From: sonny Date: Sun, 26 Sep 99 17:40:14 +1000 Subject: xfc: NEW Mind Games 1; The Profiler 1 of 9 Source: xfc From: sonny Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 1 of 9 Author/Feedback: YES please! Feedback is what feeds writers, without it, we shrivel and die. spider@webspin.org. This is a completed work. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm Category:S, X, MSR, M/angst, S/angst. Skinner...not telling Archiving:Just let me know! Spoilers: General knowledge up to Unnatural, concept rooted in Grotesque but also using something revealed in Biogenesis. Disclaimers: All the bits that they want belong to CC, Fox, DD, GA, MP, et al. All that they don't are mine Rating: WARNING: NC17 for sexual situations, language and VERY disturbing, graphic pedophile violence (taken from real cases, see references at the end). It is not gratuitous, it is contextual, but nevertheless you will find it disturbing; as well you should. I cannot stress this too much. A character takes apparently very dark twists, but hang in there....all will be revealed. Synopsis: A horrific series of child molestations and murders has escalated. The director himself, under political pressure from the Justice Department has no choice but to assign the FBI's best profiler to the case, despite a promise he made ten years previously...But this series of killings has no resemblance to anything anyone in the FBI, including the X-files' Fox Mulder, has ever encountered before. Author's notes: See the end. Thanks: Laurie (Shannara), Daniel, Judie, Meghan and Sandra, for beta reading, and forcing me to re-think again and again and again... Any shortcomings are mine alone. One day David Duchovny, supposedly indifferent to M&S romance, gave us a believable combination of motive and opportunity for the furtherance of the M&S relationship with the final scene in The Unnatural...This world kicks off a couple of hours after that... ********************* This section rated R for disturbing graphic concept ********************* PROLOGUE Day 1 - Saturday Central Hotel - Seattle 7:30 pm >From the journal of Crystal Palmer. It's been so long now that I've almost forgotten what it was like before they came. I hate it more with each passing day. I used to think they were cold, emotionless, but now I know it covers a bleakness of spirit. They walk in here, tall and black. They must all shop at the same store, even the women generally wear black. So formal, like a barricade against the rest of the world. Like undertakers. Before the others came there were only those from the Seattle office who came in for a drink or a meal. They seemed okay, except Forenzzi. None of them ever seriously propositioned me up or talk down to me except for him. A couple of the new ones have asked me out for a drink, but they're never pushy, I'll give them that. And never ever sexist remarks or a slap on the butt, except of course for Forenzzi. In some ways, they remind me of Mormons, too. Always with the short hair, black pants and white shirt, neat tie, polite and softly spoken. It took me a long time to notice the bulge under their arms, or on their hips. We've had cops in here, too, so that didn't bother me. But I never really saw these local agents like cops. The most they ever seemed to talk about was fraud and white collar crime, nothing like this. After the kids were killed and the local P.D. couldn't get any leads, they called in some sort of FBI expert. Then others trickled in, but a trickle turned to a flood when out of state kids were found dead in Seattle. And it made me sick, for they brought with them a darkness. It's awful about the kids, but I think you can - and need to - put it out of your mind. You can't dwell on it all the time, walking around, thinking about the horror. But these people here mean you can't turn it off. There's so much other ugliness on the television, on the news, it angers me, but you can choose to turn it off, or not watch and go back to just living. But with these people, they're here every day and it keeps reminding you. Every minute of every day it hits you fair square in the face. There are monsters out there, living amongst us. Monsters that tear children apart and hang them up on people's clothes and power lines in little pieces, like bloodied sheets out to dry. And it just never goes away. I hate it. I hate that they remind me we are powerless to prevent the monsters. Just look at them, they're no closer to finding out who's doing this than they were a year ago. Dad lives in fear. It's silly, really. No one's going to hurt Jace when the place is crammed full of these guys, these black carrion birds hovering over their awful photos and bits of bloodied clothing. Oh yeah, I know all right. I was cleaning one of the rooms when the new ones arrived, about eight months back. The place smelled of sweat and something else, something I couldn't understand until later. And then I saw the photos on the wall. I couldn't fathom them out at first, so I took a closer look. At first they looked like mannequin parts hanging on a line, like all the arms and legs had been pulled out of a doll. Then it hit me. It was a child. I threw up in the damned toilet. Had a few nightmares over that one, but I would have gotten over it except for them. They kept reminding me. I told them I wouldn't clean the rooms with that stuff hanging around, so they ended up taking over most of the ground floor. Brought their own cleaners in, but after a while the cleaners refused to go in there. I had to start cleaning before the roaches took over. At first it was like I'd hold my breath, but now I'm okay. Then I worried that I'd become accustomed to it. Couldn't win on that one. I talked to one of the agents and he was the one who came up with the breath-holding analogy. Not really, of course, figuratively, just building a wall between it and your emotions. It seems to have worked. I've come to accept it since then, just avoid looking at the pictures and evidence bags. And over the last six months or so I've been helping out, here and there. They're all supposed to be top notch, these feds, but sometimes they can be pretty dumb. Hate to think how many times I've gotten them out of a jam with their software, or jiggled the plugs on their computers, or God save 'em, downloaded stuff. Oh sure, they have technicians across the road, but sometimes it'll take them a day or longer just to come across and tell them all they had to do was check their plugs and re-boot. Crazy. I can't sit back and say nothing. Now, they tend to come and ask me first. I don't mind, especially if it gets them out of here faster. I realize this sounds pretty mixed up, that I could hate them and want to help them. It's just that I want them gone, I want my life back on an even keel...okay, so it wasn't so even to start with but, shit, I hate how I feel at the moment. *************** End prologue Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 2 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 1 Day 1 - Saturday Washington D.C. 11:15 pm Mulder sat back into the folds of the sofa and lifted his bare feet onto the scattered files across the coffee table. He mindlessly rubbed his stomach in satisfaction. "What was the name of that place?" "Rube's," replied Scully. "It's just around the corner." "S'good...wonder if they'd deliver to Alexandria?" Scully grinned as she handed him his coffee. "Sure, Mulder, for an extra twenty bucks." "Mm, in that case I think I'll just come here more often." Scully raised her eyebrow and in a voice tinged with sarcasm replied "Make yourself at home." "Don't I always?" He sat forward and accepted the cup with a quirky grin. It was too hot to drink, so he placed it on the table beside his feet, pushing a file to one side to make room. He closed his eyes and stretched his arms out and above his head before leaning back contentedly in the sofa. Scully sat beside him. Her hands, cold from rinsing their plates, wrapped themselves around the mug. She copied her partner's languorous position and lifted her feet to rest beside his on the table. "So, Mulder, you're trying to tell me that all the great baseball players were aliens. That's an interesting variation on the Bewitched theory." Mulder half lifted one eyelid, dropped and turned his head in mute query. "You never saw the TV program, Bewitched, where all the great ballplayers turned out to be warlocks?" "Scully, you amaze me, you actually watched that show?" "Well, no, but Melissa watched the re-runs. What else did Arthur Dales' brother have to say?...No, no, no...I take that back." Scully shook her head and closed her eyes wondering why on earth she was encouraging him. "Mulder, I don't want to know. Really. I just...don't you ever, just once, just for the hell of it, want to live a normal life?" He rolled his head back and closing his eye replied "We tried that, Scully. It was normal, all right -- my lovely wife Laura came out of the bathroom looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon and made me sleep on the goddamned couch." Scully suppressed a smile at the memory. "Normal life, Mulder, not suburbia." "I'm sitting in my partner's apartment with my feet up, coffee in hand, good meal, warm fire, pleasant company, all of which followed a coupla hours hitting a baseball. What's abnormal about that?" He heard her quiet sigh and grinned in victory, a little surprised, but more than gratified to feel her warm presence. Scully normally sat in the armchair, or on the floor while they worked, ate, or discussed the finer details of some case. Tonight, however was different. Tonight he had unabashedly romanced her. Oh, it was not overt, nothing they couldn't walk away from with just a smile, a pleasant memory and an affirmation of friendship. That she invited him for a takeout dinner was a natural extension of the evening. The partnership had been more than a little strained since the Consortium members were killed. He'd worked hard, in his own peculiar way, to restore the easy camaraderie they once held. Tonight had been the culmination of that. And instinct told him, perhaps something more. He swallowed a little nervously, feeling somewhat like a kid on his first date. Did he want to do this, to risk so much? But where was the risk, really? Just an overture that could easily be interpreted as a tender moment between friends, nothing more. Nothing more. Shit, who was he fooling? They'd played around this for months, ever since that fucking little bee. The horrific consequences brought home what a mistake that might have been. Like so many nights since, it would have been for the wrong reasons. But it would have been just a kiss. Yeah, right. Would six years in the making have allowed him to leave it at that? Who the hell was he kidding? Since then, the moments that might have presented themselves were somehow wrong, off kilter for one or both of them. At least he could no longer castigate himself for cowardliness, he *had* told her he loved her. He could remain comfortable in this warm, deep and loving friendship forever. Why risk all for mere lust? Scully said "You're right, Mulder. It was a good night, I enjoyed it and I'm going to say thank you, now, because tomorrow my arms will curse you." "You just need more practice, Scully." "What are you suggesting, Mulder? That we make it a regular...event?" She'd almost said date, but caught herself in time. "Can't afford it, Scully, not at ten bucks an hour to shag balls!" "Cheapskate, it was only two hours." "Yeah but if we make it weekly, that's twenty bucks a week, eighty a month, over a thousand a..." "Okay, okay, okay... I could solo next time. You pitch and give the kid, and your wallet, a break." Mulder opened his eyes and reached for his coffee. "I'm not sure you're ready for that, Scully." "Oh?" Her eyebrow arched again. "Nope," Mulder sipped from his mug then put it back on the table. He leaned back and placing one arm across the couch behind her, turned slightly to face his partner. Scully felt a sudden rush of nervousness. His warmth and closeness were considerably less noticeable than the hours spent batting. But that situation had been entirely different. His proximity then was in the guise of coaching. Now however, it was in the privacy of her apartment, accompanied by a warm fire and delicious meal. Not a drop of alcohol had been consumed, but Scully felt heady from the evening's sensory experiences. Having a man hold her so closely, in an intimate embrace far more deliberate and provocative than any dance, was unsettling, despite its supposed platonic nature. After Jack, Scully had imposed on herself an unshakeable rule about interoffice relationships. And she'd wrapped that rule around her heart and hormones like a defensive wall after she'd taken one look at her new partner all those years ago. Her mind flicked back to that fateful meeting in Blevins' office. She'd immediately sought out the basement to meet the famous Spooky Mulder. Years of sublimating her emotions, of working twice as hard as her male counterparts to cut through the inherent chauvinism of her chosen profession, had finally paid off. She descended the stairs with ego riding high. Her superiors recognized her professionalism and meticulous skills. She, Dana Scully, had been assigned to pull the FBI's legendary black sheep back into the fold. It would be a pushover. Spooky might have a doctorate in psychology from one of the finest institutions in the world, but he now practiced pseudoscience at best. Her *real* science would walk all over him. Error number one. Dazzled by self congratulations, Scully hadn't thought to check Mulder's file before meeting him. From all she'd heard at Quantico and from reading his Monty Props monograph, Scully expected a nerdy, self-centered, pasty- faced slob. Not that FBI agents were slobs -- quite the contrary. But the profilers she'd seen emerging from the bomb shelter at Quantico were so invested in their work, personal appearances fell by the wayside. And Mulder, ranked the penultimate profiler, must surely be the worst. Scully envisaged a cheap crumpled suit, with dandruff, bad posture, possibly a slight paunch from inactivity, and bad breath. Error number two. Big time. She clearly recalled her first thought as he turned his youthful face up and held out his hand. It went something like, *Oh shit, he's drop dead gorgeous.* The only sign of nerdishness were the glasses, but the lucky bastard was one of those exceptional people whose spectacles somehow conspired with an overly large nose to make him even sexier. It didn't help that expensive clothes hung off his sleek, graceful body as if they'd been tailor- made. Nor did it help that he carried the subtle smell of an equally expensive, very masculine cologne. Scully retained a fixed smile on her face, all the while cursing herself for not being prepared. Attack, of course, was the best defense. When it was clear he'd made the effort to research her background, she immediately fell back on her intellectual achievements, figuring he would not have the scientific background to understand her dissertation. Error number fucking three. She'd ridden through that first meeting the same way she'd ridden through most of her career, by slamming walls around her heart and emotions and super-gluing the surface with a professional facade. Oh, it slipped a bit during their first case... well, slipped a hell of a lot with her dropping her robe in his darkened room. But she recovered it and kept a damned tight hold of it ever since. Mostly. The passing years failed to immunize her against his physical beauty or quirky charm, so the walls had to be regularly replastered with unique Scully tools -- raised eyebrows, pursed lips and, *You don't seriously expect me to believes*. Yet through it all, she found herself adopting his habits of invading personal space, of taking comfort in his familiar, masculine smell, the feel of his hand on her back and regular, small doses of touching. Whenever it looked like getting too close, she double checked the defensive walls, bolted the door and withdrew with crossed arms. Seven years later on a baseball field, as Mulder enveloped her small body with his beautiful, strong maleness and made whimsical observations an inch from her ear, Scully found herself as entranced as that first day in the basement. And cushioning that powerful attraction lay seven extraordinary years of life, of respect and yes, love. Each pull back of the bat and sweeping, powerful stroke forward reminded her of the grace and strength in his streamlined body, of his familiar, slightly-sweaty masculine smell, of his rich voice, of how easily he could control her. Of how easy it had been for her to give up control. Of how much she enjoyed giving up control. To him. The walls were looking decidedly battered, the locks and hinges disappearing with a hundred baseballs amongst the stars. "No, Scully, I'm not so sure you should go solo just yet." He leaned back and closed his eyes again. "Scared I might hit you in the head with a ball?" "No...no, it's just that you need to flow into it a bit more. You're still a little stiff, you need to feel what my body does, then go with it." Scully almost choked on her coffee. Oh she'd felt what his body did all right. No doubt he was peripherally aware of it too, so he'd kept his hips back, but occasional contact was unavoidable. She'd dismissed it as a natural, biological afterthought due to their proximity. