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Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language To lie in utter bliss and quiet, everything still except for the heart beating under your hand, was perfection. The man thought he could almost swoon from the sweetness of the moment. The night was heavy, lit by the flickering candle in the Chianti bottle in front of the bureau mirror. The couple reflected in the glass lay entangled in the sheets of the iron bed in the loft. Their skin was gold and ivory in the candlelight. To feel the other's breaths against your skin, to feel her heartbeats under your palm, her blood running as quickly as yours. . . "Quiet," he murmured. "Feel this?" He slid his hand along the curve of her ass, and then slapped it hard enough to leave a handprint, vivid against her pale skin. She tossed her head wildly at each slap, but didn't cry out. There was artistry, mastery to the sensation. He had to keep iron control on his own breathing, his teeth clenched against the ecstasy he was feeling...oh, they were just getting started! The man pulled out, checking his condom. Satisfied as to the fit, he turned his partner over onto her back, nudged her legs apart with his knee, and plunged into her. She lurched hard, and for a moment he almost lost control. Oh, no, no. The dance wasn't over for him yet. Or for her. She was moaning and gasping, whimpering at each touch. "You can scream now," he said, ripping the duct tape from her mouth, and showing her the knife. The girl drew in a short breath and let it out in a long, terrified scream. He came, hard, as the knife went into her throat. +++++++++++ Scully struggled with her clammy sheets. She had skipped her sleeping pill after a nice dinner date, with wine. But her sleep was enlivened by nightmares, as it usually was when she didn't take her medication. The faces of the dead came to her as she slept. And not the beloved dead - not her father, or Melissa, or even, reluctantly, Emily. No, instead Clyde Bruckman spoke to her of the futility of free will; Alfred Fellig spoke in measured, gloomy tones of the death of love; Penny Northern held her hand and kissed her cheek. She tried to hold onto Penny; even in dreams, Penny was all comfort. But Penny's image would dissolve and she would be left staring at Leonard Bett's head lying on the autopsy table, or Pendrell, dying on a dirty restaurant floor. 'God,' she thought, sitting up and untangling the top sheet from her legs, 'I should just start having sex on the first date.' But her flesh crawled at the thought. She didn't want anyone touching her right now. She didn't want to worry about any new people in her life. She could barely stand the people that were already there. All she wanted to do was her work. Find the bad guy. She hadn't counted on having to keep changing apartments because various killers broke into the old ones. She kept moving up from the first floor, to the third, and now, after she had actually shot and killed Donnie Pfaster in her living room, she was in a charmless condominium in Arlington, near the Metro stop, with twenty-four hour video surveillance and a secured underground garage. It felt safe; she usually slept. it didn't matter that she hadn't unpacked all of her things or decorated. She felt better at the condo. She just wanted to feel safe at home. It didn't matter that her mother wasn't speaking to her since Scully had refused yet again to leave the Bureau. It especially didn't matter, since Mom had sicced her older brother on her. When had he become such a pompous idiot? She let him rant on about Mulder for a while before breaking in. "Mulder doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with my personal life or decisions about my professional life," she had said. "And if you ever talk to me about those professional decisions again, Bill, I will hang up on you. Like I am doing now." And she had clicked off the phone. Fuck. She didn't need to lay here and think about her brother. She heaved the bedclothes off and got up to watch television. ++++++++++ The woman was tied with her own scarves. She had found them for him and willingly held her wrists to the bedposts. Now, she clenched her teeth as the man's hand trailed slowly over her breasts, as he knelt between her spread legs. One hand flicked slowly, meditatively at her clitoris. She flinched, despite her best efforts. Candles were set in front of the dresser mirror, and she had seen him look at their little flames with a twisted smile that made her shudder. Now he was pushing into her, slowly, slowly, prolonging the torture. He bent his dark head and gently bit her nipple. He took one long, slow stroke, then another. Another. "Oh, God", she breathed. "Fuck me, Mulder! Fuck me hard." Mulder raised his head. "Anything to please," he said, and began moving faster and harder, until they both yelled. ++++++++++ Scully hated when Mulder looked well-rested. It meant that he was game for flying by small plane to whatever rural village asked for an expert opinion on some odd death or weird weather pattern. Today, however, he was looking at the standard inter-office memo with all the suspicion he had shown the Tennessee snake handlers. "What's up, Mulder?" she finally asked, after watching him read and reread the two sheets of paper. He finally looked up. "Our friends at Investigative Support have requested our assistance. On a serial killer." He blew his breath out. "But I don't know why. There's nothing here that requires my 'unique expertise,' as Skinner phrases it." She plucked the pages from his outstretched hand, and leaned back. Women were being quietly and discreetly murdered all along the East Coast. No one saw them come home with a man; no one even saw them come home. They were in several different jurisdictions, and all involved women between 22 and 42 who were found raped and murdered in their own beds. The weapon was always a knife; but the type of knife varied. There was reason to believe that he used knives he found in the victim's kitchens. Candles (Scully moved her shoulders uneasily, thinking of Pfaster) were found at every scene, placed in front of a mirror. But they were not remarkable in any way, having been purchased at various chain stores. A radio, stereo, cassette, or CD player had been left playing, set on 'repeat.' The music and equipment were already at the scene, and there was no pattern to the rock music left playing. Although the bodies appeared to have been left as they were at time of death, closer examination of the surroundings showed some staging or arranging of the bodies. Lately, one medical examiner thought the victim's face had been dotted with her blood, in a random-seeming pattern that would have meaning to the killer. He always used a condom, but took it and the wrapper with him or flushed them. He took his time, and managed to get rid of any of his pubic hairs. "Or he depilated," Scully said, looking up. Mulder gave an exaggerate grimace. She went back to the report. The killer was careful to brush down the bed, to wipe the victim. There were no bloody fingerprints on the bodies, no bite marks. No fingerprints on the music source, and none in the bathroom. Cleaner had been poured in the sinks after he washed up. Any washcloths he might have used were missing, and any wineglasses he may have touched were found, clean, in the dishwasher. The wine bottle was thoroughly wiped, and empty. In almost every case, the body wasn't discovered either until the victim didn't come to work on Monday, or if a neighbor complained about the loud music coming from the apartment. A former Baltimore homicide investigator who began working for D.C. Homicide made the connection. He, in turn, dug around on the computer databases and discovered seven victims, all killed in different cities and bedroom communities over the past four years. The latest, Alexandra Brown in Reston, had been discovered this week, just a month after the last. "He's really into the clean-up," Mulder said, watching her eyes track down the pages. "He enjoys it. Maybe I should read 'American Psycho' again." "I agree about the clean-up." She shrugged. "Why us? No Flukemen, no flying cows, no-" Mulder had stopped listening. "Ah. I know why," he said, interrupting her. "These cases are similar to an UNSUB Patterson and I investigated." He leaned back and propped his large dress shoes on the desk. "They want someone to go do a Jodie Foster." Scully knew she was gaping. "They want you to go visit Patterson?" Mulder shrugged. "At least he never ate anyone's liver with fava beans." He stood up. "Come on. Let's see how long it takes Skinner or the Department head to suggest talking to Patterson." At her arched eyebrow, he said, "They said to come up after you and I had looked at the request. So we're not late." "I'm thrilled," Scully said dryly, picking up her briefcase. "I only hope you're saying that later," Mulder rejoined, and politely held the door open for her. ++++++++++ As it turned out, no one mentioned Patterson during the first twenty minutes of the briefing. Scully had faith in Mulder's intuition on these matters, however, and waited for her opening. "With all due respect, sir," she said to Skinner, "I don't see the point of calling us in. There is nothing paranormal about this UNSUB." "It's not your paranormal expertise we need," Mark Wallace, the Investigative Support liaison, explained. "It's Agent Mulder's prior experience in profiling." "The Baltimore UNSUB," Mulder said immediately. "He left the area. Patterson took that file away from me." "And put it in his private file," Skinner said. "He wrote a lot of notes about it." He and Wallace exchanged coded looks. Wallace cleared his throat. Mulder actually grinned. "I bet," he said. "He was obsessive about unsolved cases." He stretched his legs in front of him, leaning back in the chair. "So when do you want us to start? Is there a new crime scene?" Scully rolled her eyes ceiling-ward. He was acting like a shit already. Skinner turned in his chair, ignoring Mulder's near- insolence, and pointed to a banker's box sitting on his credenza. "That's got all the files. The body of the latest victim has been sent to our morgue." He flipped a manila photo envelope to Mulder. "Pictures and addresses to the victim's apartment in Reston." Mulder caught the envelope as he stood. "All righty, then," he said, sotto voce. He strolled to the box and hefted it. Skinner and Wallace actually smiled warmly at him. "Agent Mulder, any of my agents will assist you. Just let me know who you want," Wallace said. Scully, for her part, wanted to slap Mulder. 