sam
Gravano, for example." Mulder and Scully nodded, understanding. Sammy
"The Bull" Gravano, the number-two man under John Gotti in the Gambino
crime family, personally responsible for the death of eighteen people
('personally responsible' in the sense that he himself had pulled the
actual trigger,) had been arrested on racketeering and murder charges.
Faced with life behind bars, Sammy was eager to break Omerta and turn
government's witness. He sang so well some of the boys down at Federal
Plaza had taken to calling him "The Fourth Tenor." After three
separate trials (the first two resulting in hung juries amid cries of
tampering,) the third and final trial had resulted in the conviction
of John Gotti on all charges. Mr. Gotti was currently spending life in
prison. Gravano, chafing at the limits living inside the WITSEC program
brought with it, had busted his own security and gone public, complete
with his surgically altered face. He lived in an undisclosed location
with his wife, and made regular talk-show appearances.
	Not 'undisclosed' anymore, Mulder thought, looking at Gravano's
records.
	"Ok, how many active?" he asked.
	"About a hundred and sixty," Frohike reported, "if I'm reading
this encoding scheme correctly."
	"Ok...here's what we do next. Print me out the raw file just as
fast as you can, front to back. Everything. Then, get all this
information into a database so I can search and sort. I'll want
gender, age, race, crimes committed, crimes convicted, date they
entered the program, and date they left, for whatever reason. You work
on this until it's done; forget everything else. All three of you. Any
questions?"
	"No, sir," Byers said, slightly mocking.
	Mulder flashed him an annoyed looked and then smiled. "Sorry."
	"Don't be, Mulder. You forget, we know how you get."
	"Then what are we waiting for?" Mulder asked.

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

	Two hours later, it was done. Frohike borrowed Scully's laptop and
carefully transferred the information. He showed them both how to
search and report on the information.
	Finished, Frohike asked the next question. "Now what?"
	"Set a trap. Figure a way to find out if this asshole gets in and
alert us. Pager, cellphone, I don't care...carrier pigeon. I want you
to trace this asshole."
	"How?" Frohike asked aloud.
	"Set it to check the file access statistics once every half hour
or whatever -- if it changes, track who did it and email or page
someone with the information. When we sense a pattern, we can go from
there."
	Byers nodded, impressed. "Good idea, Mulder. You've done this
before."
	"No," Mulder said, gathering the four hundred pages of printed
data, "I've been hanging around you guys too much. You've been a bad
influence on me."
	"Us on YOU?" Langly said, laughing.

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

	They didn't call Alex; they didn't want to take the chance that
they might be overheard. Instead, they went to Kinkos, and with the
judicious use of a black-magic marker, lined anything on the pages
that would make it obvious that it was a USMS printout. Then they fed
it through the copier twice. Taking the originals to a document
processing service, they flashed their ID and politely requested
access to a industrial-strength shredder. Half an hour after that they
walked out with a plastic bag full of confetti and two full copies of
the data in a cardboard box.
	They disposed of the bag in a random dumpster along the way, and
then headed towards One Police Plaza.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
One Police Plaza
Major Case Squadroom

	MrKnife was not the only case the MCS was dealing with; being a
citywide unit in a town with over eleven million residents, as well as
thirty-six thousand police officers, Alex found herself juggling
priorities and personnel. Six of her sixteen day-shift detectives were
assigned to the MrKnife case full time, to the exclusion of all other
duties. The remaining ten detectives, then, had been assigned the
overflow, the open cases that those six had been working, as well as
all "new" cases. She tried to send as many as she could back to the
Borough commands, and deferred some of the ones that were not directly
related to the four "big" crimes: Murder, rape, arson and extortion.
	She looked up as a very smug-appearing Fox Mulder strode into her
office. They had found a Christmas bow somewhere, and had stuck it on
the side of a copier-paper box. He laid the box on her desk with a
wave of his arm.
	"What the hell is this?" she asked.
	"Open it," Scully suggested, coming in behind Mulder and closing
the door.
	Alex removed the top and saw two stacks of paper. Taking an
inch-thick section from the left-hand stack, she began reading. Her
eyes got big and she flipped through the pages quickly, smiling. "You
got in?" she asked.
	"They got in," Mulder corrected. "On this gig, we're just the
messengers."
	Alex dropped her pages and stood, coming around the desk. She
stepped into Mulder's arms and kissed him squarely on the mouth.
Startled, Mulder pulled back, shooting a startled glance at an amused
Scully.
	"Oh, don't worry," Alex said, dropping her arms and moving towards
Scully. "She's next."
	And to Scully's (and Mulder's) utter amazement, Alex did exactly
as she promised: She stepped into Scully's arms, leaned down and
kissed _her_ squarely on the lips.
	An utterly flabbergasted Scully stepped back, wiping her mouth
with the back of her hand. Mulder looked amused, and he shrugged at
Scully as Alex returned to her desk to summon Cross and Hicks.
	Feeling the tingle of the unexpected kiss on her lips, Scully
realized what a...robustly sexual woman Alex Cahill was.
	Cahill's star detective team entered the office. "You wanted us,
boss?" they asked.
	"We have the list. Sam, Daryl, cull the names and addresses from
the list. Break it down by borough and then by precinct. Once you have
that, make about six or seven dozen blind copies. Just names and
addresses. I'll put the gears in motion, assemble the troops. It's..."
she glanced at her watch. "Two-thirty in the afternoon. I want that
information no later than three-forty-five. Do whatever it takes to
get this done by then. Overtime for all day-tour and four-to-
midnights. Questions?"
	They vanished with the list that Alex handed them.
	"Now what?" Mulder asked.
	"I'll use my officers to notify everyone on that list we can
contact."
	"I'm going to take the raw list and see if I can... figure out who
is next," Mulder said softly, frowning.
	"What's wrong?" Scully asked.
	Mulder shrugged. "Remember when Alex found me banging my head
against the wall?" Both women nodded. "Well, I'm going to have to go
that deep inside this maggot's head again if I'm going to have half a
chance at figuring out the next target.
	"And I must say...I'm not looking forward to it."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
END CHAPTER 21