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd noticed one of his erections. The way they lived, it was unavoidable. He was a healthy male, after all, and gentleman that he was, took pains to hide them. Tonight was different only in that he had been holding her. Still, for all the potential suggestiveness, it was vague, a shadow feeling only, exactly like his verbal double entendres. Tired of being alone -- and drunk on the emotional warmth of the night -- her subconscious flirted, "Oh it felt pretty stiff to me." Mulder's eyes shot open and his jaw slackened. "The bat Mulder, talkin' about the bat." Scully hid her grin in her mug, shocked at her own riposte. But she also delighted in his bland, panicked look. For years she'd ignored his insinuations; it felt damned good getting in one herself. Flabbergasted was not a word Mulder previously considered attributable to him. Still, he prided himself on a quick recovery. Turning to watch her face he asked "So...you don't think you need coaching, like that, anymore?" "I wouldn't say that." The familiar rules had been bent. How far could he go before Dana backed away and Scully came out to pitch, sending him home before he'd reached first base? "I suppose it depends on whether you liked it or not." He replied, waiting for the retreat. Scully turned her face to his and replied in low pitch, "I liked it." Could she really be flirting as dangerously with the subtext as him? But Scully didn't flirt, that was the rule. His partner never allowed the conversation to continue with implied double meanings... Mulder found himself unable to resist reaching across and tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. Nothing unplatonic about that, he'd done it before. It crossed his mind that he might soon be wearing the contents of the mug she held in her lap and suddenly, the easy way out seemed preferable. Sexual rejection he could handle, but not a personal rebuff. Go home, he thought, pull out a video and relax. Desire warred with the fear of losing her. This could be no one night stand, nor a short fling. This was far more complicated. His hand strayed from her hair and cupped her cheek. He'd done that before, too. That was okay...No, no it wasn't. His nostrils dilated and breathing quickened while his eyes darkened to an emerald green, leaving hers only long enough to watch her lips part in silent acceptance of the anticipated kiss. Scully felt her heartbeat race as she watched his face descend. She had not planned this, had not really believed it would happen after almost seven years of determined masonry around her heart. As his lips grazed hers in chaste overture, she felt every one of those years as arousal suddenly explode through her body, knocking the last vestiges of the walls asunder. He pulled back waiting for her to turn her head away and ascribe the kiss to a gesture of friendship, of, 'Goodnight Mulder it's time you left.' But where his fingers cupped the edge of her jaw, he felt her racing pulse. Her breath was already coming in short pants and her cheeks began to flush. Her eyes remained fixed on his lips and her tongue flickered out to taste where he had been. Good God, she wanted this as much as he did! Delighted and instantly aroused, he lowered his lips to fulfill a promise made in his hallway months before. ******************************* Chapter 1 continued in part 3 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 3 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 1 (con't) Day 1 - Saturday Washington D.C. 11:40 pm A loud knocking on the apartment door startled them both. Adrenaline rushed through Scully. She felt suddenly embarrassed, as if her father had caught her necking on the couch. Throwing her head back she closed her eyes for a moment to recover. Mulder pulled away and rolled his eyes in frustration. Shit! "Expecting someone?" He asked as Scully sat forward and stood. His partner shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. She deposited her cup on the table and moved to the door. Mulder's incipient erection vanished in anticipation of trouble. He fervently wished he'd brought his weapon. Eyeing Scully's gun on the dining table, he strode across and snatched it up, grumbling about bees and fucking persons from Porlock. Scully peered through the peephole in her door. "It's Skinner!" Surprise mixed with confusion in the lilt of her voice. Mulder nodded but with gun in hand moved to the shadows by the wall. Maybe it was Skinner, but then again... Anyone coming into the room would not immediately notice him. Scully opened the door, "Good evening, sir." "Agent Scully, my apologies for coming by unannounced." "Come in." Scully motioned for Skinner to enter. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything..." A.D. Skinner's eyes automatically cornered the apartment until they arrested on Mulder. "No sir," replied Scully "Agent Mulder and I were just going over a few files." Scully gestured for their boss to sit. Mulder replaced the gun in its holster on the table and returned to the living room. "Agent Mulder." Skinner nodded in recognition of the younger man's precaution. It paid for these two to be careful. "Would you like some coffee, sir? It's just brewed." Skinner's detective eyes took in the scene, automatically cataloguing the visible evidence of half filled coffee mugs and scattered files. How many of his other agents spent Saturday nights going over case files? He sighed, contemplating their almost pathological work ethic and wishing that just once, they'd take time out to go see a game, or a movie or something. He subconsciously took for granted that whatever they did, it would be together. Skinner shook his head and sighed heavily, not wanting to do this, but having no choice. "No thanks, I won't stay long. I'll get right to the point. No doubt you are aware of the Seattle Line killings?" Scully froze and out of the corner of his eye, Skinner saw Mulder's eyes close in resignation. Even buried in the basement, in their own unique world of horrors, they could not have missed what had become the FBI's worst nightmare. Skinner clenched his fists, hating himself, his job and the fucking animal that created this situation. The only saving grace was that he was able do this person and not by phone, as urgency had dictated. He continued, "I've just come from dinner at Rube's with the director and attorney general." That explained why Skinner dropped by instead of calling, Scully thought. "I tried calling you," Skinner glanced at Mulder "But there was no answer." Mulder shrugged, he was not obliged to carry his cell phone when off duty, that's what voice mail was for. Knowing what was next though, he started to feel nauseous. Ten years. Ten fucking years...and it had finally caught up with him. Jesus he'd been a fool to think they would have left it alone. "I left it at home." "No need to apologize Agent, the bureau does not expect you to be on twenty-four hour call...until now." Scully raised her eyebrow, not seriously believing what instinct told her was coming. Her eyes glanced down to a thick, clear plastic case Skinner held in one hand. "Two more... bodies were found yesterday." "Shit, he's escalating fast now," Mulder interrupted. "Not necessarily. One of them was about a month old. Street kid found behind a deserted farm house." Skinner nodded. "But the press is having a field day over the lack of progress on this one. We've assigned more than a dozen agents from Washington, as well as the Seattle office and outlying field offices, making up a team that now exceeds twenty agents. That includes a full time profiler." Mulder looked up. FBI profilers rarely worked a single case. They were generally loaded with dozens of unsolved or difficult cases and backlogged for months, even years. Once a profile was written, it became part of a vast range of tools used to identify and capture a suspect. For a profiler to be assigned an ongoing single case was unusual. Except, of course, when it was him. But then that wasn't profiling it was... "...Who's now been returned to Quantico. The attorney general made it very clear to the director..." Mulder nodded stiffly and held up his hand. No need to make Skinner connect the dots. The services of Spooky Mulder had been demanded, regardless of the psychiatric notation in his jacket, the 'official' cover, regardless of the promise the director himself made a decade ago. It didn't matter what effect it had on him or God help them, anyone around him. He was one man, and it was one case, not a shit load. His sanity could be easily sacrificed to save who knew how many children? What did it matter? He had nothing else to lose... From what he understood, they had it all backwards anyway, which explained why they were no closer to finding the UNSUB -- unknown subject -- than when this particularly grisly campaign of terror began eighteen months previously. Fox Mulder's sanity was more than a fair trade. Pity, he'd gotten kinda fond of the woman that provided it. Mulder rolled his head back and breathed deeply. In the background he could hear Scully come to the same conclusion, although she had no idea of what that conclusion *really* involved, and tersely voice her arguments to Skinner. Snatches of conversation entered his peripheral hearing. As her arguments evolved into a tirade he wanted to hug her for her loyalty. She knew virtually nothing about his profiling years. He'd made damned certain that aspect of his life had been kept well and truly sealed. No doubt Skinner had been privy to parts of it, and a few in the BSU knew, but the others were dead. Or insane. Scully had seen a glimpse, enough to put the fear of God in her. As well it should. "Dammit sir, you know what this does to him. You *know* what the evaluation was after the Mostow case. Neither the FBI nor the Justice Department have the right to destroy a man in the pursuit of justice, no matter how righteous the cause!" "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, Mulder still works for the FBI and his expertise..." "Fuck expertise!" Scully spat out. Skinner almost gaped at her expletive. Scully defending Mulder was normal. Although it was unusual for her to argue to this length, Skinner realized he was the one on foreign ground. They were not in his office like wayward school children, he had come to them, their territory in their time. But that aside, for Scully to swear like that meant...Then it hit Skinner and he almost blinked in surprise. Had he interrupted something other than case files and coffee? Scully in pit bull mode was a force to be reckoned with, but Skinner had no choice. God, if this little firebrand in front of him had any real idea of what Fox Mulder might become, he wouldn't put it past her to go down to Rube's right then and shove a gun at the attorney general's head. "Agent Scully, " he snapped back, jamming his fists in his pocket in anger at the devil's advocate role thrust upon him, "You are way out of line. I'll take that statement as being off the record. You are in no position..." Scully opened her mouth to interrupt, but Skinner used the full force of his marine corps background to glare at his subordinate. Hardening his voice he continued, "You are in no position to pass comment, *Agent* Scully. Your expertise would be appreciated and you are requested to accompany Agent Mulder to Seattle..." "No," Mulder spoke for the first time. Both Scully and Skinner stared at him. "Scully, you don't need to be part of this." He dreaded going into the fray alone, but terror overwhelmed dread. Terror for what it would do to their partnership, their friendship and whatever small spark of something that might have been ignited that night. It would all be snuffed out if she tried to accompany him into the festering pit of madness he must become in order to find this killer. He almost laughed in self derision. Who the hell did he think he'd been fooling? He knew what he was, what evil waited to take over his body, and he had been fool enough to think he could maintain something resembling a normal relationship with a woman. With Scully. Christ how many times did he have to make *that* mistake before he got it through his stupid skull? Fuck, that had been close. He looked up at Skinner, wanting to thank the man for his timing. Ten seconds later...He turned to Scully, vestigially hoping she could be kept free of this. "You shouldn't be part of it. You can't be part of it." His voice dropped and cracked in desperation as he spoke to her. Please, God, he prayed to a deity he could never believe in, just let her be my partner, nothing more now, it could never be and he *knew* that and...oh fuck I will never again succumb to that hubris but please, dear God, let me come back to her just as a partner, nothing more, I promise, but please don't take that from me. The look in her eyes made him cringe. He could see the words as plainly as if they had been spoken, "Ditching me again, huh Mulder?" Ignoring Skinner, he reached for Scully and took her hand in his. "What you saw happen to me in the Mostow case was nothing, *nothing* compared to what this case might do. I have to draw the line again, Scully. You have *no* idea what I become during a case like this. And there is *nothing* you can do to stop or help me. You'll only get in the way and get yourself hurt, or inadvertently hurt me. I don't want you part of that, I don't want you to be subjected..." Scully ripped her hand from his, anger shredding the intimacy that had so recently filled the room. She lifted her eyebrow in controlled fury "Mulder, I am an FBI agent, not a child to be coddled. You are my partner, I am your partner. We look out for each other, for better or worse." Skinner almost looked away. Until tonight he occasionally wondered if these two young agents took the understandable solace of each other's beds. But for all their extraordinary... no, downright uncanny connection, he did not believe they were sexually involved. Theirs was an intimacy of spirit that surmounted any physical coupling. That they loved each other was beyond question. He ground his teeth in the bitter realization that might have changed if he had not come here tonight. Fuck, of all the lousy timing. Then again, knowing the contents of Mulder's sealed file, maybe it *was* for the best. He looked at the two younger agents in sympathy. Christ, they had taken on so much in their young lives. Taken on more than he'd ever dared and now he was about to ruthlessly employ their unique bond. The director had been clear. They no longer had Patterson to monitor Mulder. This way was better -- use Scully to ground him instead. Long enough, the director said, to solve this case. Just keep the boy from falling too deeply into his unique brand of insanity long enough to catch this killer. Mulder could be pensioned off, if necessary. The look on the director's face added the unspoken alternative...or, if he never returned from his unique hell, have him committed to a psychiatric hospital like Patterson. "Agent Scully," Skinner said, wanting to get this over with as fast as possible, "has been assigned to this case by the director himself. There's a flight out at midnight, Agents. Please be on it. There are zip disks in here, everything we have to date." He handed the heavy case to Mulder while Scully scowled, her arms crossed in frustrated anger. The only saving grace, as far as she was concerned, was that she would accompany Mulder. Of all the betrayals within the FBI, of all the times she had felt victimized by such men who walked those so called hallowed halls with impunity, this, she thought was the most devious and inhumane betrayal of all. They would use Mulder, squeezing every drop of sanity from him, then discard him when it was over. Her gut roiled and she was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. This was how they would destroy him and the X-files, by righteously packaging it in the advancement of law and order. In the end, they would take the accolades of an adoring press and grateful public while Mulder was tossed aside as carelessly as one of his sunflower seed husks. Skinner was right. If she knew what really happened to Mulder on these cases, she might just have taken a gun to the attorney general's head. But recalling the sight of anguished parents on television and the gruesome crime scene photos, her anger deflated. One mother had suicided. She glanced up at Mulder. He was watching her with profound sadness and regret for what might have been, and she understood. He could no more turn his back on this than abandon his search for Samantha. This was what they did. This was why they joined the FBI -- to make a difference, to put animals like this down. Scully nodded almost imperceptibly to Skinner, accepting their fate. And it was *their* fate. She'd make damned certain Mulder came out of this intact, even if it meant following him to hell and dragging him back, kicking and screaming and cussing her as she spat in the eye of the devil himself. No, they would not get Mulder, she'd make that her personal campaign. Skinner nodded and left abruptly, suddenly in great need of a drink to wash the bitter taste of betrayal from his mouth. He wondered if the director felt the same need. Maybe they could get plastered together. Mulder bit his lower lip and sighed. Looking down, he scratched his head absently and said, "I better get going. I've got a feeling this is not going to go down fast. There's a lot about this case that doesn't add up." "You mean you've been following it?" Scully replied with a frown. "Sorta...There's a lot more in this than what I've seen." He gestured to the plastic folder. "By the time I get through it, something may come to light." He moved to go, collecting his jacket and keys from the table. Scully followed, standing close to him as he opened the door a few inches. He looked down at her scowling face and grinned. "Hey," he pulled her chin up to look at him. "Scully...look," she saw pain and regret cross his face. "What you saw in the Mostow case was, *nothing* like this...I...I *become* the killer...You can't, under any circumstances, interfere with that process or you destroy it. I must become that evil and no partnership will survive the things I...