'Nothing turns him on like having the brass come to him for help,' she thought angrily. 'They don't give a damn that he'll be a basket case, and he doesn't either. Meanwhile, I get to try to keep him out of the padded cell. Again.' ++++++++++ Mulder loaded the file box in the trunk of his car, and drove out to Reston, Virginia, through a cold rain. He was still sore from the gymnastics with Amanda the night before. He'd have bruises on his ass where she had dug in with her heels. Jeeze, who'd have thought that any friend of the Lone Gunmen could be such a hottie? He had met Amanda at a start-up genetic laboratory, where she claimed to be doing genetic research, but where, in truth, he suspected she was trying to clone Wayne Gretzky. Frohike had recommended her as just the right paranoid conspiracy-minded scientist to run some tests on the green goo he had taken from the lab in California. They had spent exactly thirty minutes together in the lab before she had led him into her office, locked the door, turned on the radio, grabbed him by the hair, and kissed him. Mulder, believing he was obviously hallucinating from something Frohike had slipped him, decided to go with it, and they had fucked like bunnies on her desk. They had been continuing to do so at every opportunity possible. The only thing she ever objected to was talking. Specifically, when he tried to tell her any of his theories. She only would listen to about ten minutes of any explanation. "Mulder, shut up and fuck," was her general response. Since she kept giving him the reports on the green goo, he was always happy to oblige. Mulder thought he would have told Scully about it by now, but there seemed to be an embargo on all things Emily. In fact, Scully didn't talk to him about anything that happened more than six months ago. It was like she emptied the conversation bin periodically. He now had more things that he wasn't allowed to mention, than subjects he could talk about. And woe betide him, should he fly into the forbidden zone with unwary chatter; she would turn into his exasperated caretaker for at least three days. Well, this insensitive still pig wasn't going to risk it. He would wait until Amanda and her fellow white-coats finished their work on the substance and see if there was anything worth telling Scully before he jumped headlong into the 'I've got some goo' conversation. He had to agree to let the mad scientists in on any possible commercial use in order to pay for their time, but somehow he doubted they would find a market for that particular DNA brew. He parked the car, reached into his pocket and touched the passkey from the crime scene in its envelope, reassuring himself that he hadn't forgotten it. He went up to the victim's apartment -- to Alexandra Brown apartment, he corrected himself. Nothing unusual about this place, he thought. It was exactly as Hitchcock used to say - the most horrific crimes happened in the most ordinary places, as people passed by in the hall, on the street, unaware. Just like the joggers running dismally in the rain; no one knew that evil had been present right around the corner from them. He used the key, ducked under the yellow police tape, and then closed the door, standing just inside as he pulled on his latex gloves. The apartment was still neat. Either Alex Brown had been very tidy herself, or the UNSUB had cleaned very thoroughly. Mulder bet it was both. Everything was orderly, organized, tasteful. He pulled the police photos out of his portfolio as he walked to the kitchen. Two wineglasses had been found on the drain board, and he laid their photo next to the sink. He opened the cabinets. Good crystal glasses here, nice china. Alex liked quality things. No liner in the trashcan; it had been taken, with the contents. He saw a knife holder on the counter; nothing missing. He walked over to the stereo. No dusting here----he'd ask for it, but he would bet that all the prints had been wiped or had been the victim's. He pressed the "on" button. Elton John? Not seeing, Mulder stood, scowling. A CD. Hadn't he seen Elton John music before? He left the music running, and stood over the couch, considering. There were two coasters and one of those wine holders still on the coffee table. So, they had come back to her place, and sat down with wine. They probably made out. Mulder felt around in the envelope, pulled out more photos, looked them over carefully. Here was something odd: a black lace bra and panties that Reston PD hadn't found, but the FBI lab had discovered the next day. Frowning, he walked into the bedroom. As always, the actual death scene struck him like a blow. There were the candles, guttered and burnt out, on the vanity. There was the potpourri, the lace pillow covers, the framed posters on the wall that proclaimed that Alex Brown had decorated her bedroom with care. He bet that the soft cotton sheets, now in evidence bags, stained with her blood, had been purchased from a high-end department store. The same with the candles, the very expensive aroma therapy candles Scully used to buy when she shopped at lunch, until Donny Pfaster put her off them completely. Surely those belonged to Alex and not the killer. He patted his pockets, found a book of matches from a Georgetown bar. He lit the candles and lowered the blinds, though he left the lights on. Standing at the foot of the bed, Mulder dropped the photos of the dead woman on the blood-stained mattress one by one. The killer tied her using her own kimono sash. He stepped back and looked in the closet. There it was, hanging from a hook on the door. 'Alex,' he thought, 'this isn't your fault. I bet this guy looked like a dream come true. I bet he had on the right clothes, and the right smile, and the right car.' He returned to the living room to tap *eject* on the CD player. How did that song go? "Everything about this house is going to grow and die----" he sang to himself. He put the CD back in the drawer. Love lies bleeding in my hands. "Your theme song," Mulder said. "You miserable fucker." He tapped *repeat,* and then returned to the bedroom. Turning out the light, he stood at the foot of the bed again and thought furiously, visualizing the couple on the bed. Dark and quiet. Not too chilly, but not hot enough to really sweat. Just the right temperature to keep her from smelling, afterwards, right? No, you didn't worry about that then. You fingered and tongued her and made her come, so that she didn't mind about the bondage. You probably made her come again before you put the tape on her mouth. She may not have been frightened, even then. Even then, she may have been lost in sensation. You fucked her doggy style, because you slapped her on the ass until it was red. We saw the bruises. You left your handprint. Then. . . then you turned her over. You turned her over, and ripped off the duct tape, and you killed her. You took off the tape so you could hear her scream, and that's what made you come. The blood pouring out of her, and her screams, made you come. "Didn't it, you puke?" Mulder asked quietly. "Was it Mommy? Was she mean to you? Or Daddy? You weren't man enough for him? Who do you hate so much? I bet it's Mom. I bet Mom blamed you for everything that went wrong. Are you that Freudian, you fuck? Are you killing Mommy?" He bent over and picked up the pictures from the bed. 'That's too easy,' he thought. 'You're sick, but it isn't that simple. I think you hate women.' He slapped the footboard hard. "You shit. We're going to find you." He heard the front door open. "Mulder?" Scully called. "In here," he replied. "Mulder, what are you doing?" she asked, flipping the light switch. "Have you found anything?" "I found her underwear, and bagged it." He went over to the dresser and blew out the candles. "Scully, I've got to read the file on the Baltimore murders. So far, there's only one real similarity beyond the profile of the victims- ---use of a kitchen knife." He picked up the photos and tapped the edge against the dresser, squaring the pile. "So, I've got my homework to do. How about yours?" "I'll have a report for you by Monday. I'd like to see the other autopsy reports." He nodded. "I'll give you half; and we'll swap when we get done." ++++++++++ Mulder went back to Quantico to rearrange the ready room set aside for the investigation. Daylight was burning, as his AD liked to say; eight women were dead and it was time to move. Wallace's staffers had already pinned up a map of the Virginia-Maryland block, with labels giving the name of each victim and place of her death. Mulder sat down at the long government-issue table and began pulling out the photos of the victims in life - not pictures of their violated bodies, but ones they had posed for. Seven women who had found their Mr. Goodbar. Mulder knew better than to repeat that thought aloud; one of these junior agents would promptly begin referring to the UNSUB as "Mr. Goodbar." A catchy name; that's what everyone liked. As if giving a catchy name to the press was a step to finding a killer. Mulder thought it was a step backwards. The longer he was with this job, the more he liked the Bureau's UNSUB, for 'unknown subject.' Don't give these fucks the satisfaction of re-reading their news clippings with a hard-on. When Ressler and Douglas were doing prison interviews of convicted serial killers, they noted that most of the killers had avidly followed the publicity. But they didn't read the papers to learn how to avoid capture; it was to relive the thrill sexually. He carefully pinned the pictures of the victims to one of the bulletin boards. It was good to remember that these people were real, not just stats in a crime report. Seven women, one of whom may have sat next to you on the subway, who smiled at you when you held a door open for her as she tried to gather up her belongings. He stood still for a moment. Could this guy be a commuter? Is that why the killings were so spread out? You got to know the other passengers on the train, in a vague way. They became imprinted on one's subconscious, so your memory, running on reminders to buy toilet paper and change the water in the aquarium, would tell you that 'her face is familiar' but nothing else. He stepped backwards, and sat down in one of the office chairs. It made sense. These ladies didn't seem like the type to pick up a Mr. Goodbar and take him home, just like that; they would know that was risky behavior. He leaned back, his chin on one hand. He reluctantly thought of Scully, and what she had said in her report of how she met Ed Jerse -- met him in a tattoo parlor she was surveilling, struck up a conversation, exchanged phone numbers. He had asked her out. She had accepted. They went to dinner. They. . . Mulder was oblivious to the two other agents in the room, as he scrawled his notes on the case files. Someone had to see these women with this guy. He just didn't just whisk them out of a commuter train. Had he eaten dinner with them, had a few drinks? Just once? Maybe more than once. Maybe he staggered these killings out over such a length of time because he was in different stages of a relationship with each one. He was had been killing one woman every eleven to twelve months. Why was he speeding up? He probably read all the books on profiling, Mulder thought. A functional killer. Extremely organized. Self- employed, or with an extremely flexible schedule. But how frustrating to him, not to be able to relive the butchery, except by playing with whatever trophies he had taken. Now came the hard part; they would have to start looking at all of the crime scene reports, all the autopsies, and looking for similarities. There was no handy "FBI-Find- the-Killer" computer program. One of Wallace's staff would help him, but he had to tell them what to look for. He opened up his laptop and pulled up an old folder for comparing details of crime scene. He started modifying it to ask for candles? Music? Weapon? Gags? Tape? And while doing that, he made his own checklist. Get the investigation reports, and read them, looking for the descriptions of the last people to be seen with the women. See if the relatives or friends reported anything missing from the home, something small the killer took. Write up his suppositions, so no one thought he just sat here and waited for the Death Fairy to tell him where to look. He was reaching for his notebook, when the idea hit him. Chat rooms. Newsgroups. But even as he wrote the words down, the idea struck him as too facile. This guy wanted to see what he was getting. Still, somebody was going to have to look for all the computer accounts. That would give the hackers something to do other than search for the next disabling virus. He wished he could have the Gunmen look at the hard drive itself. Well, why not? When he got up to get a soft drink, it was already one in the morning. Surprised, he looked at his cell phone. Battery dead again. He didn't feel tired, though, and went back upstairs to read. ++++++++++ Scully tried calling Mulder before she took her sleeping pill, but his cell phone didn't respond. That was par for the course. She got in bed, and sat smoothing the coverlet for a few moments. She had finished reading her half of the reports. In a way, it was a relief to read about a serial killer. That was within the realm of human behavior. True, heinous behavior, but not behavior that defied all classification. She wasn't being dismissive of her entire career in the X- Files. It was just easier, sometimes, to operate in known areas of law enforcement. Mulder had no idea whatsoever how often she had had to be a buffer between him and the world, basically. Trying to explain him to cops, to witnesses, to waitresses. It wore her down. She loved Mulder dearly, but mostly in the abstract. She had her most tender thoughts about him when she was out of his actual presence for a while. When she was in the office with him, he took up all the air. Hell, he took up all the air even when they were standing in an open field. Yes, he was and would always be a hero, but heroes were damned hard to live with. He had agreed with her that the Conspiracy was over; he wasn't searching for his sister; he had buried his mother. True, Spender had performed that little bit of unauthorized brain surgery on Mulder, but the specialists who examined him later found no physical impairment, and the Cancerman had vanished in a cloud of smoke. She didn't want to think about Cancerman. She was getting drowsy, and she slid down into the cool sheets. Without a global conspiracy to fight, Mulder was left chasing the same old Monsters of the Week he had been chasing seven years ago. Some days, listening to Mulder do his best to sabotage his career----no, his life----Scully would think that she actually preferred his hospital stays. Then, she was merely afraid for his physical self, not about him being suspended without pay, or of the sneers of his so-called colleagues. He had never admitted, since his sarcastic words at their first meeting, that he cared, but 'she 'cared, for him. At this point in their lives, she thought Mulder saw her as some kind of sexless amalgam of his mom and his sister. If her family only knew; she bet they all assumed she was having sex with Mulder. Hah. He couldn't shut up long enough. She was not worried about herself; Kersh had cleared all the crap from her personnel file after his New York rookie had shot her. It was her little price for not creating a huge uproar. And that was nothing compared to what she could have made of Jeffrey Spender's resignation and disappearance. No one had seen him leave the office, and the surveillance cameras had mysteriously blanked. Scully had enjoyed messing with Kersh's mind. She didn't bother telling Mulder. She didn't want to hear him bitching. He didn't know how good she had gotten at this, at being a corporate weasel, since he himself didn't bother to work the system. No, it was Mulder who worried her. And she was so tired of worrying about him. She finally slept, and did not dream. ++++++++++ He wanted more than this, somehow. He had spent years at this profession, laboring alone. Yes, the work was a reward in itself, but somehow he wanted an acknowledgement of sorts. Some kind of recognition of his stature in the community would be pleasant. He had to admit he didn't need the spotlight that went with recognition. Could he function with the glare of the world upon him? He rolled over and looked at the woman in bed with him, sound asleep. He wasn't ready to give up the security of his private life for recognition, at any rate. He smiled to himself. It was all about patience, cunning, and control. How did the hunter become the hunted? Through stupidity. Like Bundy. He just lost it. He could have still been hunting his prey in the Northwest, but he got greedy and crazy. The UNSUB dozed beside his sleeping companion, his plain white pillowcase one he had taken from Alexandra Brown's linen closet. His dreams were enjoyable. +++++++++++ "Come back to bed, Carla," the killer had said. And she did, and he slaughtered her, and played in her blood. Or so Mulder thought. Dabbled in her blood? Painted himself in it, and looked in the mirror to see how the blood dripped down his chest? Had he noticed, by now, that real blood wasn't like the movies at all - that it was alive and warm for a short time, and then it died. It ran freely at first, then it got sticky and gluey and stopped moving until it was finally inert. Just like 'Her' on the bed. Mulder focused on the wallpaper, on the headboard, on the footboard, all wiped. He wiped everything, but Mulder knew he couldn't resist playing in her blood, the way someone might not be able to resist tracing a fingertip in spilled wine. But even Merlot wasn't the same as blood; it didn't have the same texture, the same color, the same bouquet. Mulder thought the smell came from the iron, but he wasn't sure. He would have to ask Scully what elements in spilled blood caused that smell. Later. For a change, Scully wasn't standing with him at a crime scene. Mulder had brought one of the agents from Wallace's unit with him, Henderson, one of the guys who had picked up his notes and straightened out the police files Mulder had riffled through. The