*appear* to do and say to you once I'm gone ..." Scully cut him off with her fingers to his lips, "You think that after all this time I'm going to leave you now? Mulder, I'm your *partner*." Mulder let out an anguished sigh. His eyes told her what his lips struggled to say. Scully's own mouth curled fractionally and the scowl left her face, marveling at how so much affection and love could be conveyed in his hazel eyes. Mulder leaned down, hesitant at first, then with more confidence to complete their aborted kiss. Things would go to hell in a handbasket over the next few days. He wanted to say goodbye -- and yes, it would be goodbye, to her with just one kiss. It would be their first, and last, but at least he would have that to carry into the long dark, as he stood by and watched the evil take his body and.... His lips touched hers, they shared a second of an intimacy long desired but never dared. But even that was not to be. The door moved slightly with the impact of a soft knock. Mulder instantly reached for his gun with his right hand as he jerked the door open with his left. He again cursed his absent weapon, but the thought ended abruptly when he realized Skinner had returned. The A.D. sighed deeply and pocketed his cell phone. "The director. He's decided to fly the latest victims to Quantico on a charter flight. Remains should be here by morning. Agent Scully, I want you to do the autopsies before flying to Seattle on Monday. Mulder, you better get moving, your flight's still on for tonight." "But, sir," Scully objected, seeing this as an all too convenient excuse for separating them. "No buts, Agent Scully, there's no question of you joining Mulder in the next day or two, but I want you to do these autopsies at Quantico. There are some issues regarding the Seattle morgue, and the lab work can be done here faster. I trust you might, just might, pick up something the Seattle M.E. overlooked. And flying the bodies to D.C. gives a certain impression to the media. The political pressure surrounding this case has reached boiling point." "So you need a PR exercise." Mulder was too emotionally exhausted to offer more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Yes Agent Mulder, but you of all people realize how we can also use the media to benefit this case when we get something more to go on." Mulder's posture conceded the point, pleased that Scully was forced to remain behind. With any luck, circumstances would conspire to keep her in D.C. He glanced at his partner, a regretful look in his eyes as he nodded goodnight. "I'll e-mail you the report." Scully said. Mulder nodded and turned to leave with Skinner. He wished he'd been able to get a good night's sleep before entering this case because sure as hell there would be little of that in the following weeks. He mentally sighed. It had crossed his mind not half hour before that he might not be getting much sleep that night anyway. Still, better that it had never happened. Despite wishful thinking that Scully would get stuck in D.C., he knew damned well they'd exploit her ability to ground him. That it would destroy their relationship was of no consequence in the face of the waiting evil. "Agent Mulder," Skinner spoke softly as they exited the building. Mulder stopped and turned to face his superior. Skinner was moving his jaw back and forth, clearly incensed with the unfolding events that had brought him there. "It's all right, sir, something like this was bound to happen one day. I'm honestly not concerned about coming out of it," he lied easily "That's never been an issue with me, although it seems to bother everyone else. But if you have any sway whatsoever, keep Scully in Washington. Use the PR angle to have future victims flown back here, continue to assign her the autopsies and lab work." Skinner shook his head abruptly. "The director himself ordered Agent Scully to accompany you. Mulder, I know, I *know* what your sealed file contains. I know the real reason they called you Spooky was not because of this ability to crawl through the minds of these animals... of non sequiturs, but because of... this..." Skinner rolled his eyes, unwilling to use the word but knowing there was no other "This damned... psychic ability of yours to link directly to the killer's actions, to mirror what he does. And that's why the director wants Scully there. To try and keep you sane long enough...fuck it!" Skinner turned abruptly from the younger agent. Mulder could actually hear the man gnashing his teeth and for a moment, sympathized with Skinner's position. "Sir, do you understand, really understand what the contents of that file on me means?" Skinner nodded glumly. "Then you know why Agent Scully should not be exposed to this. Look sir, she's going to hinder me at every turn. It's possible, just possible I can run a normal profile on this bastard without having to let it take control. But if that doesn't work...I have not...I'm not *there* anymore. I have *no* control over things once it begins and no one, absolutely no one can get in its way. Scully will never accept the truth. Even if...when I come back, when I come out of it, she'll be incapable of believing it, of resolving it in her mind. And you know, you damned well *know* what that will do to ourpartnership!" Mulder kept his voice low, but the bitternesson his face could not be denied. "Dammit, I'm tempted to tell you all to go shove it, make my cooperation on this conditional that Scully stays in D.C. Fuck it, why not? What choices do you have...my job? Okay you can shove your job and my damned badge up your..." But he stopped himself and wrapping his arms around his body, lowered his head and shook it from side to side, bitter tears lying unshed behind closed eyes. Skinner stood stony-faced. A part of him wanted to reach out and comfort the man before him in his arms, to hold him like a lost and frightened child. Instead he swallowed and said, "Y'know I'm surprised at you Mulder. I thought you trusted and respected your partner more than that. Of all the people I've ever known, she's probably the best equipped to handle this, both professionally and personally. She's tough, Mulder and she has more loyalty to you that your sorry ass deserves. Don't underestimate her." Mulder shook his head. Skinner didn't understand, how could he? How could he know what it was like to see the face of a woman after...He opened his eyes to blind himself to the memory. He had no choice, he could no more turn his back on this than if Samantha had called his name. And the director knew that, damn the man to hell. Shit, what did it matter, it was just his body after all. Just let it use him and he could reclaim it afterwards. Yeah, right. "Then sir, if you can't keep Scully away, at least arm her with what she needs, to protect herself." He didn't need to complete the sentence, "from me." Skinner stared at his subordinate "There was never any mention that you -- it -- might endanger those nearby. Are you concerned that might happen?" Mulder closed his eyes and sighed. Skinner couldn't understand, no-one could, not until they'd seen it for themselves. Shit *he* didn't undertand except that he had to watch the whole fucking process like some sick movie while *he* sat on the side lines and waited for it to be over. "If she doesn't know, she may try to intervene. If she does that, she may inadvertently get in the way and be hurt by it. Or it may incorporate her into what's happening." His face paled at the thought. Skinner stared at the younger man for a moment, realizing the implications. But there could be no ambiguity in this. Not this, not the seals on those files. "Agent Mulder, are you requesting your sealed files be made available to Agent Scully?" "If you don't, she'll have no idea how to deal with this. Jesus, sir, she's a doctor and the first thing she's gonna try is medication and I can't have that! It will just make things worse. She needs to know before it takes over, not after. She still won't believe it, of course, but, it should at least make her back off and keep out of the way." Skinner closed his eyes and nodded. "All right, Agent Mulder. I'll have the files available and at the first sign, I'll make sure Agent Scully sees them." No matter what he'd said, Skinner also feared this would destroy their partnership. And no small part of him loathed himself with what this might subject Scully to. Jesus Christ, she deserved better! Skinner had been frankly stunned when he learned the truth about Mulder. But he believed it, to the core of his soul he knew it was true. Christ it explained so much. And the director believed it too, for he had suffered a near death experience and recognised the nature of the unquantifiable. To cap it off, they had actual physical proof...although Scully would question proof of *what*? Like Skinner, the director would never look beyond his own brief paranormal experience, but Mulder... It was not Skinner alone who made decisions about the X- files. The director himself pulled many strings to have them opened, and reopened simply because of that file. General policy might treat the Spooky Division with contempt, and Mulder had deservedly been thrown into purgatory on occasion. But despite the roller coaster ride, the X-files were still operational and Mulder remained at the helm. Because the director himself believed. Because that smoking bastard knew. In fact it was why Mulder had never been terminated a dozen times by the old consortium. Because of this...psychic talent that tore him apart. Fucking cancer man had said it more than once. One day they would need this talent, need it badly. So they allowed him to live, allowed his indulgence. But none of them were as skeptical as Scully. Fuck, she would never believe. Skinner wondered if there would be anyone left on board when all this was over. Still, there was one chance. Mulder was also a paramount profiler. Maybe that would be sufficient, maybe he would not have to give up his soul, and body to the devil. Maybe. Mulder changed tacks, interrupting Skinner's thoughts "Sir, how will the current team feel about being me being assigned to the case at this late date?" "The director has spoken to ASAC Busche in Seattle. To be frank, right now the stagnation is so bad it stinks. There are going to be quite a few shakeups over the next week. I'm heading up the case myself once I clear things here, probably Tuesday. Make no mistake, Agent Mulder, the political pressure on this one is...extreme. The director has made it clear to Busche that you and your directives are to be acted upon. They're so desperate they'll listen to any theory, no matter how..." "Spooky?" Mulder smiled in self deprecation. Skinner looked at the younger man knowingly and added, "With little forensic evidence and the...obscene M.O. to go on, the profiles have been their only real tool. That gives your role absolute priority. You're being assigned two field agents to do the dog work, including day to day BS like expense accounts and formatting presentations and reports. If you have trouble, and I mean any trouble whatsoever with any agent respecting your authority on this matter, you are to report it to me immediately. If I am unavailable for any reason, you are to report to the director himself. I'm not having interoffice politics and petty rivalries running this show. At the same time, Mulder, that's not a carte blanche to tick off everyone. We've only got so many agents in the FBI... Now get moving, time's awasting." *************************** End Chapter 1 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 4 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG few bad words, possibly R ********************* CHAPTER 2 Sunday - Day 2 Situation Room Central Hotel, Seattle 6:50 a.m. "You're putting me on! Spooky fucking Mulder, that sanctimonious son of a bitch? Your putting him in *control*??!! What have they got in D.C., shit for brains?" "Forenzzi, sit down before you have an aneurysm." Busche barely raised his voice to the agents around him, but this time he had to raise his voice to get the much bigger man's attention. "But you don't understand, that cowardly little faggot..." "Forenzzi, shut the fuck up! That's an order!" Busche finally shouted. Forenzzi's eye twitched uncontrollably. The tendons on his neck stood out and his hands clenched. Busche glared at him until he sat, then staring out at the other twenty or so agents in the room continued. "The director himself has come in on this one. As you are aware, the bottom-feeding press has gone to town over this, forcing the attorney general's hand. The long and short of it means an entire re- vamping of teams and procedures. An assistant director is coming in to take over, freeing me up to return to normal duties." The protests and sounds of shock from around the room pacified Busche's sorely bruised ego. He let the men and women under him continue for a few moments before resuming. "To be frank, I'm not sorry. This case is a bitch and the only way I can see any progress being made at this stage is to take a step back. That is *not* a reflection on the time and effort you people have put in. But political pressure requires something, anything to shake things up. For many of you, it means going home to families you haven't seen in weeks, sometimes months. "Look, I know how this makes you feel, it's the worst kind of crap for an agent to be ordered away from an ongoing case, but I want you all to know I've never worked with a finer bunch of people. You've put your hearts and souls into this and the director assured me no one in this room is being demoted in any way. Some of you will be effectively promoted while others, mainly in technical areas, will stay on. A.D. Skinner coming in frees me to get back to my job and means you can now report to someone who can concentrate on this case to the exclusion of everything else. All in all, I think it's a good thing." There was silence for a few minutes while the agents digested this. Few of them had been blind to its inevitability, but it still tasted like shit, no matter how it was fed to them. "So where does this guy Mulder fit in?" Wilson, a recently arrived agent asked. "Agent Fox Mulder was a top notch profiler in the BSU about ten years back. He left to work with the VCU then transferred to a specialty unit called the X-Files eight years ago. He still does consultant profiling and the director himself appointed Mulder to come in on this one." Busche glared at Forenzzi, defying him to interrupt. "I know a lot of you have heard he has a reputation for...unusual techniques, but the fact is, he gets results, fast." Forenzzi's face darkened as he held his temper in check. "I've never met the man personally but I believe he's a little...anti-social." Busche watched Forenzzi's mouth open and he added quickly "However, I don't give a fuck if the guy picks his nose at the dinner table or scratches his ass in front of the director, he's probably no worse than any other profiler once they get into a swing. Let's face it, all those Behavioral guys are a bit off, anyway, no offense, West." A female agent in the back continued to clean her nails without bothering to look up. She was accustomed to much worse. Busche continued, "For those of you staying, I suggest you keep out of his way and let him get on with it." Forenzzi clenched his jaw and said in controlled fury, "Sir, with all due respect I think it is unwise to allow Mulder on this case without forewarning the people who stay on." Busche sighed, "Agent Forenzzi, I will not have innuendo and gossip coloring anyone's attitude to an incoming agent." "With all due respect, sir, this is neither innuendo or gossip. It's a little known fact that Mulder has been allowed to remain in the FBI solely because of his...talents." Forenzzi all but spat the word out. "I'm not denying he gets results, sir. However, I've seen Mulder in the field and it would be criminally... irresponsible not to warn those around him of his...predilections." Busche wavered. He could not prevent the inevitable gossip. Despite it flying in the face of accepted protocol he tiredly resigned himself to allowing Forenzzi his piece. At least by giving him leave to speak now, in front of Busche, it might temper the man's statements. Busche himself had heard outrageous flights of fancy surrounding so called Spooky Mulder. He had only checked the rogue agent's file briefly and it seemed some of those fanciful stories were grounded in fact. Maybe Forenzzi had a point. Forewarning some of these greener agents might not be a bad thing. "All right, Forenzzi, spit it out, but stick to facts, not opinions." Forenzzi was no fool, he'd spent too many days in court not to have honed his testimony to a fine degree. Yes, sir just stick to the facts, totally unlike the psychobabble garbage that came out of the BSU. Before he could speak, West piped up, "With all due respect, sir, this is ethically questionable." But then kicked herself at the look on Forenzzi's face. He was a local agent and longstanding friend of Busche. Both of them were straight down the line thinkers who secretly believed women should remain barefoot and pregnant. Forenzzi replied "Well maybe you think so, Agent West, but I think him coming on this case is highly questionable and if you let me speak, you'll understand why. If that's acceptable to you *Agent* West?" Sally West returned to cleaning her nails. What the hell, let the moron say his piece. Forenzzi took a few deep breaths to relax and began, "Agent Fox Mulder has a degree in forensic psychology from Oxford. He's considered a genius, with scores right off some scales, I.Q. Sanford-Binnet, the whole lot. He graduated top of his class at Quantico and started off straight under Patterson in BSU, no time out in field offices, which is pretty damned weird in itself." The mention of Patterson raised a few eyebrows around the room. Most of them had heard of Spooky Mulder and some pretty wild, off the planet -- literally -- tales. Patterson, however, was a legend who'd ended up locked away with the criminally insane after murdering his own partner. Not a good thing. "He stayed with Patterson three years. I can't vouch for everything the old man did to him, but I saw enough. Patterson had him on a short leash, like a trained dog. "Now, we all know how profilers work. But Mulder was different. Patterson had him on the worst cases, but only the current ones, never old ones. He'd let him loose down the hole like a ferret. And Mulder came up with the rat, every single fucking time. The moment he poked his head out, they had him on drugs to chill him out and shoved him on a plane to the next ugly fuck. It wasn't pretty and I'm not denying Patterson used him, nor am I denying he was good. But it was weird, too fucking weird. Sent shivers down the spine of even hardened case workers. "Then one day I saw why. Patterson wasn't around and Mulder lost the plot entirely. Hared out and went completely psycho, acting out what the killer did right down to the finest detail, and I do mean finest detail. Patterson showed up and went apeshit at us and hussled us outa there till it was over. But we all knew, Mulder should have been retired on medical disability and locked away permanently, but we were told to shut up and say nothing. Next thing he's back on the job and leash in hand, Patterson personally starts dragging his ass to the next shit fight, with a psychiatrist in tow to keep Mulder in line. His own personal fucking shrink! And they still let him carry a gun! "Three years of this then one day, the psychiatrist gets killed and right out of the blue, Mulder tells Patterson to shove it and moves over to VCU. Without Patterson or his shrink, Mulder was just some creeped-out kid that shoulda been locked up. I felt kinda sorry for him at first but then he blew it and an agent ended up dead. The dead man was my brother in law, so I took more than a passing interest. "Okay, he was cleared of that but the guy's record since then speaks for itself. His current partner disappeared for three months after a hostage situation Mulder fucked up. According to him she was abducted by aliens. And that more or less set the stage thereafter that everything is a fucking alien conspiracy, that we're secretly being invaded by little green men and that the government is in on it. "He's had a gun at his partner's head at least three times, in fact she had to shoot him once when he lost it entirely. He's been committed at least once and spent more time in hospital than most of the guys in VCU put together, except maybe his partner. Okay, we all know the risks, but this is one boy it ain't healthy being around. He leaves a fucking comet-sized trail of dead or missing in his wake. He had a child killer removed from prison on his authority, *lost* him, then shot the bastard in the head while he held a kid at gunpoint. Mulder himself stabbed a kid through the heart with a fucking stake would you believe because, get this, he said the kid was a vampire. The family had the Agency up for over 400 million dollars. Somehow it was all hushed up and forgotten about. "He's been busted a dozen times for illegal entry to government agencies and...aw, shit, the list goes on. And let's not forget he worked on the case where Patterson tipped the scales and now spends his days making daisy chains. "Look, any one of these things could have got his ass busted, but he's protected, like a fucking rare species or something. That's all well and good, he's a commodity that might just be useful on this case, but he builds his profile on the dog work of others and creams the credit at the end. He puts the lives of those around him in danger and he's a faggot, possibly a p..." West's eyes narrowed further and she snapped "That's enough! Sir, this is completely out of line. If you guys had any idea of the shit-filled minds we have to crawl through, you might understand