man stood back, not touching anything, only his eyes moving. Funny how non-X-Files work got him an entourage. "He's escalating," Mulder said, and tried to recall if he'd heard the agent's first name. Shaggy hair. "Why?" the agent asked. Mulder didn't answer him. Maybe he wouldn't ask Scully about the smell; sometimes, she couldn't tell the difference between his curiosity and what she considered morbid speculation. She was probably as happy as she could be, reading all the forensic reports and writing her own. Facts: Scully thought facts told everything. And she was right, of course, but he had never been able to explain to her that 'flash' of vision, that instant replay of the killer-cam that he saw at times. Frank Black, that grim burned-out case; he understood. Mulder was getting too close to thinking about his Happy New Year memories. The kiss that went no where, that Scully seemed to forget about. He turned his attention back to watching the morgue guys place the corpse in the bag. Carla Canterell was a corpse, now. The photographer was still taking pictures. UNSUB had spent a lot of time with her, while she was alive and while she was dead. She was finally missed at work, and the employees at the coffee shop had called the owner, who called the police. They saw the body as soon as they stepped inside; it, and the bed, was in a direct line, straight through the bedroom door. "Dead about two days," the medical examiner had just speculated. "I'll know more when we do the autopsy. With the low temperature in the room, I can just guess. Could be longer." He looked at his watch. "This is Tuesday? She could have come back here as early as Friday with the guy, but I'm thinking----just estimating----Saturday night, Sunday morning." "So he could have been here----" Mulder didn't realize he was thinking aloud, until he saw the doctor nod. "Yeah, he could have killed her right away, or killed her Tuesday. We'll look at what she's eaten." Mulder idly watched the man peel off his latex gloves and noted the tiny puff of talcum that hung in the air. "Let me know if you see anything that looks like he touched her with his gloves off. I'm thinking he couldn't resist touching her with his bare hands," he said. "We probably won't be lucky enough to find a print." The medical examiner grinned, to Mulder's mild surprise. "Or even a print on an eyeball. You know, like in 'Manhunter'?"' They stepped aside to let the gurney come out with the body bag. "Is that the medical examiner's movie of choice?" Mulder asked. "No, but I liked it better than 'Silence of the Lambs.' And the professionals, not the rookie, caught the bad guy, in the first one. I haven't seen a movie yet that gives my office a break. We always overlook the vital clue. Don't talk to me about Quincy. Well, I'll get my report to you soonest." He raised his hand in farewell, and left. "What's the big hurry, my man? Why have you stepped up the pace?" Mulder glanced up, but he hadn't actually spoken that thought. He was spoiled, too used to Scully being there to listen to him thinking aloud. The killer had picked and chosen through the woman's CDs to set just the right mood. He had taken what was there - silk scarves, artificial flower arrangements, crystal, candles - and brought all the things into the bedroom ---- Mulder turned to the County Homicide investigators. Everyone was wearing the standard white cotton jumpsuits. They has already shown him the men's running shoes in the closet, but even they were willing to believe this wasn't the killer's cherry. He had done this before, and knew what he liked. "Look, guys," he began, his very earnestness stopping their low-voiced mutterings. "You guys may not believe in profiling. You may not want the Feds in on this case. But here's something I want you to think about." He paused, looking around to catch everyone's gaze. Even that of the homicide investigator, who was standing near the door with the usual I've-seen-it-all expression; Mulder was almost pleased. 'I'm acting,' he thought, 'but so what? You have to get the attention of the class before you teach them anything.' "This guy wants publicity. He wants someone to leak something, anything, to the papers. To the morning shows. And when it does leak, and he does get the publicity, he'll sit in his living room and whack off to it. As you can see, he's a sick bastard." He thought he had their attention, and dropped his voice to a lower, intimate pitch. "Let's not give him what he wants, for just a while. Let's keep it quiet. I know I can't stop you from talking to your buddy, or your wife, or whoever. But try. Please don't gratify him any further." He straightened up and his voice turned bland again. "I need pictures of all this, of course. Get a lot of close-ups of all this stuff. We need to know where everything was the way the victim had it, so see if you can get some shots that the relatives can look at for more than two seconds. And we're going to need to Luminol the place. It's too clean for the kind of wounds she's got." "Think he did it in the bathroom and moved her?" one of the techs asked. "Maybe. Do the whole fucking apartment. Find out what station that is on the radio. And see if any neighbors heard it go on." Mulder walked over to the window, and caught the contemplative gaze of --- David, Dave Henderson, from Violent Crimes. That was his first name. "What? Surprised I can work and play well with others?" Henderson glanced around for a moment, seeing who was within earshot. "You know how you thought Reston PD missed the victim's underwear on the first search?" Mulder was almost impressed. Someone was actually reading his reports. "Yeah?" "I don't think they overlooked them. I checked with the victim's family, and the extra key was missing. I think the fucker went back and put the panties there. I bet the stuff on them isn't hers. I bet they're from his girlfriend, or some other victim." Henderson made a grimace of disgust. Mulder felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. "I bet they are, too." He gave Henderson an appraising stare, which the other agent bore with unblinking calm. "Come with me," he said. ++++++++++++++ Scully had given more of her focus to the last two medical examiner's reports, reading the transcripts as well as the formal documents. The problem with her report was that she was getting less a picture of the UNSUB, and more a picture of the victim. The victims were single women, successful women, with good jobs and decent cars and good apartments, just like her; with savings accounts and good working wardrobes, just like her; childless, with no significant other. Just like her. ++++++++++ There was no one around except the three uniformed cops, the homicide detectives, and the crime scene technicians. They were all blank-faced, trying to be cool. There was a double bonus in killing in a small city; a crime scene outside their experience shocked the cops, and that very lack of experience kept them from finding any mistakes. The UNSUB very much doubted if these guys would even think of a serial killer. They would go look at Carla's ex- boyfriend, poor bastard. His shoes were still in her closet, and a prescription bottle belonging to him was in her medicine cabinet. As the cops came down the front steps, he studied them. Nope. The technicians were taking the body bag down now. One of the plainclothes detectives, with a long dark overcoat and a bad haircut, watched them. He clearly didn't have any ideas beyond his next cup of coffee. No danger there. He placed his palm over his groan, and grinned. Not a tingle. He was too marvelously satisfied. Carla had exceeded his hopes. ++++++++++++++ The investigators agreed that they would keep the Canterell apartment under surveillance in case the guy decided to play another joke on them. Her door key was still on the keyring in her purse, so he hadn't taken that one. "Our luck, she didn't have a spare key here," Henderson commented sourly. Mulder barely nodded. 'Why is the killer escalating?' he wondered. At home, Mulder played his messages as he tugged off his tie and unbuttoned his collar and cuffs. A testy one, from Scully. As usual, she didn't leave any real message, just "I want you to look at this." Look at what, he wondered? Why does everyone have to be so mysterious? Obviously, something of interest, but not groundbreaking. And why didn't she call him on his cell, at the scene? He checked it before he dropped it on the desk. Batteries good. Several messages were from Amanda; they said, simply, that she was hot for his body. He thought about calling her back, as he dropped his clothes on the bathroom floor, but he was too tired to chat, or to wait around for her to show up. He wasn't getting dressed and going out again. What was the trigger? What made the killer step up the pace so drastically? Was he that comfortable? The shower didn't answer. ++++++++++++ Amanda knew he probably didn't want to see her, but she was going to his place anyway. She wanted to unbutton his collar and bite the base of his neck. She wanted to lick the spot where his tie nestled. She knew he was all wound up and interested in this case, and that she would have to keep pretending to have no further ambition than to be his fuck-buddy, but she didn't care. ' Why tell him that she was starting to think of him all the time?' she thought. 'Just stay cool.' She didn't have anything else to do tonight, anyway. She threw her trench coat over her latest Vicky's Secret teddy, and got in the car with an ice bucket and champagne. She hoped it wouldn't tip over, but it was hidden nicely in the backseat in her laundry basket, under folded laundry. She got to Mulder's place just in time for him to step out of the shower and answer the doorbell, toweling off. Mulder wasn't sure he was in the mood for Amanda, but he undid the bolts and let her in. Shit, she had driven over to him. Why not? She had a bottle of champagne. She gave him a dazzling, open-mouthed smile. She put on the persona that he expected of her -- the free spirit, the sensualist. The woman who would do you on your own desktop. Or hers. It was what he expected, what he was comfortable with. She excited him with her conversation, and with her underwear, or lack thereof. He took the ice bucket from her as she walked in, closed and bolted the door behind her. Ss she slithered out of her raincoat he let his bath towel fall to the floor. ++++++++++ Mulder loved the new mattress, but thought, 'Damn, maybe I should have kept that waterbed.' He also loved his new thick pillows, and was presently propped against them as Amanda straddled him, arching her back and moaning with every breath. He had the radio playing loudly, to drown her out when she got louder. He slid further down, holding her hips, and picked up the soft plastic vibrator. Amanda opened one eye. "Oh, no," she giggled. "Oh, yes," Mulder said, moving beneath her. He put the vibrator on her clit and slowly moved it back and forth. She stiffened, snapping her head back so hard he thought she would get whiplash. "Oh noooooo----" +++++++++ Scully threw down her cell phone on the passenger seat and got out of the car. Damn that Mulder - he was probably just watching basketball and just didn't want to pick up. He had turned off his phones, and was not answering his e- mail or IM. She pulled out his apartment key and ran up the steps. Outside his door, she thought she heard something. Odd sounds. She opened the door, and walked in, softly closing the door. Moaning. She heard him moaning. Without thinking, she drew her service weapon and stepped carefully into Mulder's bedroom, only to stop short, gun still held at her side, staring. Scully never knew if she really saw everything in one flash, or if she recreated the picture later. She thought she saw the naked back of a blond woman, bouncing on Mulder's hips. He was facing Scully. She noted his large hands spanning the woman's hips, the woman's hair slashing back and forth in the candlelight as she rocked in ecstasy, his long hairy legs sprawled under her, the vibrator in his hand, the gold of Mulder's skin. The woman's moans began to turn into shrieks. Her hands were flailing at Mulder's shoulders. A flush burning from her hairline all the way to her chest, Scully turned and fled. She closed the door carefully behind her, and then she realized, as she stood shaking in the hallway, that she still held her gun. She holstered it. Through the door she leaned against, she could still hear them. Mulder having sex. Having sex that didn't involve a video and a jar of Vaseline. Her stomach heaved, and she raced downstairs to her car and her bottle of Diet Pepsi. ++++++++++ That night, she relived the scene in her dreams. Again, she walked into a darkened apartment, lit by candles, music playing. She heard Mulder's moans, and again drew her gun. When she stepped into the bedroom this time, he was propped up against the headboard. He looked at her over the woman's shoulder, a long, unembarrassed look. Again the heat washed over Scully. 'Seen enough?' he seemed to be saying. He didn't stop what he was doing; on the contrary, he bent forward and took the woman's nipple in his mouth. Her moans became screams, and she rocked back and forth, riding Mulder. Scully stood and saw all of it, until the woman came, and Mulder still watched Scully with that unreadable stare. Scully woke up shaking. She sat up and turned on the light, and was getting out of bed, when she had a frightening thought. The candles, the loud music - was Mulder consciously using his own sex life to re-enact the scene of the murders? ++++++++++ "Profiling," said Mulder. "is a load of horseshit." He swiped a hand over his forehead. Henderson blinked up at him, then shrugged. "I mean, it's a fun intellectual exercise and all that, but we don't actually 'catch' anyone, now, do we?" Refusing to be drawn into an argument, Henderson pulled his goggles back down over his eyes, and kicked backwards from the side of the pool, resuming his laps. They were at the gym for an early morning swim/review of the case. Mulder finished toweling his chest, as he paced the concrete and waited for Henderson to come back from his last lap. This had gone on for the past hour and a half; Mulder would meet Henderson at the end of one lap, and torment him by letting him hear Mulder's streaming audio of random thoughts. Henderson would swim a lap and come back with Mulder's rantings nicely aligned in his head and recite them, in time for Mulder to postulate a new theory. Henderson was a solemn sort, not given to smiling and laughing. At least he didn't roll his eyes at Mulder's jokes. Mulder liked the fact that his hair was longer and shaggier than any other agent in the unit. But that was the only sign of an individual personality. "Ugly Dave" Henderson, so-called because he was the most handsome man in his year at Quantico, swam back to where Mulder stood, holding on to the side of the pool. "Okay, go on." Mulder smiled unpleasantly. "It's the beat cops. They pull the idiot over, and find duct tape rolling out of the van. Or the homicide detective who keeps going down the list of tips, until he finds that one from the killer's nosy neighbor. Oh sure," he raised one hand to stop Henderson from interrupting, although the other man hadn't opened his mouth. "We look good. Our profile confirms it. We go to court, and work with the district attorney, and manipulate the defendant into freaking out on the stand. But can we really say we've 'caught' him?" "Wallace is screaming for the profile," Henderson said. "I assume you're working on it?" "It's almost done," Mulder said. "But I don't know what connects the victims." He resumed his prior train of thought. "We have different jurisdictions, different detectives, different DAs. No one wants to start a task force with 'their' money. So what we're doing is useless." "It's not useless," Henderson replied, taking his goggles off, and squinting at one of the lenses. "And I think the randomness is pre-meditated, to keep them in different jurisdictions." "Yeah," Mulder agreed. "Too randomly random." "Are you planning on sharing the profile with the rest of the class, or do we just sit around in a holy circle and watch you think?" "I just can't think of where he's meeting them," Mulder said fretfully. "On trains? He has to be really reassuring. Someone really gratifying. He travels back and forth, like a salesman with a big territory. He never kills at a hotel; he's always at their place. So he's able to get in. But these women don't seem the type to be interested in a quick fuck." "We don't know that, Mulder," Henderson said. "I know you're thinking of the safety issue, but thousands of people still hook up at bars and go home with strangers. They don't ever think it can happen to them. Look at the murders in London last year. Several gay men were murdered, and they knew a killer was out there, but the camera crews still showed that the bars were full." "That's a totally different lifestyle," Mulder said impatiently. "These women are in the thirties. The sexual revolution is over." "Just because 'you' strike out---" Henderson grinned suddenly, and Mulder realized why Henderson didn't smile; he was almost too attractive. The smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. Mulder shivered, looking down into Henderson's suddenly wide-eyed gaze. A memory? He never talked to anyone at the pool. A scratch of memory, like leaves rattling down a sidewalk in the wind. 'Krycek. Years ago. The last time I talked to another agent about what I do.' "I'm going," he said abruptly. "I need to pick up Scully. I want her to see the Luminol results." Henderson held the pool ladder and watched Mulder walk back to the locker room, his face blank. +++++++++++ He could hear his cell phone ringing in the locker. Naturally, it stopped as soon as he spun the combination. Impatient, he shook it out of his gym bag, and was rewarded by seeing it drop out of his fingers and clonk onto the floor. After a moment, he scooped it up and checked the message. It was Amanda. He hefted the phone on his palm. Call her back? Had he seen her enough? Did he have the time? No. Later. He put the phone in the bag and began to dress. ++++++++++ What was 'with' Scully and the bathroom? Mulder hated to accept anything to drink at her apartment, for fear he would have to pee. And he always had to pee while he was there. Her bathroom looked cleaner than her kitchen. For starters, he couldn't tell what was the towel to use to dry his hands - they were all pristine. He alternated between sitting on the toilet to pee (to make sure no drips) and standing and aiming with excruciating care and 'still' being convinced he'd missed. Using the first method, he laboriously cleaned the seat with toilet paper; the second method, he wiped down the floor. Either way, it took forever. And he still couldn't tell which towel to use. No matter what he did, Scully would give him a narrow-eyed scrutiny that made him feel guilty. "Oh, fuck me," he said, looking in her mirror. He still smelled of chlorine; he had to get some swimmer's shampoo. He thought of Henderson, suddenly. 