how discussing motivations makes us sound as sick as these fucks." "West, you're way wrong there. I know what you're talking about and I've seen what he does when he hares out, he gets off on..." "Agent," Busche warned, "West is right, we've got enough crap on our plates without the media going to town about that, too. I can live with the FBI's turning a blind eye. And until Congress pushes the issue as it has in the military, let's just shut the fuck up." West just gaped at Busche's ploy. She was so incensed she was literally struck dumb. Christ, she wondered, how many times has a judge had to direct a jury to disregard one of Busche's implied statements? "Sir, the bottom line is, this guy's a sicko fruitcake. He's protected because he's useful, but he's damned dangerous to be around. All I'm saying is that everyone here should be warned that he ignores procedure and protocol and no one right up to the director, does more than slap his wrist, no matter who ends up dead or in the psycho ward. I'm just saying, steer clear of him...and watch your backs." A couple of the agents snickered at the double meaning of Forenzzi's parting shot. Busche stared long and hard at Forenzzi then said, "So I take it you wish to be transferred off this case? Until now, you were to remain, but if you can't work with Mulder then let's get it clear now." Forenzzi clamped his jaw tight and realized he'd been suckered by Busche. What the hell was Busche's game? Shit. Fuck Mulder! Forenzzi figured for sure he'd be kept on to advise Skinner. Now he either had to suck it and wear it or ask for a transfer. And he knew what that meant on his jacket. Shit. No way was pretty boy going to do that to him. "No, sir, I can work with him. I have the advantage of knowing what he's like and when he's likely to go fruit loop. In fact I think someone should be assigned to keep an eye on him." "I agree." Forenzzi paled. Surely to God Busche wouldn't put *him* on fucking *babysitting* duty?! "Agent West will be staying on to assist Agent Mulder. Agent Smith has also been reassigned to...eh, act as a liaison. Between the two of you I'm sure you can keep his nose clean and his ass wiped. His flight's due to arrive in," Busche glanced at his watch, "an hour and a half. Better get a move on before morning rush hour traffic." West raised her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised, but Smith groaned. As they left the predawn meeting someone warned him to watch his butt. Agent Rob Smith groaned and rolled his eyes at West, wondering who they had ticked off to get this assignment. ******************* End Chapter 2 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 5 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 3 DAY 2 - Sunday Central Hotel, Seattle >From the journal of Crystal Palmer Something happened tonight. A new one walked in. Didn't notice him at first because his coat was beige. The place was crowded because it was Sunday night buffet special. Folks come from all over. Dad thinks it's because of the cheap, good food but I think a lot of them are law enforcement groupies. Sick bastards. I was fixing up some network problems this morning. God, I hate Microsoft, give me an Apple-based system any day. Anyway, I overheard them talking about a big shakeup. The press has been giving them plenty of lip and it seems D.C. is sending a crack profiler out. One of them was saying this new guy was some sort of FBI legend, but I also heard a lot of cussing that he had been in and out of the psycho ward a few times. I found that hard to believe. They wouldn't have someone with a history of mental illness packing heat. I'm not prejudiced about that sort of thing. People get sick in their minds and they get cured and that's no worse than being sick in your body. But the FBI, well they're not so politically correct. So I ignored it, but the other stuff sounded a little weird. I mean the only FBI legend I ever heard of was Hoover and look at him, a cross-dressing little Hitler. So no, I wasn't too keen on legends. I was on the cash register at dinner and didn't notice him at first because of the coat. Then I caught a glimpse of him negotiating his way through the crowd of regulars, cold- faced FBI and fat locals gawking or stuffing their faces with the eat all you can buffet. I hadn't realized it until then but most of the agents looked...jaded. Even the way they walked, their posture, or perhaps it was this crappy case, whatever, but they seemed dull. There were new arrivals today and they were like a breath of fresh air. Straight from D.C. Sharper dressers, just overall smoother. Then this new one... He moved with a predatory grace, like a sleek cat maneuvering through lesser mortals. He turned my way and I nearly dropped Sally West's account. Sally's an agent, too and she was nodding back in his direction, indicating his meal was on the running FBI tab. I caught that much, but I couldn't keep my eyes off him. When I finally looked away, I realized most of the women in the room had also noticed. To be honest, you'd have to be blind or lesbian not to. I figured him for an investigative reporter. I mean none of the agents are ugly but this guy walked straight out of Esquire, but I asked Sally and she nodded, he was an agent too. At first, I thought new agents coming in would be a good thing, but I don't know...there's something about this guy. I better clean out the upstairs rooms for these others. They'll be trickling in over the next few days. I hope this legend turns up and puts an end to this crap. ******************** Day 2 - Sunday Central Hotel - Seattle 8:53 p.m. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov Sent: 2054 hrs local time So whatcha got for me G-woman? I called, but you weren't there and your cell phone is blitzy, probably this shitty weather. Jesus, it's cold here. Can you grab a couple of more sweaters and my black woollen overcoats for me? Bring your mittens and foot warmers. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov Sent 2358 hrs local time I've attached a copy of the autopsy report. Mulder, I have not drawn this conclusion in my official summary, although the evidence is there. I realize this questions current thinking that only one killer is involved. But the angle of penetration varies in the entry wound of the thoracic cavity. I've examined these angles in half a dozen prior autopsy results and am working on the remainder, given the variation of height of the victims. I think you should also consider that the left hand was used in one case. There are also some other points not covered in prior autopsies that leave certain questions begging. Weather has closed off Dulles for the next twenty-four hours. I should have covered most of the other reports by the time I get a flight out of here, probably on the same plane as Skinner. I'm going to get some sleep. S. ************************ DAY 3 - Monday Central Hotel, Seattle >From the journal of Crystal Palmer Well, that settles it, he's the spooky legendary genius from D.C. Now I think about it, it's obvious. There's something hooded about him, dark, brooding. I don't know, almost haunted looking in eyes that bore right into your soul. Too old for a face like that. Far too old. I'd only seen him from a distance and he looked mid-twenties, but when he came over to check the breakfast buffet I realized he was older, thirty something. I was in all morning helping with their new equipment and one of them was talking about him. Stories that would make your hair stand on end. Seriously. It all started thirteen years or more back so he's at least mid-thirties, probably closer to forty. Many of the older guys here think he's full of it. Well, they said a great deal more and it was a lot less pleasant, but I think they kept their language down because of me. I'll give them that, they're always careful around me, when they notice me that is. Despite that look in his eyes, he smiles a lot more than the others, at least to me. More life, and he'd charm the spots off a leopard. He has old Dulcie around his finger. I saw her brushing off his beige coat this morning, trying to get it clean and I spotted her taking some jeans and black boxers out of the wash today. She's never done that for anyone else, generally leaves the laundry to Greco. I watched him today. His beauty is almost surrealistic. It's at complete odds with what he is and what he does. One of them explained to me that profilers get inside the heads of killers and predict what they do. They actually try to think like the killer, feel the hype and sexual lust that drives them, so they can predict what they might do next, what sort of car they might drive, even if they'd wet the bed as a kid. What kind of sick person would chose to do that? How can he smile at all? As I said, surreal. Then someone else told me he was gay. I was stunned, what a waste of something as beautiful as that. It hurt me, hearing that and looking at him. It just didn't seem fair and I found myself resenting him. I know why. I should be over it by now, but it just grabbed at me. *************************************************** DAY 4 - Tuesday He spoke to me this morning at breakfast. That's a relative term, of course. It's always breakfast around here. He'd been out running. It was 5:00 am in the goddammed morning and he had been running in the snow since 3:30 am. It wasn't the run, I ride most days even in this weather, but the early hour. Definitely one weird puppy. Why would God put such an odd person inside such an inhumanly beautiful face? But then he spoke. His voice was soft, like all of them, not too bass, lighter, like his body, a runner, a deer. Fox they called him. Mmm, he looked like a fox. I could see how he got that name, beautiful, sleek, agile. Even in sweats with mussed hair he looked like a model so I can see why they think he's gay. I have my own problems with that aspect. As politically incorrect as they may be, under the circumstances I think I'm entitled to my prejudices. But I'm aware of them, so I took pains to hide them. He told me to call him Mulder. Most of the others want you to call them Agent or Doctor but not this one, just plain Mulder. He was friendy enough, but then I realized the whole time he was looking at me and making polite chitchat, he was analyzing me, asking me questions like I was some sort of witness. Like I was a bug under a microscope. I could see him categorizing me and filing away the answers in his brain and I remembered he was supposed to get inside the heads of killers. Could he read minds? Could he read my mind? To think I've actually become accustomed to those photos and evidence bags. I really hate them being here. Now, with this guy I feel like a specimen that can be picked and prodded at, like my life is something this man might want to use to find something he needs. And damn him that he's gay and it brings all my own nightmares back to me. Carrion eaters. Shit. He shouldn't be allowed to look like that, it's ridiculous. ******************************************************** To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov sent 1330 Not a happy bunch of campers here Scully. They've given me a couple of keepers. You'd be proud of me, I waited 24 hours before ditching them. Interesting stuff on those autopsy results. I'm considering pornography connections since I had already come to the conclusion we're looking at multiple killers. I've felt evil before, Scully, but this is pervasive. Did you get my stuff? If not, I'll buy some, there's still a blizzard going on and I've already saturated two coats. God knows when you'll get a flight in. At least it seems to have slowed the killers. Scully, I think you should consider staying in Washington. Future victims can be flown out there, it makes for necessary PR and your reports have, as usual, been far more detailed than those to date. Future victims, Scully. I don't think I can get around that as much as it sickens me. It's been three days and I can't get a fix on this yet and it bothers me. I've run up stat profiles, but normally, I can start to feel something by now. Something's missing. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov sent 1633 I'm right here, Mulder, don't disconnect. How can you expect to get around something when no one else has unearthed anything viable in over a year? And staying in Washington? Fat chance Mulder, once this crappy weather clears, I'm coming. I found some interesting underwear in one of your drawers. Mulder, you never cease to amaze me. S. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov sent 1338 That underwear is Frohike's. I'm just keeping it safe for him. I asked for sweaters, what are you doing poking around in those drawers way back there? Damned babysitters are taking it in turns. I'm hiding out in the fucking kitchen with a laptop and phone cord. If you're determined to come, hurry up and get them off my ass. If I'm going to have a keeper, I'd prefer it to be you. Think I'll spend some time exploring the sites again. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov sent 1645 Are you still online? The airport's just reopened so I'll catch the first flight. It's bound to go via the scenic route so I'll meet you at the hotel for breakfast. Better send someone to pick me up, your damned overcoats weigh a ton. Why do you have to be so big? S. **************************** End Chapter 3 From: sonny Date: Mon, 27 Sep 99 06:44:06 +1000 Subject: xfc: NEW Mind Games 1; The Profiler 6 of 9 Source: xfc From: sonny Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 6 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG odd bad word ********************* CHAPTER 4 DAY 5 - Wednesday Seattle airport 5:50 a.m. Scully hardly hard time to feel the impact of the cold before stepping into the ubiquitous Crown Victoria, but those few seconds were distinctly chillier than D.C. After the initial introductions, Scully rode in silence, sparing only occasional glances at her chauffeur. "So," Agent West began with the predictable overture, "Been to Seattle before?" "No," Scully replied "Are you stationed here permanently, or part of the new team coming in?" "It's my first assignment out of Quantico, BSU. I've been here a few months with Morgenstein and Bruce, following the case." Oh great, Scully thought. Mulder would have just loved that, a psychologist and rookie profiler. "You been with Agent Mulder long, Agent Scully?" "Yes, almost seven years." West chewed on that for a few seconds. She would never have thought she'd do this, but it irked her no end and she'd had precious little sleep after hunting the bastard around town and finding him asleep on the goddamned evidence room couch. "Does he ditch you all the time, too?" Scully stifled a chuckle. "Agent Mulder has an entire repertoire of ditches, I wouldn't take it personally." West looked across and decided the petite redhead was about 10,000 percent more socially adept than her brooding partner. West considered herself a good agent. She'd started at the bottom, done her years in the field and, armed with her own Ph.D. in Psychology, had been proud of the invitation to join the BSU. Once again, it meant starting at the bottom and she was more than willing to be dealt the shit work, especially on a case like this. She figured early on it was a golden opportunity to learn from the best, maybe catching a few kudos along the way. When Busche announced she'd be staying on to work under Spooky Mulder instead of going back to Quantico, her initial reaction was a case of teenage butterflies. She'd heard about the infamous Fox Mulder and his little green men long before Forenzzi had mouthed off. But no one, absolutely no one in the history of the FBI had his profiling abilities, or his solve rate. Making cups of coffee and organizing his laundry seemed the perfect inside to Mulder. What she hadn't banked on was his ability to make a brick wall seem downright conversational. "Well," West replied, "I wouldn't have, 'cept I was told you would personally rip my lungs out if anything happened to him before you got here." Scully's eyebrow raised a notch. Shit. The last thing Mulder needed were babysitters. Assistants, yes, but not this crap. "Agent West, I believe your brief was perhaps, somewhat overstated. I'll rectify that this morning." "Look, Agent Scully, I don't mind. Really. In fact it's an honor to observe someone like Agent Mulder at work." Scully's eyebrows raised another notch. West noticed, even in the darkness of the predawn light, "Okay, sure, some of the older agents are pissed with Mulder, big time. But no matter which way you cut it, it's envy, plain and simple. Mulder ran rings around everyone in the VCU years ago, and even now, when they're desperate, they come crawling, tail between their legs. Then he writes these eerily accurate profiles, and despite refusing the credit much of the time, still manages to have the highest solve rate ever. And not by a small margin, but by orders of magnitude. To top it off, he gets to run his own division away from all the general interoffice crap, has a qualified pathologist as a partner *and* gets to pursue his own interests. "C'mon, Agent Scully, let's face it, they wouldn't be human if they *weren't* envious." Scully allowed her other eyebrow to join the first, contemplating the perspective of that statement. It dawned on her that West was completely right. She and Mulder had long labored under the assumption they were locked away in the dungeon like embarrassing and none-too-sane relatives. Despite the perennial battle with internal conspiracies and a mercurial Skinner, they took for granted liberties and amenities other agents only dreamed of. Scully decided she liked Agent West and rewarded her with an explanation. "Agent West, Mulder is extremely...focused. Once he gets fixated on an idea, everything around him becomes extraneous, including common courtesies." "Like telling people where he's going." Scully nodded. "Or when he feels he's about to undertake something the bureau might not approve, he'll ditch you rather than have you endangered or implicated by association." "Very courteous," West replied dryly, "But total bullshit... Agent I am a psychologist, I know a ditch when I see one." She sighed and continued in a hurry, "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. It's just that I looked forward to this...I mean these last six months have been hell and I was hoping that Agent Mulder's arrival would..." "Shake a few cobwebs loose?" West smiled. "Yeah, I guess. Instead, I found myself being shaken lose and the shit storm of all time going down." Scully frowned "I take it that this *envy* has caused some... problems." West rolled her eyes. "You have *no* idea, but it's not just Mulder, it's the press and the inability to make anything of this case and...just the pressure and no headway." "Well, I'll make sure Busche knows you are not accountable for Mulder's actions, or responsible for his stubbed toes." Sally West allowed herself a smile. All the good things she'd heard about Agent Scully had so far proved true. Scully definitely humanized her taciturn partner. West had in her short time with the BSU, heard a great deal more than