'A guy like that - that's who we're looking for. A good looking guy, a nice guy, nice build, good boring job, clean car, nice suit. What are Henderson's alibis?' Wallace had told Henderson to give Mulder all the assistance Mulder wanted, but he seemed surprised that Mulder had picked Henderson. Because Henderson, despite his longish hair, was such a model boy? ++++++++++ Scully always wondered what the hell Mulder found to occupy him so long in her bathroom. He took forever to flush, and ran the water long enough to bathe; she would later find half the toilet paper gone. She wondered if he was scrutinizing the contents of her medicine cabinet, or looking for sex toys. He couldn't be masturbating, could he? Oh, wait, no -- that would be her brothers, when they were in junior high. She wished she hadn't put her car in the shop, or that she had just taken a cab. The autopsy on Carla Canterell had taken forever, and the garage had been long closed when she called to see if all the work was done. Now, as he carefully closed the door behind him, his cheekbones grew slightly darker. "Ready?" he asked, a little gruffly. She held up her bag and keys, to indicate she had been waiting on him all along. He brushed past her, and opened the door. ++++++++++ Mulder was once again going through his patented bag of tricks. There they all were - Scully, Skinner, Wallace, Henderson, all sitting around a table - and there he was at the head, with his notes and his theories. Patterson always claimed profilers had a hard on when they presented. Mulder always thought that was why Patterson didn't like women profilers. What could he say about them, that they had to be wet? Patterson's misogyny was blatant; despite federal guidelines, females in his department weren't given anything meaningful to do. Mulder never had an erection during a presentation. He was willing to bet, had he ever looked, Patterson would have. Patterson, Mulder acknowledged, should have been locked up a long time ago. Jesus, he did NOT want to go see Patterson. "The UNSUB is, as always, a white, middle-class male who has a good ability to converse and charm his victims. One theory could be that he is meeting the women on the Internet, but so far, analysis of the computer hard drives available to us has shown no common links. He could just as easily be meeting them in coffee shops or yuppie bars." He took a drink of water. "He has to be in a position to charm these women enough to get access to their apartments. We don't know if he accomplishes this at the first meeting with them, or at a later time. The police reports from the cases outside this area don't show any indication of new boyfriends, dates, or the like. In this area, one victim, Carla Canterell, had an ex-boyfriend, but he was at a wedding during weekend of her murder; out of town the Friday night at the rehearsal party, at the wedding all day Saturday, at a brunch the next morning, got back in Sunday night. The homicide guys grilled him pretty thoroughly, and he's not our guy. Not that we thought he was." "So where are we?" Wallace asked. "Well, unless you want to start an official push and crank up the publicity machine, nowhere." Mulder sat down in his chair. "Really, we don't know where he's getting them. We've got the computer guys looking at the two hard drives we have. We've put the locales into our computer, and there's no pattern. He could be a salesman, he could be anyone. We haven't got a single print, a single eyewitness who saw a man with any of these women. All we've got is me and my Ouija board, and it's not answering me yet." Before Wallace could speak, Henderson stepped in. "Mulder and I think the UNSUB operates in a fixed area, dictated by his travels to and from his home base. The first seven took place around a Boston hub; now it's a DC hub." He glanced at Mulder, who gave him a little nod. 'Asskisser,' Scully thought. 'Pretty boy hoping Mulder will be your ticket up. Mulder is such an idiot. His paranoia never kicks in at the right time.' "You think his schedule is dictated by commutes in and out of DC?" Wallace asked, sitting back in his chair. "He could even be an airline pilot," Mulder said, looking at Henderson. "He could be picking them up at the airport. That could be a reason why he uses a weapon from the scene; he doesn't want to be caught with one on him." "We don't have all the credit card records yet," Henderson added, staring back at him. "We'll get them," Wallace said. "Our prosecutor can get a warrant. Mulder, be sure the local guys don't get mad. Share your results. I don't know what the hold up is on the Luminol results, but they're being rushed. The expert is one of the best. She's doing it millimeter by millimeter." He held out his open palms. "Anything else?" Scully sat up straighter, picking up a lab report from her folder. "The underwear our investigators found in the Reston apartment could very well be a plant. The pubic hairs didn't match up with the victim's. And there was no semen on them. No saliva or hairs on the bra." She held out another sheaf of papers. "I've prepared a report of my thoughts on the similarities of the victims." His eyebrows raised slightly, Mulder plucked one of the copies out and riffled through it. "Anything else from the autopsy?" "It's all there," Scully said shortly. "One more thing," Mulder said. Scully stared hard at the table. "It's a cliche, but we're also looking for something that precipitated this sudden escalation. And his total contempt of the last victim--- displayed so she's the first thing seen. But there's going to be either a significant stressor in his life, or----" Henderson fed Mulder the straight line. "Or what?" "Or he's just a real pro." "Back to work, campers," Wallace said, standing up. Everyone filed out. Scully watched Henderson help Mulder gather up his papers, holding their cups of coffee. She felt a bubble of anger in her chest. "Oh, please, Henderson. You two are too sweet together. When is the wedding?" Mulder was caught off guard, but Henderson looked her straight in the eyes. "So it's true what they say, Agent Scully. 'You're' the nut, and Agent Mulder is your handler." Scully went white, and took a step forward; Mulder blocked her. "Get a grip, Scully. You can't tell a guy he's blowing me and expect him to ignore it. What's the matter with you? Maybe you should go home and take a nap." He snorted. "And a ba----shower. You still have that morgue smell." He wheeled away and was already out the door, Henderson at his heels. In the elevator, Henderson sipped at his coffee. "She must think I'm invading her territory. Maybe it's your work that's made her so possessive," he offered pacifically. "What do you mean, our work?" Mulder stabbed at the floor buttons. "Well, that's the gossip. That she doesn't have any friends in the Bureau but you. That's she's worried you'll leave the X-Files and she'll have to go back to Quantico. That's all I've heard." Henderson looked at him over the rim of the cup. "Everyone talks about you two and your basement, you know." "Jeeze. I know she thinks I have no life, but this is ridiculous." Mulder stabbed the button again and gave Henderson an oblique look. "The Bureau still doesn't like gays, no matter what the party line says. It's not funny for her to go around saying shit like that." "But, Mulder, it really IS your ass I'm after," Henderson said earnestly. "She's just enabled me to bring my feelings out in the open." "Sorry, Dave, I'm already involved with the Wizard's star forward," Mulder said solemnly. "But I've always thought Skinner was a leather bar waiting for customers." Henderson choked on his coffee. ++++++++++ That evening, Scully took Mulder's hateful advice and took a long, hot shower. She began touching herself, but she couldn't come. She was crying when the water went cold and she got out. Still wet, she wrapped herself in a towel and went to her toy drawer. Some of this stuff she hadn't thought about for a while. Weeping, wet hair in her face, she lay on the bed and thought about strangers, then about Ethan. She finally threw down the vibrator and took a sleeping pill, without breaking it in half this time. ++++++++++ Mulder bent Amanda over his dining room table. She gasped at the cold smooth surface; at the same time, Mulder slapped her ass. She jerked, and tried to hold on to the edge, but the table was too wide. He paused, brushing his fingers back and forth lightly over her clit. She felt her palms sticking to the wood. Every time they were together, they were wilder and she came harder. "Wider," he said roughly. She spread her thighs, and felt his finger slide into her. At the same time, he smacked her. She was an almost electric sensation. Then he took his finger away. "Oh, God," she hissed. "Don't stop." "Stay there," he said. She waited, wetter than she had ever been with him before. When he came back, she heard a hum, then felt the soft plastic of her vibrator. After he had eased it to the right spot, the spot that made her gasp and writhe, he began spanking her rhythmically with the other hand. She came at least three times, screaming with her face pressed into her forearm. Then, Mulder turned her onto her back, and lifted her up on to the table. He followed, ignoring the creaks, and without preamble, pushed into her. The feel of the table on her burning skin, his near silence as he fucked her, and above all the over-stimulation, utterly undid Amanda. She screamed his name and kept on screaming, and coming, and coming, clawing his back and slapping at his arms, until he came and they both collapsed. ++++++++++ In her scrubs, Scully bent over the autopsy protocols on Carla Canterell. She leaned on