the crap Forenzzi flouted regarding Mulder -- most of it as admiration tainted with the feeling that he had not been able to cut it. Working in the BSU had its own unique problems and burnout was high. But there seemed to be far more to it than that with Mulder, especially since West had seen his name attached to recent profiles, especially the tough nut cases. He was definitely his own man, that one. According to the scuttlebutt after Busche and Forenzzi left the Sunday morning meeting, Scully was either warming her partner's bed, frigid, or, given the nature of the bed-warmer, both. Mulder was either gay or, according to someone else who knew his former agent girlfriend, impotent due to the high stress factor. Since West herself had been the subject of similar conflicting rumors, and understood all too well the motivations for such speculation, she discounted them as driven by the same animosity that fueled the current bitter resentment. But she had yet to pinpoint Mulder. She watched him treat strangers, hotel staff and FBI technicians with the courtesy and respect of a true gentleman. He was extraordinary with the three victims' families he'd spoken to. Both gentle and charming, putting them at ease when the dour black-coated agents generally froze everyone up. But when it came to his peers, including herself, his face, in fact his whole body closed up and shut them out. And then it hit her. God, what an idiot she'd been! He shut them out to protect himself. He was just so sure of himself, so at ease in his own role, it came across as arrogance to his peers. No doubt he had not been deaf all these years to the ridicule, the petty snipes and childish sniggers. West herself had witnessed a taste of this soon after his arrival. No matter how you cut it, it was distracting, annoying, and Mulder had no interest in anything but the job. So he cut them all out, communicating with them only as need be, never giving them enough of himself to use against him. West sighed, no wonder he'd been so uncommunicative with her. Okay, she was a psychologist. Now she could see the lay of the land, she could pick a path across it. Scully interrupted her reverie. Hoping they didn't have to travel halfway across town to get Mulder to sleep in a proper bed at nights she asked, "How far is the hotel from the field office?" "Right across the road. But the FBI has pretty much taken it over as an extension to the Seattle office. There's a lot more room to set up workshops and secure evidence rooms pertaining to the case. It's only a thirty room establishment and we've got about twenty-five occupied at the moment, with the changeover of agents and evidence and converted conference rooms. The office is finally moving into larger premises next month, but they're going to keep the hotel as an extension until this case is finished. "It's not bad, central businessmen type and the proprietor has opened up the restaurant on a twenty-four hour basis. Been really good about helping out and providing things." Scully replied dryly "I suppose he would, having his hotel booked out by a government agency." West chuckled. "True, but it's more than that, they're good people. He's Greek and his extended family runs the restaurant and manages all the cleaning and laundry. The family's been checked out, of course. Once we decided to set up shop, we had to, especially with the cleaning. What I mean is, the press are not exactly treating us with kid gloves and the Popopoulas' have been exceptionally discreet when they could have made a small fortune selling tips. "Anyhow, he's given a couple of masters keys out so we can access spare rooms in case of unexpected arrivals. He makes *the* best coffee and Greek pastries in Seattle and keeps it all on tap around the clock. Better than being at home. "I've got you and Mulder on the fourth floor, in adjoining rooms, is that okay? The plumbing is kind of old and it's not so noticeable on the top floor." Scully smiled her thanks and added "I guess it would be too much to hope that the coroner's office is nearby." West grinned. "Not too bad, fifteen minutes in rush hour, five otherwise." Scully didn't mind. Given a choice, the fact that Mulder only had to be convinced to climb a few stairs to sleep or shower made the short drive a small price to pay. The Ford turned into a parking lot at the rear of the hotel and Agent West helped Scully with her luggage. West would never have commented about the number of bags, it was none of her business, but Scully, proud of her ability to pack minimally, was vaguely annoyed at having to lug half her partner's wardrobe across the continent. After checking in, West took Scully to her room. Scully invited her in to bring her up to speed while she unpacked. Just as they were getting down to finer details, the connecting door to Mulder's room burst in without warning and the sweatsuit-clothed agent strode in. "Scully! Didja bring spare running shoes? Jesus this place is worse than D.C. for deicing running tracks. In fact most of my fucking shoes are soaked. What about boots?" West, who had seated herself on the lounge, lifted her eyebrows in surprise. No knock, no, "Hello, Agent Scully, did you get any sleep on the flight?" Not one hint of polite small talk. Mulder sounded like a husband. No, nope, scratch that. He sounded like one of West's teenage boys -- not that there was much difference between them and husbands. Mulder's face was red from the cold and ice particles attached themselves to his hair. It was so cold outside his sweat had frozen in his hair. West glanced at Scully, curious to see her reaction. "In there, Mulder," Scully pointed to two mismatched pieces of luggage "Coats, sweaters, shoes, boots -- and Frohike's underwear." "I never took you for kinky, Scully." "Aren't you the one who insists it's only kinky the first time? Knowing you'd be deprived of your video collection Mulder, I figured they'd be the next best thing." Mulder grimaced, he couldn't win that one. He'd stuff those damned boxers down the little toad's throat next time he saw him. Still, he had only himself to blame for not trashing them along with the waterbed that appeared around the same time. "Still don't know why you were rummaging through *those* drawers, Scully." His eidetic memory failed at the worst possible moments and he shuddered at what else Scully might have come across. "Now I can blackmail at least three dinners out of you, Mulder." She grinned at him cheerfully then added, "But I also found this," Scully held up a long red and white striped head warmer she'd seen him running in during the dead of winter. Mulder smiled and bowed his head in gratitude. As he looked up, he noticed West sitting in the lounge chair. "Morning." Mulder was polite but distant, totally unselfconscious about the conversation with his partner. "Agent Mulder." West took her leave soon after, handing Scully the car keys as she left. She absently considered why they needed to say each other's names so much, then regarded it as a form of bonding, an intimacy of words. West's bond with her first partner had been necessarily strong, but this was of a different nature. She and her partner had socialized together, partly because they were both married and had kids of a similar age. Their spouses got along with each other and suffered none of the jealousy that might be expected. But they also gave each other room. The intensity of the relationship she'd just been privy to allowed no room for outsiders, none at all. It was not surprising, but she was not sure if it was healthy, either. Mulder took the bags into his room while maintaining a running dialogue. They had been apart only a few days, but he missed sorting his constant stream of ideas through the sieve of Scully's scientific reasoning. "How did your profiles go?" Scully ventured. She noticed Mulder's face had started to take on that hooded, slightly preoccupied look. "That's the problem," he said, coming back into her room. "By now, I should be getting a feel for it, but a lot of things simply don't add up. I am leaning in the third party pornography direction more and more and definitely agree with you that there's at least two involved. Did you finish reviewing all the previous autopsy reports?" Scully knew Mulder would know them letter perfect by now. "Yeah, and I'm not happy over certain omissions, especially the missed angles of penetration. Okay, they were subtle, but significant. Admittedly I had an easier take of it having two bodies together." "It fits. Shit, the M.E. should have picked that up before." "One is left handed, the other right. Sexually, one UNSUB object penetrates, the other, apparently uses penile. If they're working together, the evidence is hidden, except for the fact that the knives used are the same type, if not identical implements." "It supports the evidence, and what I'm thinking. I ran it by Forenzzi, but he's stuck to the current thinking with fucking super glue." "Joe Forenzzi?" Scully turned to look at Mulder. "Yeah, you know him?" Mulder knew the big man hated him, specifically because he blamed Mulder for the death of Steve Wallenberg, but Mulder had hoped that stonewalling on a case like this was beneath the man. Apparently not. Mulder expected the snide remarks and innuendos from the moment he steeped foot in the hotel. As he remarked to Scully soon after they began working together, sometimes the need to mess with their heads outweighed the millstone of humiliation. The passing years only served to emphasize his reputation as a cracked genius. The upside was he was generally left alone, even avoided, during profiling consultations. The downside, as in this case, was the inherent prejudice against his theories. On a case like this he needed people to follow through without stopping to question him on every little detail. He didn't have time to justify his reasoning, it was just too complex. That's where Scully came in. They'd listen to her. He needed her to ensure streamlined teamwork, not petty machinations. Scully debated whether she should be completely forthcoming. But it was only fair Mulder knew. "We dated for a couple of months when he was a detective at the 12th Precinct and I was interning in ER. He joined the F.B.I. about a year before I did." Mulder knew from experience that an intern's idea of a date was not hand-holding by the reflecting pool. He stared at his very professional partner and wondered, not for the first time, what Scully had been like before joining the bureau. "Didn't work out, huh?" Scully grinned, "Mulder, if that's the same Forenzzi, he's six foot eight inches and two and a half times my weight...it was kinda ridiculous." Mulder immediately squashed the image that came to mind. One more reason to dislike the narrow minded son of a bitch. Scully closed her closet door and turning to her partner, said, "Mulder, a lot of these guys have been on this case since the start. You can't blame them for feeling upset over their pet theories being flushed down the sewer." Mulder shot her a look. What in hell had she seen in Forenzzi? The guy was a narrow-minded prick. A bleak part of his mind knew the answer. Forenzzi was a straight arrow, by-the-book formal thinker. A good little scientist type. The total antithesis to Mulder. His voice tightened as he began the process of locking the professional doors against Dana Scully. He needed his partner now, Agent Scully, M.D. "Especially when it's Spooky doing the flushing. Look, Scully, their shit-eating theories are letting kids, little children, suffer a goddamned nightmarish death. I don't, and these kids sure as hell don't, have the luxury of dealing with egos." Mulder stopped his restless pacing across the floor and shook his head. Changing the subject he asked, "When's Skinner flying in?" "He was booked on the same flight as me, but Kimberly called him in at the last minute. He should be in by 6 tonight. Scully already noticed the slight shifting in their roles and regretted mentioning Forenzzi. Mulder nodded and considered the situation. "Scully, the shakeups going down here have everyone on edge, especially with these two latest bodies. Forenzzi's an okay agent, but he resents Skinner coming in to take over. And he hates my guts. Maybe you could have a word..." "Mulder it's been ten years and I really never knew the man that well. I was a little surprised he passed the FBI screening because he has, or at least had, a short temper. But he's older now, maybe the fuse burns more slowly. "Mulder, I know you can't cut them any slack, but you're a psychologist. The media have just about chewed their testes off and Forenzzi's naturally going to take it personally since he was the team leader. Then we come in cold and tell them they've been going about it all wrong. I don't doubt there will be feelings of resentment over this, just give it a few days for the teams to reform and new blood to come it. It'll settle down soon enough." "Soon enough to save the next kid?" Mulder barked a humorless laugh, feeling the weight of frustration and ultimate responsibility. He was not about to drag up his and Forenzzi's ancient history. It had no place on this case and Forenzzi knew it. Scully watched him resume his pacing for a moment then said quietly, "How about you take me down, feed me breakfast and show me the setup. Then I can go check out the facilities at the morgue while you finish ticking off everyone else before Skinner gets here." Mulder threw her a lopsided grin. "At least the food's pretty good. Scully, you'll like it here, you can even get rabbit food. Let me get showered and changed, first." *********************** End Chapter 4 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 7 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated R; graphic descriptive violence ********************* CHAPTER 5 Day 5 - Wednesday Central Hotel, Seattle 7:30 a.m. >From the journal of Crystal Palmer He's been here a couple of days now. He's sort of regular about this running business, but today he didn't show until 6:30 am. Then he walked in with the rest of himself. I know that sounds ridiculous but that was how it felt -- like a part of him that had been missing. Now, he seemed whole again. It didn't take much, just this tiny little red head, about five foot two. She was so different from the other female agents, I figured she must have been a consultant or something. Turns out she's a doctor, a forensic pathologist, cuts up dead bodies for a living. What can you say to that, huh? What really upsets me is that even when they catch this monster, these sort of people just move on to the next horror story and pick up where they left off. It's like living in a permanent Stephen King novel. Well, maybe not that bad, maybe more like Silence of the Lambs. Shit, I think that's probably worse. Anyway, my point is the very fact that these people exist, that there are so many of them, that they make a full-time living doing this, appalls me. It means there's not just one monster out there, not just one sick aberration. It means it never ends. So they pull up stakes and leave here when it's over, but then how can I forget that? These people still exist. It's not like they're locked away in a closet and just dusted off every few years when some lunatic hares out and starts slaughtering people. They do it all the goddamned time. I thought I could put it all aside when they left, but I can't, not anymore, it's indelibly etched on me now. But that's not why I'm writing. It's about her. She's tiny, but she carries an aura that makes up for it, big time. And she's pretty...no, that's not the right word, more than pretty, but not, you know, not blatant. She's a head-turner in a totally sophisticated, intelligent way. She's got the sort of looks men never see in pinup calendars, but secretly lust after. She invites not passes and leers, but respect and admiration, as well as desire. She walks like him, gracefully, but still like a woman. The other female agents walk like agents. Not that they plod, but it's a comparative thing. Despite her scowls, she just doesn't seem as jaded or hard as the others. I caught her smiling a couple of times and she's gorgeous when she does that. I've never been attracted to women, despite the come-ons at school, especially after Paul left, but you can't help but look at her and wish you could carry yourself like that. First time in my life I ever wished I was short and had, of all the ridiculous things, red hair. I served them breakfast, such as it was, at their table. Silly, I know. I'm getting as bad as Dulcie. But there was no one else around, so I thought, what the hell. But as I watched them I felt like some sort of voyeur. He touched her face briefly and it struck me as something more intimate than a lover's embrace. Like everything about them, it was surreal. These were not real people, not like us. They were something from another world, their designer suits and good looks belying the evil they lived to expose. I cannot reconcile it that they bring such beauty to sully our world of innocence. At least the other agents look the part. The women look clunky and hard and stern and the men, though better-groomed than detectives, plain and normal. But these two were a serious aberration and it kept jolting me. It was all wrong. ******************************************************* Day 5 - Wednesday Situation Room Central Hotel, Seattle 0900 "Okay, let's just run through it from the start. I appreciate that many of you have been through this a dozen...a thousand times before, but for those newly- arrived like myself, it's a chance to review what we know and introduce you to some new evidence based on the latest autopsies." A rumble made its way across the room in response to the magical words, *new evidence*. Around fifteen of the thirty odd men and women who sat in the conference room were due to fly out the following morning. They had stayed on only long enough to compile their notes and make written reports. Most of them attended that morning's meeting to find out why in hell they were being replaced. No matter how many times they were assured that it was simply to "inject fresh approaches," it left an ugly taste in their mouths. And many of them just wanted to get a look at the legendary Spooky. Mulder had buried himself in the files and evidence following his arrival, emerging only long enough to meet a few of the victims' families, run, eat and shower. This was his first group meeting now that the majority of incoming agents had arrived. He walked around the long trestle table at front, his fingers touching pieces of paper, photos and reports as he went, as if tactile contact with them helped him absorb their contents. Scully stood about halfway down the room to one side. She recognized a spattering of faces throughout the group, but the vast majority were unknowns. Forenzzi's exceptionally tall frame stood out, as did Davidson. Scully herself was all but visually lost among the much larger bodies around her. She glanced up at the presentation board with their odd notations and diagrams. None of the writing was Mulder's. She knew from experience he tended to use legal pads and pens to take notes, then transcribed to computer once he'd formulated his thinking. Most of the notes were definitely aspects of a profile, but she doubted it was Mulder's. The harsh light in the room emphasized her partner's appearance. He'd gotten little sleep and no doubt little food since she'd seen him on Saturday night. He'd immersed himself in profiling, only coming up for air when his body screamed loudly enough. She had managed to get breakfast in him a little while before, but was sure she heard him throwing up afterward. A few moments later she heard the toilet flush. She'd knocked on his door and he'd called out he'd just be a minute. Then the smell of mouthwash. Shit. "The first incident was eighteen months ago," Mulder continued as he moved around the table, reciting the facts from his eidetic memory. "The remains of an Hispanic 12- year-old homeless male, later identified as one Miguel Penzos, were found hanging on a suburban clothes line, hence the name Line Killings. The local P.D. was called in but no leads found. No apparent connection to the owners of the household. The path to the clothesline was paved. Evidence indicates the victim was raped while still alive. Oral penetration was not ascertained due to facial mutilation possibly caused by the instrument used to sever the head from the torso post mortem. In other words, whoever was wielding the axe had poor aim. "The victim was stabbed once in the heart although this occured post mortem." More rumbles greeted that revelation. Mulder continued, "The other limbs were removed post mortem and hacked into pieces by what appears to be the same or similar instrument that removed the head. The torso was left relatively intact. "The victim was small for his age, could have been mistaken for a boy as young as eight. No semen, no blood, hair or skin other than that belonging to the victim. No other trace evidence that might lead to the whereabouts of the actual kill site. Trace of detergent on the skin, common brand type, indicating the remains were transported in a recently washed container and that the body was washed after dismemberment. "The body parts were attached to the clothes line by way of a commonly available nylon cord piercing a hole in each portion of the victim's remains. "Okay, the local cops were stumped and with the boy's mother recently OD'd and there being no other known relatives, the police understandably didn't bust a gut following zero leads." Mulder paused, then picked up a bundle of crime scene photos from another stack. "Two and a half months later victim number two, an 11-year- old Caucasian male, also a street kid and a known prostitute, was found strung up on a clothesline in a historical district backyard. Once again, no witnesses to his abduction, no suspicious vehicles where the remains were left, no apparent connection from anything, to anything except they were both street kids, homeless." Over the next hour and a half Mulder recited the history of the grotesque slayings, recounting a total of fifteen homicides during the first twelve months. His approach was simple, factual and created in the minds of everyone present a respect that the new guy had memorized all of this in just three days. Even Forenzzi grudgingly admired Mulder's retention of details. Because of the horrific nature of the crimes, the inability to find any leads and the reduced time between each incident, the FBI profiling unit was called in after the fifth victim, a female. Until then, their own analysts presumed the UNSUB was only into boys. "All the usual steps had already been taken," Mulder continued. "Including bringing in and questioning known pedophiles, dozens of street kids, the victim's pimps, parents if they existed, appeals to the public, rewards and so on. All their old schools, playgrounds, local parks were checked. Being street kids meant the task of follow-up was a bitch, but it looks like all bases were covered. The kids were from a variety of racial groups, both genders taken in no particular order, no distinguishing features like a common tattoo, body jewelry, birth date, star sign, blood group and so on...Three were infected with HIV, and five, fully half, showed evidence of hard drug abuse. However given their life situations, nothing unusual there. The Seattle P.D. had, in fact, done a pretty thorough job. "There seemed to be nothing to link these kids except them being prostitutes. A profile was built on that basis. Then victim number eleven, a 7-year-old female, tossed that theory." This victim appeared to have been picked up in San Francisco and transported to Seattle. That made it a federal case. The SPD was more than happy to get it off their plates. "Jessica Somners wasn't a street kid, had only been missing a week from her San Francisco home when she turned up dead. It is entirely possible that she did, in fact, run away and was not abducted as first supposed. Since then, it has come to light that Daddy had been fucking her and came home one night with a couple of friends to share her around. "The profiling assumption that all the kids were the victims of sexual abuse then went out the window with victims twelve and thirteen. They were a sister and brother, aged ten and four respectively, who disappeared sometime between walking from home to the school bus stop four blocks away. Their mother insisted that they knew better than to get in a car with strangers. Their remains were found thirty miles apart. One was strung on a wire fence line and the other, an external power line to an outside building. "Their mother committed suicide two weeks later." Mulder took a deep breath and paused. It had not been necessary to include that final statement, but after presenting the horrific case files, most normal people emotionally closed down in order to concentrate on the facts. Mulder deemed it necessary to remind everyone that as devastating as the crime to the children, the circle of victims spread much wider than the victims themselves. This was a crime against society, made more heinous because it was against children. This crime was beyond horrible, it was evil, pure and simple. And their job was to find and stop that evil. Mulder took a proffered bottle of water from West, drank almost half, then continued. "Close investigation shows no evidence, forensic or social, of past child abuse or sexual maltreatment prior to the abduction and murder of the Bartlett children. They were both killed between seventy and eighty hours after they were last seen alive. "From that point on the source of the victims becomes random, spreading across three states. They range in age from four to twelve although the oldest generally appear young for their age, no more than ten. The frequency of the attacks has escalated so that we are now on victim number forty-two after eighteen months. This leads me to believe the acquisition of victims remains essentially random, opportunistic rather than planned. The underlying causal factor is not retribution or punishment, it is opportunistic pedophilia and sexual satisfaction derived not just from sexual penetration, but from killing and butchering these children. There is a definite connection to pedophile pornography. The current profile is therefore completely wrong." The room immediately erupted with objections. Scully noticed Forenzzi smirked and looked at Mulder with satisfied animosity. Mulder raised his hand and eventually had to raise his voice to be heard. "Some of you insisted on seeing my initial profile outline, however these were very rough briefs, hardly more than off the shelf models. I had formulated a more radical concept that, in the light of the two most recent killings and their autopsy results, will be expanded upon over the next twelve hours. I believe this will give you something more concrete to work with." Mulder pointedly ignored the continued ground rumble of objections throughout the room. Profiling was not an exact science by any stretch of the imagination. It was a tool in a vast repertoire of tools but until now, the profile for this case was the only substantial tool they really had to work with. Changing profiles was paramount to saying they had been wasting their time, so he added, "This does not in any way undermine the very solid work that has been put into this case to date. From what I can see, every law enforcement officer and technician involved has crossed every T and dotted every I. The groundwork you have put in has created a foundation and I can assure you, will save a great deal of time and the lives of future victims, children, when new evidence is incorporated into the equation." What he didn't say was that the case had faltered in part because the local M.E. had failed to pick up evidence Scully had unearthed. Evidence that added credence to his own ideas about what was really going on. He also failed to say what he really thought when it came to lack of imagination used to piece evidence together. He had railed against Busche and Forenzzi for that. Oh, he'd been right about the T's and I's. Everything was nice and neat and orderly and pigeonholed and yes, they needed that. But no one, including the profilers, had begun to connect the dots, simply because the dots were absent. And that in itself was a clue. Age, and a seven year association with Scully had, if not mellowed Mulder, taught him to temper what others perceived as arrogance, but was in fact incredible frustration that they could not see as clearly as he. He'd done his piece, given his prep talk like a good little incoming profiler, now he could cut and go do what he had been avoiding since Sunday. Time now, to sell his soul to the devil and pray he could steal it back when it was done with him. "A.D. Skinner will be arriving on this evening's flight. As you are no doubt aware, he will be running the teams from this point on. As the profiler, I will continue to revise and narrow the parameters of this case until it is solved. To do this I need to be kept informed of new evidence, no matter how trivial. As usual, each team has been assigned a leader, each leader will meet here every day at 6.30 a.m., or as otherwise advised, to collate information. I will attend those meetings. If we're lucky, something big breaks a case like this, but as you all know, it is just as often a small or series of small, apparently unrelated events. You are here to unearth those events. I am here to piece them together and tell you who your killers are." Surprisingly, no one picked up on his use of the plural. "Also, if any one of you have any way-out ideas, no matter how odd or unrelated they may seem, I'm listening. Bouncing around concepts may not be very scientific or ordered, but it can lead to that one thing we need to crack this case. Although I am fairly sure we can discount gray Reticulans, I'm open to suggestions from anyone, right down to the paper clerks and cleaners." Mulder delivered this last in his usual deadpan manner. Scully lowered her face and put her hand to her forehead to hide the smile that escaped her lips. A couple of nervous chuckles started around the room and a some of the younger agents flushed with embarrassment as they realized they had actually started to write gray Reticulans on their note pads. Mulder's comment did, however, break the ice somewhat and as he sipped more water, someone asked, "What's this evidence that's come to light?" Mulder caught his partner's eye across the room. Forenzzi's face animated as Scully passed him, but he was too close, with their almost eighteen-inch height difference, to catch her eye. He noticed that maturity had turned Dana Scully from a merely pretty woman, into an exceptionally poised beauty. But he found it hard, in fact impossible, to fathom why she'd remained partnered to Mulder. No matter what stories circulated, he knew damned well Mulder wasn't fucking her, simply because he couldn't. He figured the relationship between them was probably similar to other female/gay male ones. They were best buddies and if her sojourns in hospital were anything to go by, so fucking loyal it bordered on stupidity. But that was it, nothing else. A sudden desire echoed through his body. Little Dana, he recalled fondly, was pretty hot between the sheets. She'd remained unmarried and by all accounts not even seeing anyone. This case had become his waking bitch nightmare and he sure wouldn't mind a little tension-relieving. He knew from West that Scully was planning to go down to the morgue after this meeting. He'd make a point of dropping by, maybe taking her for coffee, catch up on old times and, over the next few days, slowly charm her as he had years before. Forenzzi was not idiot enough to believe she'd jump in the sack with him for old time's sake. But he had really liked her then and felt that handled carefully, they might find time for a little mutual release over the next few weeks. He'd enjoy charming her and if the payoff coincidentally slapped Mulder in the face, well that was an added bonus. As Scully walked to the front, whispered comments flowed around the room. Yes, that's old Spooky's partner, the forensic pathologist who actually works as a field agent. Mulder did not move from where he'd positioned himself leaning with his back to the trestle table. Scully took up position beside him, so close they touched. It was recognized by many in the room as a natural solidarity between partners. The psychologists amongst them also saw it as a defensive posture. The atmosphere was charged with a potent mixture of admiration and aggravation, bitterness, resentment and respect bordering on awe. Scully stood by her partner in more ways than one. Forenzzi couldn't help but notice how their hands brushed unselfconsciously as she reached behind her partner to grab a file. Scully turned to face the front and began. "Most of you are familiar with the methodology used to deduce findings, therefore I'm not going to go over them now. If you require more detailed understanding, please refer to appendices C to H on my report, a copy of which is attached to your dailies. Additionally, you are well acquainted with the previous autopsy results, so I will not be going over those, just the new points ascertained from the latest victims. For anyone interested, I will be giving a full lecture with slide presentation on these autopsies at 5:30 p.m. in room #3." With that, she effectively undermined anyone questioning the veracity of what was bound to be a confrontational conclusion. Forenzzi frowned. He had not had time to go over the latest autopsies, taking for granted anything Scully said would be accurate. He knew she was the one who made up for Mulder's sloppy investigative procedures. From his oblique perspective, it seemed Mulder and Scully were well and truly in each other's personal space. So much so that they appeared to share only one. Forenzzi's scowl deepened. Scully continued. "I performed autopsies on the two recently-discovered victims. Both were females, aged nine and seven years respectively. Although one victim disappeared approximately one month before the remains were discovered, the torso was surprisingly free of predation and in relatively good condition. This was due no doubt to the almost constant sub-zero temperature conditions of the site and the manner in which the remains were hung. "As with prior victims, both were raped anally and vaginally, however, by what appears to be two separate UNSUB's." With that little bombshell dropped, Scully paused. Mulder laid his hand on his partner's arm and spoke a few quiet words while the room virtually erupted around them. Scully nodded, ignoring the outburst. Although Mulder removed his hand, he rested it on the table in such a way that if Scully had leaned back, his arm would be around her. Most of those present were distracted by this totally unexpected announcement and took no notice of the body language. However a handful, particularly those inclined to gossip or with some grudge against Spooky Mulder, took it as further evidence the relationship between the two was something other than professional. Forenzzi knew better. If they were fucking they would not flaunt it like that. No, he knew what Spooky was like. It was something perverted. Shit. Poor Dana. "The reasons for my conclusion..." Scully had to raise her voice to continue, but it took a few moments for the voices to fade completely. "As I was saying, the reasons for my conclusion is twofold. The entry points and angles of penetration into the thoracic cavity differ only slightly, but sufficiently to indicate one was from a right-handed person, the other, left handed. This in itself is not conclusive to two individuals however the evidence is backed up by the degree and type of sexual penetration. One victim was apparently penetrated with a penis while the other appears to have been object-raped, with considerably, and I must add unusually, surprisingly little force. Death was caused by..." Again, the rumbling voices circulated around the room but Scully continued unabated. "Death was caused by a gash across the carotid artery, not the stab to the heart. Two distinct blades were used on the neck, one for killing, the other for decapitation." Forenzzi was livid. The damned autopsy results verified the bullshit Mulder had tried to spout the moment he'd arrived. He didn't even have the satisfaction of believing Mulder had come to his conclusion after Scully had completed the autopsies. The fact that the smart-assed little turd had come up with this by himself was irksome beyond words. Before anyone could comment Mulder added. "This fits in with the conflicting aspects of prior profiles. We are now looking for numerous, I would go so far as to suggest at least four UNSUBs operating as couples. Either male/male or male/female, or both. This is most definitely not the operation of a lone serial killer nor is there evidence of the more common, ritualistic, satanic overtones. We are looking for some very sexually fucked-up people who, as I said previously, get their jollies not simply from the sexual act, but the act of murdering and then dismembering the bodies. I am almost certain there are either links to or origins to snuff pornography and that aspect is being investigated by the San Diego office because, as you are aware, most snuff porn is made using illegal immigrants." At that point, a dozen questions were fired at both Mulder and Scully and although each were answered fully, Scully could detect in Mulder a growing impatience. The questions became repetitive and Mulder felt his partner touch his hip in order to forestall what would have been a sarcastic reply. Mulder pulled his hand from the table to touch his partner's back, reassuring her. He did however break up the meeting by stating he would have preliminary profiles by six that evening. With that his hand pushed a little against Scully, encouraging her to precede him from the room. *************************************************** End Chapter 5 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 8 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ***PLEASE READ*** : It starts to get deep dark and nasty from this point on. If you are going to continue, *please* read all sections as I *will* lead you out