one of the stainless steel counters, flipping the pages with her free hand. Usually, she could be totally absorbed in a report, but she couldn't focus today. Why had she said that to Henderson yesterday? Could she be so cynical that she discounted any support either of them got? Was she so alienated from mainstream law enforcement after years of conspiracies and ghosts? Henderson checked out; but, of course, so had Alex Krycek, and what a----she swerved away from thinking of him, because she would start thinking about Melissa. She couldn't go there. No. Instead, she straightened up and went to the cold room. She wanted to look at the body one more time before they released her. With the ease of long practice, she braced her weight and pulled open the body drawer. Carla had been pretty once; that was almost a cliche. Scully had spent years looking at women who had once been pretty, once been alive, until some suspect decided he could do whatever he wanted to her. And true, the murderers didn't go free; the ones that managed to survive being captured were usually rotting away in prison. But they still had done it. Carla was still dead, her once pretty face swollen from blows, her most tender flesh torn from shallow cuts. All she had wanted was someone to hold her, Scully thought. And Scully could 'see' it, in flashes, just like Mulder told her he saw things; just as he said. She saw them walking into the apartment, kissing; pulling off each other's clothes. Did they take a shower together? Did he make her come in the shower, so she was ready to agree to anything? Scully didn't have Mulder's infamous memory, but she thought back to the crime scene photos. All the bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash were on the floor beside the tub. Perhaps it looked ordinary, but not in a bathroom where all the other cosmetics were lined up like little soldiers. Yes. He had Carla so enraptured by the wine and great, gentle sex, that when he wanted to go further, she had agreed. He probably made her come a couple of times before she began to get frightened. And when he put on the latex gloves, she couldn't get out of the bonds of her own scarves and belts. Scully didn't quite have her eyes fill up. She stretched out her own latex-covered hand to Carla's hair. Then she stopped, looking at her glove. She had an unprofessional impulse to take it off; but repressed it, and gently touched Carla's hair, still richly blonde. "We won't forget," she whispered. She looked around, embarrassed. There was no one else there to see her. She blinked, and looked again. "Hey, George?" she called to the diener. "Can you help me turn her? I want to look at her back." "Sure, Dr. Scully. I'm coming." ++++++++++++ "Hello, Clarice," Patterson said, and then laughed. Mulder rolled his eyes at Henderson. They were in the secured visitors' area, just outside the violent ward at the mental hospital. Although Patterson was locked behind steel bars and Plexiglas, he still made Mulder edgy. There was a bench bolted to the floor behind Patterson, but he stood with his back at the door. "Who's your friend?" Patterson resumed, even though Henderson had displayed his badge. "Why do you need company?" "Standard Bureau procedure during prison interviews," Mulder replied. "You should know. You instituted the policy." He heard the scraping of hard plastic on concrete as Henderson pulled the picnic chairs up to the glass panel. Henderson did not look at Mulder, but he fairly bristled with "I've got you're back." On his side, Patterson still stood, still trying to project his old authority. "I was just kidding you," he said. "I'm really happy to see you." He was speaking to Mulder, but looking at Henderson, who returned his gaze stolidly. "And your pretty friend." "Jeeze, Bill, enough with the gay act," Mulder said. "If you're trying to creep me out, you've succeeded." "I forgot how well you know me." There was an unpleasant edge to Patterson's voice. Mulder felt sweat prickling his back. "We're here to ask you about the Baltimore UNSUB." Patterson's eyes widened, and he slowly sat down. "Baltimore." "Just before I left. The love 'em and leave 'em dead guy. If you weren't in. . ." Mulder stopped, and waited. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Henderson's almost involuntary jerk. Mulder was baiting Patterson. "You were the one on his trail, Mulder." Patterson's eyes were as dead as those of any corpse Mulder had ever stood over. "You would have had him if you hadn't left to chase little green men. You----" Mulder interrupted him. "You took the files home with you, wrote notes. Highlighted them. But you didn't write a profile. Or if you did, it's not in the notes at Quantico. What were you going to do?" The man just returned his gaze, smiling faintly, shrugged. "A private profile." Mulder answered himself. "So you could pull a rabbit out of the hat for the Director. You were just trying to protect your job." "You didn't have the balls for the job, Mulder. You couldn't stare into the abyss long enough." "I'm staring into it now," Mulder said. For a moment, he thought he had gone too far, and Patterson would get up and demand to go back to his cell. Instead, his old boss snorted, and leaned forward, nodding in approval. "Good boy. Now, I know you're shy, but this guy isn't. None of your little proactive methods are going to work. And he's not going to get sentimental and go to the gravesite. He's not going to have any guilt about what he's done. If he's Baltimore. Baltimore got worried, because the Homicide crews were staking out upscale single bars. Too much heat, and not the heat he likes." He glanced at Henderson. "Relax, young man. Don't be misled by Mulder bantering with me. He wouldn't be here unless he thought I could help. Tell me about this new fellow." Mulder didn't need notes. "The guy is killing single, well-off, professional women in their homes. No sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. They consent to being tied up, as some part of a sex game. He has sex with them. He probably puts on latex gloves at some point, after he's decided to kill them, and has them secured." "Knife?" Patterson asked. "Plays with the blood?" Despite the blue hospital scrubs, he looked as intense as the supervising agent he had been, and thoughtful furrows wrinkled his forehead. "Sounds like Baltimore. But whatever connection he had to them, or method of selection, is going to be a lot looser. Or a different one. He isn't picking them at random. Victimology, Mulder. Don't forget the victimology." Mulder nodded. "I know. We're checking out all of their backgrounds. But since the task forces don't really know what to look for, they're entering everything in the computers. I mean everything. So far, nothing." He stood up. "So you're saying, we should publicize this? Warn off other women? See if we get any informants?" Patterson smiled, and Mulder waited for the inevitable nasty comment. "God knows you hate to gratify anyone, Mulder, but you have to live with the short term notion of this guy jerking off to his press clippings, with the long term hope that some woman he knows 'right now' will think better before she spreads her legs for him." "Thanks," Mulder said. "I'll let you know." Henderson was already on his feet and opening the door. "Oh, boys?" The two younger men turned around. The former agent was holding his left hand up, as in farewell. There was a homemade tattoo of a gargoyle on his forearm. "Good hunting." The hair on the back of Mulder's neck rose. Henderson closed the door behind them, and they walked together through the corridors until they came to a lobby. Mulder peeled off to the restroom alcove. By the time Henderson caught up with him, catching the outer door before it closed, Mulder was retching into a sink, its taps running, one hand braced on the wall, his other hand neatly holding his tie against his starched shirt. Nothing was coming out. Mulder cupped some water in his hand, and rinsed his mouth. His throat and his stomach muscles hurt. He turned his head and saw Henderson, who probably didn't realize how scared he looked. "That man scares the shit out of me. Always did." Mulder rasped. His eyes were watery, and he snagged a paper towel from the holder and wiped his face. Henderson still had a worried expression. "Come on. So I'm human. Don't be so surprised." "What----" Henderson cleared his throat. "What was that on his arm?" "A gargoyle. If you like, a demon. John Mostow was obsessed by the image. It's never been determined if this is the demon he and Patterson claimed had possessed them, or if use of the image is an attempt to protect themselves from the demon." Mulder tore another towel from the holder, but didn't use it. "Patterson wrote the book, you know. Never went to trial for the copycat killings, because he was raving. He was hysterical, swearing he was possessed. I think he was losing it before he put the three years in on finding Mostow. I don't think Skinner knew he had the tattoo," he added, in a seeming 'non sequitur.' "Wallace doesn't do things like Patterson." Henderson said. "He's afraid someone will blow if they stay in a case too long, so he rotates people out. A lot of Patterson's old team got out, you know. They were afraid to ask for a transfer while he was still in charge." Mulder didn't answer, thinking hard. Henderson took a step forward. "Mulder?" Mulder straightened up, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. "That fucker had a suspect." Henderson blinked. "So that's why Wallace and Skinner wanted us----you--- to see him. What is this, a fucking profiler movie?" "Yeah. Nice to know my importance in the scheme of things. My impotence in the scheme of things." Mulder straightened his tie, and turned to face Henderson. "Cheer up, Dave. At least he likes me more than he does Scully. She shot him." "Surely, you aren't suggesting we keep consulting with him?" "Don't call me Shirley. Shit, no. That's going to be as good as it gets. Victimology----that's our clue of the day. Of the month. Of the year." Mulder spun on his heel, and before Henderson realized what he was going to do, smashed the mirror with his fist. He shook the glass shards off his hand, and held the cut under the water. The bleeding didn't stop. "You'll need stitches," Henderson said. "Emergency room, or do you have a regular doctor who patches you up?" His voice and expression indicated that he was quite accustomed to senior agents going ape-shit in the restroom. Mulder had to laugh. He fished his cell phone out his pocket with his free hand, and dialed up Scully. "Scully, it's Mulder. I need stitches on my hand. I broke something. No, not someone. No, I----fine. Dave will take me." He hung up, Henderson was holding out his handkerchief. Mulder took it, and wrapped it around his slashed knuckles. "There's still something wrong here," he said, mostly to himself. Henderson looked even more resigned. +++++++++ "Let's get some close-ups of her entire posterior. There's something in the way the blood pooled----do you notice a pattern?" Scully, George the diener, and one of the Bureau pathologists were taking turns with the magnifier. Scully didn't have more than a passing thought for Mulder's accident. If he could walk and talk, then a few stitches were nothing in the Mulder injury list. The mental damage, though; she was glad he hadn't seen Patterson alone. "Is it inconsistent with the bed linens?" asked the pathologist. She pulled the magnifier up. "Yeah, it is. It's different. It's not like a sheet wrinkling under the body." Scully went back to the table and scanned the file. "We have samples of all her cosmetics, deodorant, body powder? Did someone check to see if this is what's in her hair?" She came back to the table and pointed to a tiny line of white powder just at the hairline. "Let's see," said Dr. Mathis. "She was checked for fingerprints, but he wiped her own pretty well. Cleaned her up. She had bled a lot, but there wasn't a lot of dried blood on her. And I saw that there wasn't a lot of blood at the scene." Scully had walked back to the report. "Are the abrasions on her wrists and ankles consistent with remaining tied, or do you think he took her in the bathroom, killed her there, and re-tied her?" Dr. Mathis shook her head decisively. "No, I'm prepared to state that the pattern of the bruising is ante mortem." Scully flipped the file closed. "Then, he put something under her. Not a towel, but---" Both women leaned over the body, staring, and then their eyes met. "Garbage bags." Scully said. Dr. Mathis strode to the wall intercom and punched a button. To the metallic squawk that emerged, she said, "Mathis. We need the "A" team down here." She turned and caught Scully's nod. "Tell the AD where we are, and that Dr. Scully's with us." ++++++++++ After Mulder produced a rather worn insurance card, an emergency room doctor set a couple of stitches in his knuckles. He was steadily brewing a massive grievance against Skinner. God damn that bald bastard, anyway. When he emerged with his hand bandaged, the preternaturally patient Henderson was sitting sprawled on a molded plastic chair, reading. When Mulder walked up to him, he stuffed a paperback in his jacket pocket, and stood up. "Whatcha reading there?" "Danielle Steel." He bent a tolerant look at Mulder. "I'll let you borrow it. I've marked the hot parts." "Great. Well, I need you to drive me back to my office. My hand's numb." A drizzle had started while they were at the emergency room, and they both pulled on their overcoats. "Your insurance agent must love you," Henderson remarked, stepping off the curb. Mulder had a sour taste in his mouth. He had been set up, once again. Skinner was mistaken if he thought Mulder could either appeal to Patterson's sense of duty, or wrest anything from that mind. If Patterson had been possessed, or thought he was possessed, his demon wouldn't let him help solve a crime. Mulder remembered all too well the strength and power of that demon, whether it was a real force, or just the evil that walked about the world as a raging lion. What he resented, and what was his ancient grudge against Patterson, was being used as the tethered goat to trap the lion. Mulder encountered Skinner in the corridor, just outside the AD's office. The older man, without a blink, led both of them into his inner office, and closed the door. He sat down behind his desk. Mulder stood glaring at him for a moment, Henderson at his back. Skinner finally broke the silence. "You have a problem, Mulder?" "Yeah, I have a big problem. Who had the bright idea that I should talk to Patterson?" Skinner lifted his chin. "Is this a rhetorical question? You were at the meeting." "Yeah, but you forgot a couple of things. Like the fact that Patterson is a raving lunatic who tried to kill me once, and would love to finish the job. By the way, his suggestion is that we publicize the UNSUB." Incredibly, Skinner smiled. "Glad to hear it. So does Wallace. So let's think about what you want to say." "Sir, we're not taking suggestions from a convicted serial killer?" Henderson asked, before Mulder could draw breath to reply. "Not at all," Skinner said. "Agent Wallace and I have been considering it for some time. But what we would appreciate is the task force crafting the publicity." His gaze rested, briefly, at Mulder's bandaged hand. Behind him, as if on cue, a flicker of lightning lightened the dark sky. Mulder knew that he was in a bad movie----probably directed by either Michael Mann or Oliver Stone. Bad things happened to the heroes in those movies. Unless it was really Skinner's movie, and Mulder was just a bit player. "You usually don't approve of my ideas of proper publicity," he said. "Now you're just trying to argue. Is it a bad idea only because Patterson thought of it?" "Back to the first point," Mulder said, his voice uninflected. Skinner had picked up a ballpoint pen and was clicking it. A silence fell, so long and intense that Mulder could hear the pen clicks, and the clink of car keys in Henderson's pocket. Rain rattled on the window. Finally, Skinner spoke. "Wallace was convinced that Patterson had a suspect. He convinced Kersh." Another click of the pen. "We tend to expect too much of you at times, Mulder." Mulder felt some of his tension ease, and he almost swayed. "I expect too much of myself at times," he said. "Patterson may or may not have a suspect If he ever would tell us, it would have been right away. It's useless to go back." Skinner nodded once. Mulder knew that he had confirmed something for the AD. Then the moment was over. "I would like both of you to give me your reports right away." He looked down at some papers on the desk. Mulder almost walked into Henderson, who didn't realize that the audience was over. He opened the door, and they escaped into the outer office. Kimberly was transcribing dictation with her headphone jammed into her ears. "Where are we going?" Henderson asked, unembarrassed. "To my office, in the basement." Henderson did well, until the steel doors of the elevator closed. Then he groaned loudly. "Jesus fucking God, Mulder," he said. "What is this, 'Dancing with ADs?' I don't want to be in this film." "Who does?" Mulder knew he didn't. "I was standing there wondering if I should be updating my resume and what it would be like to be a field agent in West Armpit, Idaho." Mulder, startled, started laughing. "I swear to God, I'll hit you, Mulder." "Skinner's just a big old teddy bear, really," Mulder said. How could he explain that the X-Files had ravaged Skinner's life as surely as they had ravaged Scully's? That Skinner wasn't just their boss, but a reluctant co-conspirator? That Mulder knew how far he could go, how far he could always go? Henderson looked as though he wanted to sit down. When they reached the basement, Henderson blinked at the decor for a moment, then said glanced at the computer. "Boot it up and I'll type. Unless you type with one hand." Mulder shrugged, turned on his laptop and laboriously typed in his password. When he looked up, Henderson was studying one of the bulletin boards. "There's. . .what the hell? There's sunflower seed shells stuck to this picture." He sounded as if he was now beyond all surprise. Mulder thought Dave would have to come out on an X-File sometime. +++++++++ Later that evening, Henderson was driving Mulder home. Heavy traffic and rain slick streets combined to make it a slow journey. Mulder fiddled restlessly with his shoulder belt. Christ, he hated being a passenger. He realized, suddenly, that he didn't want to go home. At the traffic light, he squinted at the street signs. "Can you pull over and let me out at the next block?" The light turned green, and Henderson carefully changed lanes, eased the car to the curb, and double-parked. Mulder opened the door. "Call me when you're on your way out to Quantico, and I'll tell you where I am." He leaned back in to the interior of the car, letting the rain in. "My charm may fail me." "Close the fucking door, Mulder," Henderson said. "I don't want to know." Mulder grinned for the first time in hours. Inexplicably, he was cheerful. "You have a good evening, too." |
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