of it. ********************* All sections rated NC17 from now onwards,mostly for violence and disturbing con cepts. ********************* CHAPTER 6 Day 5 - Wednesday Room #3 Central Hotel, Seattle 7 p.m. Mulder quietly entered the room after making sure his last profile was being judiciously photocopied and distributed. He was exhausted, hungry and tired and almost willing to believe he might eat and sleep that night. But he also knew the profiles would not be enough. At some point he must abandon this reticence and let go. If he didn't set himself up for it soon, the next victim would be wasted. Fuck it. The next vicitm. The next one would likely be his... Sleep and food depravation would hasten the process. He had to prepare himself for this, whenever the killers struck again he had to be ready to let go, to let it take control of him. To use him, to show him... No, no, tonight he could not sleep. Scully had almost wrapped up her presentation to the twelve people who sat quietly in the darkened room. Mulder was mollified to see Forenzzi was one of them. The man's reluctance to accept Mulder's proposition seemed to have done an about face in the light of Scully's scientific reasoning. Mulder just wanted them to believe the truth and use it. That Scully provided that truth was of great comfort to him. So often skeptical of his conclusions, this was one occasion where they could agree. Now, he needed an hour or so with her to run some of his more unlikely theories past her analytical mind. Christ if he could dig deep enough he might yet find these bastards before...ah fuck it! Who was he trying to fool? Ten years. Ten goddamned years he'd stayed free of this but he *had* to let go. One more child would die while he stood by and did *nothing*. Oh God that was the worst of all. That he allowed it to happen and did *nothing* to take control! If he had just been able to control *himself*... He blinked back the images. There was no other way. He would profile these bastards to the bitter end, then give in to their sick madness and become them. It was what he was and running away from it would just mean another child would die. And another. Patterson was right. This is what he was. That he alone could find them, to sacrifice one to save who knew how many more, was the way it had to be. He pulled his eyes up to Scully. But oh Jesus why did she have to witness this? He could do it alone. He could hide it from her. Please dear God let it happen when she's not around. Give me some warning, let me feel their hunger and blood lust and arousal and give me time to escape her eyes. Please. The presentation came to an end, people filed out of the room. Forenzzi made his way to the front and perched on the table while Scully collected her material. He had missed her that afternoon at the morgue, having spent almost the entire day with Skinner and the newly-formed team leaders. Entirely new lines of investigation had opened up with this pornography take. That more than one UNSUB was involved both increased the workload, but as Forenzzi well knew, quadrupled their chances of a break. Yet, as the agents around him kept on about how brilliant fucking *our man* Spooky was to have come in and figured it all out in a few days, Forenzzi became more and more ticked off. *Our man*. Shit, as the first of the profiles were distributed, the FBI's former pariah had taken on the mythic proportions of a hero. As the day progressed, Forenzzi decided the next asshole that patted him on the back and congratulated him would get a fistful. Christ, he knew what they meant when they talked about all the fine work he'd put in to date. What they really meant was, step aside now, buddy, you fucked up and the D.C. boys are here to yank your jewels out of the fire. Jesus, he was a D.C. man himself before being sent to this fucking hick town. Mulder the hero, Mulder, the little ass-jabbing cock- sucking faggot. Shit, if the press only knew they were using a fucking pedophile to catch a pedophile. Oh, he knew all about Mulder's dirty little secrets. He'd been there in Michigan. He'd had to get Mulder down to a meeting and when the profiler never answered his door, Forenzzi heard the gutteral screams and broke it down. And there was Mulder, surrounded in photos of the dead boys, coming all over himself in his trousers, screaming about fucking them and slicing them. That had almost made Forenzzi ill. Patterson and the psychiatrist had come flying up the stairs and shunted him out of there, but not before Forenzzi had seen plenty. Jesus, he wasn't averse to good skin flicks himself, and he'd thanked God for adult pay TV in some of the places he'd been assigned. But kids, little boys... getting into the minds of killers was one thing but that ...what Mulder was doing....nah, that was sick, way too sick. Shit. They'd caught the goddammed killer only a few days later, as a direct result of Mulder's fucking sick little self indulgence so Patterson said. Okay, so maybe he wasn't a pedophile, maybe he only got off on photos, but Jesus they were *dead* kids, dead boys. And the guy wasn't even touching himself, just jerking back and forth and coming in his goddamned *pants*, he was so fruit looped! But what bothered him now was that Scully must have had some idea. After seven years, she must have seen it. Had she elected to turn a blind eye? No, no she surely wouldn't have changed that much. But the way the FBI protected Mulder...very likely she'd been ordered to shut up. God, he felt sorry for her, she was just a slip of a thing, really. She used to laugh, really laugh and he could see on her face that laughter, even smiles, had long since gone. After Michigan, Forenzzi had learned a great deal more than he'd wanted. He learned the FBI kept some very weird people in its employ, people who would never have passed a psych exam. People like alien-chasing Mulder, who the FBI let keep his little men from Mars indulgence so long as he could be used to flush out society's even dirtier crap. But Forenzzi had a thing about pedophiles, that's why he'd obsessed over this case for months. And now a fucking pedophile comes in to take it over. Yeah, maybe Mulder never did it for real, but as far as Forezzi was concerned, photos or for real, made no matter. You were still a pedophile in his books. He could not reconcile that, no matter how you cut it, it was wrong, plain wrong and no amount of moral juggling could set it right. Like a tongue worrying a cavity, he needed to find out more about Mulder. He needed to know what Scully knew and he needed to find a way to get Mulder off the case. He didn't want him publicly exposed, that would embarrass the Bureau, but if he could somehow let it slip to Fred Baxter...and also let it slip that they were reduced to using a flying saucer watcher fruitcake. That was right up Baxter's alley...embarrassing, but not fatal. Yeah, if he could play it just right...And for that he really needed to get in with Dana again. Mulder elected to remain in the shadows. He knew Scully, knew he was there. Although he could not hear the exchange, Mulder noticed Forenzzi didn't move out of Scully's way as she reached for her overhead projection diagrams. Scully was obliged to either reach past him, brushing against his thigh, or go right around the table. After a few moments, without looking up, she spoke a little louder, "I'll be right with you Mulder. Could you get those slides out of the projector for me please?" Forenzzi's eyes snapped up and narrowed as he saw movement near the wall- mounted projector. How in hell did she know he was there? But he remained leaning against the table. He had no reason to leave, in fact every reason to stay. "How about joining us for dinner, then Dana?" He asked. Scully smiled politely and was about to reply when the room illuminated. Mulder had flicked the lights on in order to remove the slides. Scully's eyes automatically searched her partner out. The sight of him brought a frown to her face. Now, oblivious to Forenzzi, she dropped the folder in her hand to the table and strode to the back of the room. "Mulder?" Scully put her hand to his face in concern. He looked gray and drawn, far more so than after the morning's meeting. Scully had left him to finish his profiles while she went to the Medical Examiner's office and had the dubious pleasure of meeting Silas Harqua. "Have you eaten anything since breakfast?" He smiled at her fondly and replied "No, I'm not hungry." Scully placed one hand along his forehead to determine if he had a temperature, he certainly looked ill enough. She took his other hand in hers, checking his pulse. He smiled indulgently and said "I'm fine, Doc, just a little tired, that's all. Listen I need to run a few things by you." "All right, let me finish up here and we can go get something to eat." Mulder scrunched up his nose but Scully stopped him "Dinner, Mulder, or you don't get to pick my brains. The hotel restaurant is only a few steps away, I won't even make you change your shirt." Forenzzi strained to hear the exchange, but to his annoyance, all he could pick up was something about dinner. Still, that bothered him far less than the way Mulder stood so close to his partner. Forenzzi had conveniently forgotten Scully had gone to Mulder, all he could see was them touching at the hips and Scully stroking his face and holding his hand. The look of unabashed fondness in Mulder's eyes made him ill. God, if only Dana knew what a sick puppy Mulder really was. Forenzzi shuddered. What if he was wrong, what if Mulder had somehow done something to her, involved her somehow in his sick, perverted sex life? Shit. Forenzzi stood when he realized they were ignoring him. Mulder's eyes left his partner's face and looked at the bigger man indifferently as he walked towards them. "I'll catch up with you later, Dana," Forenzzi said neutrally as he walked by. He only nodded at Mulder, determined to be professional despite the almost overwhelming urge to smash the sick bastard's face in. Mulder let a smile tug the corner of his eyes and he turned his head slightly in what Forenzzi interpreted as an insolent gesture. Forenzzi managed to leave the room without saying anything, then headed straight for the bar. If he could not do it with his fists, at least he could eradicate pretty boy's face with a few well placed Scotches. *************************************** Day 5 - Wednesday Central Hotel, Seattle 11:00 p.m. >From the journal of Crystal Palmer. Dad's taking me out tomorrow night to celebrate. I should be pleased. I should be emotionally celebrating that my re- written thesis has finally been accepted. And I am, of course. It's just that this case is getting to me. No, that's not true. This had gotten to me before. It's these two getting to me. They came down to dinner tonight, around 7:15 pm. Then, about a half hour later, most of the old crowd came together with Busche and Forenzzi. Not being Sunday, the place only had a handful of regulars as well as these guys. There were about twenty in the group, local agents and a bunch of the ones who'd been here since it started. Oh yeah, and a new guy. The big new guy nodded at these two, who smiled back in recognition. The others all but ignored them and the room temperature dropped so much I went and stoked the damned fire. Mulder and the redhead didn't seem to need anyone else. They were connected, you could see it from clear across the room. After they'd finished dinner the new guy signaled them. Mulder seemed uncomfortable and I realized he looked pretty tired and not too well. He hardly touched his dinner, either. Mind you, when I thought about it, for a guy his size, a runner, he hardly seemed to eat much of anything. But Red kind of dragged him across. He had his hand in the center of her back and she walked in front of him but, yeah, she was definitely pulling him. They sat down, Mulder near Busche, Forenzzi, and the new guy. Red sat a few chairs away talking to someone else. Every minute or so one of them would glance at the other. And it wasn't just a glance. It was a look, an affirmation. I've never seen anything like it before and believe me, I've seen my fair share of lovers in this place. Nope, this was something else again, something on an entirely different plane. If men are from Mars and women, Venus, these two were from Alpha Centauri. Oh, I forgot! How could I forget that? They call him Spooky, Spooky Mulder. And Red's name is Scully. They call him that because he really does chase aliens, that's part of the legend. But it gets weirder. The FBI has a whole section dedicated to chasing this alien stuff and it's run by Spooky. I was wrong. They do lock him in the basement and only drag him out and brush him off when they need him. But it sent shivers down my spine. Think about it, if the FBI actually keeps an entire department to chase down aliens, there must be something in it, right? So, they'd finished dinner. A couple of the other agents, including Forenzzi, had been drinking heavy at the bar. I noticed Spooky sat on a beer and iced tea for the night, while most of them downed far too many hard drinks. Fortunately, all the other customers had left when it happened. Mulder was sitting closest to the counter near me. Scully was at the other end of the table, talking to West. Now, I have to put this in perspective. I've never, ever seen these guys lose their cool with one another. Raised voices, a punch through the wall a couple of times and some pretty foul language, but that's it. The press had given them a particularly hard time that week, calling for resignations. Since Mulder was flown out from D.C. and the agents had already started to reshuffle their job assignments and team leaders, the press appeared somewhat mollified. I got the feeling this was a farewell dinner of sorts for those who'd be leaving. Anyway, I looked up when I heard the language. The big guy, the new one, had gone to the men's room with Busche. Forenzzi and Mulder were slightly apart from the others. Forenzzi wore that well-developed smirk of his, then very pointedly leered at Scully. You didn't need to read lips to figure what he was saying. Mulder didn't move and I didn't catch his answer but it was brief and the next thing Forenzzi says, very quietly but distinctly, 'You fucking self-righteous perverted little faggot!' The punctuation was not verbal, but a cracking sound. It was nothing like those TV punches. And it was sure as hell bloodier than most. I thought Mulder's nose must have been broken. I'm not sure how, but I managed to get to him before anyone else. Maybe it was because Forenzzi was about six inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. It sent Mulder across the floor towards me, a trail of blood flying around in a loop, splattering across the wall. I know it sounds weird, but my first though was, I hope to God he doesn't have AIDS because it's going to have to be me that cleans all that blood and mucus off the walls. Anyway, I reached Mulder with a dishcloth in hand. I'd just picked it up and rinsed it off, it was brand new. The water was icy cold and when he turned his face to look at me I planted it across his cheek. It wasn't his nose after all, but his jaw. Hell, I thought, I wonder if it's broken. He grimaced, but I'm surprised he felt the cloth. God, that must be so damned painful I thought. You see all these bar room TV brawls and the hero just gets up and keeps on swinging. Maybe a bloody nose, but not gore. Not torn lips and mucus and stuff from his nose and blood and saliva. God, I was so angry. He was beautiful and that big bastard had broken him, just smashed him. And calling him a faggot? Okay, I'd heard the rumors and I'd been a bit put out and of course I'm the last one to judge, but after seeing Scully... Shee-it! Forenzzi was supposed to be an FBI agent and he never saw how Mulder is with his partner? Some detective, no wonder they're not winning on this case. The damage wasn't that bad I suppose, nothing that wouldn't heal. It was just a kind of reaction to seeing it. So I held the cloth to his face and ignored the legs and scuffles around me. I suppose about ten, fifteen seconds passed while Mulder's eyes fluttered and he blinked to clear them. Jesus, he was in pain, that was obvious, but he took a couple of deep breaths and moved to stand. He didn't try to pull the cloth from my hand and he stared at me. Eyes are expressive, but his, well, you could write a book from all the words I saw in those eyes. But the uppermost one was gratitude. Half his mouth, the undamaged side, smiled regretfully and he whispered, "Sorry." And for the first time ever, I saw him smile with his eyes. Here's the guy lying prone, his jaw probably broken and he's apologizing for messing up the dining room! I wanted to hold him and comfort him and try and put it all back together and make him beautiful again. I couldn't help but think about the last time something like this had happened to me. Good thing there wasn't a gun nearby, that's all I can say. "Mulder, are you okay?" I heard her before I saw her drop beside me. What an idiotic question! What do you think? Is he okay! Shit. And she's a doctor, can't she see? What is wrong with these people? Mulder lifted himself onto his feet and put his hand over mine to hold the dishcloth in place. I let it go as he grabbed the side of a table to balance. Then I distinctly heard him say, "Yeah, I'm okay, just a love tap." Just a fucking love tap! I looked up at the wall. It was cream. Now it's cream with splattered red strings and polka dots. Scully took his hand and reached up to take the dish cloth from him. "Mulder, you really must work on your people skills." I leaned across and pulled out a chair then stuck it behind his legs. I knew he had to sit before he fell because he'd gone white and shaky with shock. But he grinned at Scully's remark and replied "I have been, Scully, it's over seventy-two hours, a record." It hit me then, they really were a world unto themselves, even within the FBI. Her eyebrow lifted and I think she smirked. Surreal. Really. There was still some scuffling behind me and shouting and jack off shit spooky bastards and bum fucking little faggots being thrown around, but I ignored it to watch these two. I wanted to help. "Think my orthodontist is going to be pissed at me Scully." Then he spat blood and crap and something white onto the dish cloth. It was a tooth fragment, then another. Well jeez, why was I not surprised, but at least his jaw didn't seem to be broken. I swung back into the kitchen and scooped a shovel of ice into a fresh terry cloth dishtowel. We bleach our stuff so I knew it would be pretty sterile. Then I raced back outside. By that time four or five people stood around Mulder. About fifteen feet away, Forenzzi and some of the others were still arguing and throwing their arms around. The guy closest to me was the new one, he must have heard the commotion and come out of the john fast. He was built like a tank and even in profile, I could see he was a bit like these two. He carried no extra weight but the closer I got, the more massive he seemed. He was bald, and wore glasses and his nose looked like it might have been broken once, but it had set cute rather than ugly. Not that you could say anything about this guy was cute, he looked big and dangerous and you could see his temper was just being held in check. I caught the trail end of his sentence just as I started to push my way through them. "...warned you to not tick off the locals." I finally spat the dummy, swung on the big guy and said "Cut the guy a break will you?" Then I pushed the bag of ice past him and handed it to Scully. What I'd meant to do was push the big bastard aside and give Mulder the ice personally, but when I shoved my hand at him, it was like pushing an oak tree. My arm slid by, but that was as far as I was getting. I glared up at him, expecting...well I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but resigned amusement was way down on the bottom of the list. Surprisingly he stepped aside, letting me get closer. I heard him tell everyone to break it up and go back to bed, or work or whatever they were supposed to be doing. He ordered Forenzzi to go home and report to him in the morning. Scully had put the ice in Mulder's hands and she was peering inside his mouth. He obviously had a lot of trouble keeping his jaw open wide enough for her to see. She pulled back and his words garbled a bit as he said "'Nuthin to see, Scully. Need a coupla crowns maybe, just bruising." "I'm not so sure Mulder, that cut is deep enough for stitches, especially if you need dental work, your bottom lip will stretch and scar." "No big deal, it's not like my love life is going to be affected." "Mulder, I think your lip is big enough as it is without stretching it further." "You can say that again." The big guy next to me mumbled. The double meaning was not lost on anyone but Mulder shrugged and stood, holding the ice bag to his face and flashing me a half grin. Then a cell phone rang and another. Next thing about five of the things are going off. I didn't hear much, mostly yeahs, grunts, oh motherfuckers and son's of bitches. Didn't have to be a mind reader to know something big was up. Then I saw Mulder push Scully's hand away as his whole body sort of froze up. You could feel the walls going up around him and he kept saying "fuck it, fuck it" over and over. Then they all left without another word to me. I could pretty much guess what had happened. I felt like letting a few choice words out myself as my stomach fell. But there was nothing I could do or say. They were lost in their own world now, leaving me to clean off the wall and straighten the mess. I didn't mind, something to take my mind off it. I sure as hell wasn't going to get any sleep. One good thing, it's semi-gloss paint, not wall paper, like the other side, so it should clean off okay. ***************************************** End Chapter 6 MIND GAMES: Book 1: The Profiler 9 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated NC17 ********************* CHAPTER 7 Day 6 - Thursday Central Hotel, Seattle 5:30 a.m. >From the journal of Crystal Palmer The big guy came back about 4:30 am. I was supposed to be on midday shift but now I'm no longer at school, I've taken a lot more of the workload. Dulcie's getting too old for these cold mornings. I'm used to pulling all nighters and sleeping in the afternoons during tutorials. That was the great thing about being a tutor, the undergrads asking for help and you telling them, work it our for yourselves. For forty dollars an hour I generally managed at least three, sometimes four, hours sleep during the afternoon lab sessions. That's finished now. I mean, I'm sooo glad I've got my Ph.D., but it's all been headed for this, years and years of it. And now I'm thirty-four years old, widowed and can finally start again. But getting back to the big guy. He came in and seemed surprised to see me. I suppose it was because I was alone, sitting at a table and reading Katlin's journal on Fluid Dynamics. It deformalized the situation. He introduced himself as A.D. Skinner. I asked him what A.D. stood for, thinking it might be Andrew and hoping Abernathy didn't come into the picture. Turns out it's "assistant," as in "assistant director." Oh! Isn't that pretty high up? One down from Hoover's old position? I learned later there were many A.D.'s, but it was still impressive. Anyway, he thanked me. I blinked and asked what for. "For assisting Special Agent Mulder. That was very kind of you." I blinked again. "Well, what else would I have done? Forenzzi just about took his head off. Took me an half an hour to clean the blood off the walls." Skinner's eyebrows lifted. Not much, mind you, but his eyes changed and it struck me he'd never had to clean up after a fight. Or no, not that. Not that at all. Maybe he'd just seen so much blood he, well, he didn't see it anymore unless it was part of a crime scene. I looked in his eyes again and if you ignored the harshness around them, they were rich and deep and brown and you could quietly drown in them. He really was cute behind that steely exterior. "Have you been up all night?" he asked politely. "Yeah, didn't feel much like sleep knowing you'd found another one." He looked at me quizzically. "How did you know?" I gave him a look. "With every cell phone in the place going off and no one sounding too happy with the news? C'mon." But he didn't confirm anything, just asked, "So when do you sleep?" "I don't need much, four, five hours generally. I can sleep later on today." "Insomnia?" I smiled and shook my head. "Dissertation." "Oh, what in?" He glanced at the journal I was reading and I thought, that's odd, first time anyone's asked. But then I finally twigged. He was checking me out. Typical cop. Trust no one. "I have a masters in physics but wanted to branch out into engineering." I put the journal to one side. Now his right eyebrow really did lift and he looked at me in a totally different way. "Nearly finished?" "Have finished," I smiled this time "My supervisor called yesterday and it's official." "So we should address you as Dr. Popopoulas?" I chuckled this time. "Bit pompous for a waitress, don't you think? My last name's Palmer, now, not Popopoulas, but please call me Crystal. Another degree doesn't change that." "Well, on behalf of Agent Mulder and myself, I would like to thank you and apologize for the disturbance." "How is he? Anything broken?" Skinner shook his head no. "Mulder's used to being knocked around, comes with the territory. Just a couple of stitches and caps on his teeth." Just stitches and caps...and that was friendly fire...brother. I just shook my head. He ordered breakfast and read the paper while I cooked. He sat at the breakfast bar instead of a table, so I sat down opposite him with my own coffee and asked "You here to take over the case?" He put his paper to one side and rolled his head in affirmation. I could see he was wrestling with something and, I don't know, it bothered me. There was a great deal about him that had the same tired, wound-up tightness as Mulder, but where Mulder was springy, Skinner looked like he carried it all inside and maybe took it out on a punching bag every now and then. He looked a bit like he might have been a boxer...but harder somehow. Old boxers often go soft, not this guy. And the way he carried himself, ramrod straight...military. Yep, I wouldn't mind betting military. "That explains last night. Not that it was your fault, just that I can understand how frustrating it's been for everyone and now...well, the press and all. I guess Forenzzi's out. Truth to tell, I won't miss him." I didn't expect an answer, and it surprised me when he replied. "He's not a bad agent. Mulder just has a way of getting under everyone's skin." "Mulder's that good, huh?" Skinner stared at me. "Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure it out. Prodigies never have an easy time and are not generally known for their social skills. I should know, I studied under enough of them. Forenzzi's by the book, and according to everyone here, hates Mulder's guts going way, way back. As for Mulder, well...his eyes...something there makes you want to run screaming for the nearest exit, or take him in your arms and tell him it'll be all right. Definitely not Forenzzi's type, in fact not most FBI types from what I've seen. To cap it off, it started over something Forenzzi said about Agent Scully." Skinner's expression hardly altered, but he somehow managed to look stunned "You're very observant. What did he say in reference to Agent Scully?" "Being seen as simply a waitress has its advantages. Forenzzi's a leerer...is there such a word? He's from the old school that thinks a pass is his prerogative and a slap on the butt is not sexual harassment. No big deal, but he was smirking at Agent Mulder while he threw one of his less polite leers at Agent Scully. I didn't hear what he said, but you don't have to be a psychologist to pick up it was something below the belt. I didn't hear Mulder's reply, either, but there was hardly time for him to form a complete sentence when Forenzzi let fly. "I don't suppose it helped that since Sunday, Forenzzi's more than hinted that Mulder is not only gay, but has a few additional kinks thrown in for good measure. You want another cup?" He looked down at this cup absently and realized it was empty. I could see the wheels turning behind those glasses. "Mulder gay," he muttered absently. But the look in his eyes, the slightly raised eyebrow and infinitesimal smile said it all. Mulder might be many things, it said, but gay was sure as hell not on the notice board, let alone the same list. I was glad I was right. Given my track record, I knew I could have been way off base. But Skinner's face now confirmed it. Well at least I didn't have to think about that aspect anymore. "No, thanks anyway, I better get going." I nodded and began cleaning up. I had a lot to do and wanted to free my mind before going out with Dad. We rarely just get to talk, the two of us, without half the family having their say, particularly about my future. Despite the lack of sleep, I felt better than I had in weeks, maybe months. I suppose I was really feeling the pressure over my thesis, as well as having all this going down. Now, one pressure is gone, I can cope with the FBI better. I still don't like, them, of course. Nothing will ever change that. But I don't hate them anymore. ******************************************* CHAPTER 8 Day 6 - Thursday City Morgue, Seattle 5:30 am Her fingers finally began to shake as she stripped the latex from them. "Okay Dani, you can put her away now." Scully spoke quietly to the assisting diener. She noted absently that Webster was also looking grimmer than when they'd started. Scully reached up to click off the tape machine and sighed softly. "You think you get used to it," Dani Webser said, "but sometimes, it hits you right in the solar plexus." Scully turned to face the diener and replied, "Kids are always the worst, but when they're dismembered like this it's...it's a desecration, the perfidy of evil." Scully looked up and asked "Do you have children?" Webster expertly arranged the remains into a configuration that approximated a complete human. But the gross parody of normalcy was not lost on her. "Yeah, but I've always handled it okay, even when they bring in kids that look a bit like mine, like this one. But you're right, this feels...different." Suddenly her eyes caught the FBI agent's and she chuckled, "Please don't ever tell..." Scully smiled and pushed a stray hair from her face, then leaned back against the bench. "Never. Right now, I'm just furious that it wasn't picked up before. This is absolutely critical to the profile." "You found the same thing on the two shipped to D.C.?" "Right. At first, I thought it was secondary damage due to the manner in which the body parts were hung, but this pretty well concludes it. I'll need to talk to the victim's mother." Scully couldn't quite bring herself to give the pitiful remains currently being bagged a name. "The missing right toenail appears to be from a prior accident, possibly a bruise or previous infection." Scully shook her head. She did not normally discuss results with the dieners. The morgue assistants picked up most of what was going on anyway, just by the verbal nature of note-taking. But both women had been affected by this autopsy. Finding new evidence justified their belief in themselves that their jobs were not only important, but critical in pinpointing and capturing those who perpetrate such evil. Both now took comfort in that justification. Scully went into the showers and stripped her scrubs, vaguely annoyed that the room was small and open, instead of featuring private cubicles. She turned on the hot water and began to soap up, trying to remove the pervasive stench of death. Her olfactory nerves had become somewhat immunized over the years, then the cancer stripped away those senses even further. However, she was sensitive to the reactions of others, particularly Mulder. She'd once forgone a shower because he was in a hurry. Two miles driving in desert heat and no air conditioning and she'd shrugged, telling him he only had himself to blame. He never hurried her after that. The diener walked in. Catching Scully's eye, she quipped "Don'cha just love our equal opportunity showers?" Scully snorted "I've been in worse. Most places don't even consider female amenities. Women don't do autopsies and don't work in law enforcement." Webster pulled off her own scrubs and said "You gotta be kidding me?" Scully smiled as she turned her face up to the showerhead. "Oh, no, and it's not always in the little hick towns, either. You've never come across it?" "I'm too low down the totem pole to be considered that way. I don't inspire jealousy and let's face it, that's what's generally behind attitudes like that." Scully turned her head to one side and considered how similar Webster's observation paralleled Agent West's. She idly wondered what the M.E.'s reaction would be when she wrote up her autopsy report. Pissed, big time, no doubt. Scully would normally go out of her way to avoid overt, or even implied criticism of another pathologist, but under the circumstances and the intense efforts behind these murders, his failures were at best, sloppy. Webster decided to phrase the question as a comment, telling herself it was to prepare for the coming storm. "You know of course that most of the early autopsies were performed by different pathologists. But what you probably don't know is sometimes, well, it gets pretty hectic around here and..." Scully turned off the faucet and reached for a towel, resisting the temptation to reply that it did not excuse sloppy procedures or in this case, assumptions. Webster continued. "Anyway, the M.E. has been known to sign off on work he hasn't done. If the press gets a hold of this..." Scully actually glared at the diener. Could she be implying..? Webster had turned off the shower and reaching for a towel herself, did not see the warning look on Scully's face. "I mean this whole damned situation has been plagued from the beginning. The press has gotten hold of stuff that could only have been leaked from this office. If this gets out, now..." The diener finally saw Scully's eyes and it chilled her. "Hey, I'm sorry. It's not my place to speak. All I'm saying is, when Harqua learns of this, he'll bury himself deeper into the bottle than he already is, and somehow, the press may just learn about it, not just what you've found, but that it should've been discovered before now. "Everyone's denying the leak is from here, they're blaming you guys, the feds, but that's crap, because the leaks have been going on from the start. I want this evil son of a bitch, or sons of bitches put down just as much, if not more than you do. I got kids. Right now, we're the only two people aware of these new findings and the more who are, the more shit will go down because of it. All I'm doing is pointing out those facts. What you do with it is up to you." Scully said nothing while she finished dressing. Goddammit! She hated coming into these places and finding petty machinations stewing. As if the fucking cases weren't complicated enough as it were. And of course, most everyone scrambled to protect their own butts. Fucking departmental politics -- Forenzzi and his cronies and now this crap. She sighed. Same old, same old. But the diener had volunteered to come down and assist, speeding the entire process by at least two hours. Smiling slightly at Webster, Scully replied "Thanks for letting me know, and for coming down to help at this god-awful time in the morning. I know it could have been left till later, but my partner and I feel every hour is critical. We've vindicated that by establishing they take trophies. As to the politics...I'll leave that up to my boss and the PR guys. I can't and won't protect this office from criticism, and now it looks like we're going to need those disinterment orders..." "Hey, Scully, you in there?" Mulder's voice interrupted through the door. "Hang on, Mulder, I'll be right out." Scully did not bother to apply makeup as she was going to get Mulder, make him go back to the hotel and consume about five milkshakes, then get to bed. She found him sitting slumped on a stool, head resting in his arms. He looked up and Scully sucked in her breath. His face was clouded and one side was swollen and blue, matching the blue circles under his eyes. His nose was puffy and a blue shadow spread underneath one eye. His five o'clock shadow had grown into a two and a half day beard. There were tiny, neat cross hatched stitches on his blue and swollen lower lip. He looked about as bad as she'd ever seen him outside of a hospital bed. The look on her face must have given it away and he said "I'm not as bad as I look, really," but it came out garbled. Scully had forced the issue and stitched his lip right there on the premises of the latest gruesome site. The victim had been found in yet another historical district backyard. This time, however, a neighbor's dog alerted the owners to the horrific thing hanging on the line. They had been out for the evening and only just returned and entered their home by the front door when the constant barking provoked Sam Curtis into flooding the back porch with lights. He was met with a sight he'd hoped never to witness after his days in Vietnam. Within minutes, the street was overflowing with police and unmarked cars erupting grim faced people. Somehow, Mulder, Scully and Skinner managed to access the backyard first. Such a break was a welcome relief to Scully...but then she was not so sure after seeing the almost manic look on Mulder's face. He refused to allow anyone near the remains for at least an hour, begrudgingly letting the forensics team in only because the temperature dropped and clouds blocked the stars. It would likely snow soon. Scully could not believe their further good luck when it turned out the owner of the house was a dental surgeon with offices in the adjoining building. Scully managed to stitch Mulder's lip while the remains were being bagged for the trip to the morgue. She'd convinced Mulder there was nothing to do but wait until she'd finished the autopsy and that he had time to have his teeth attended to. They were small victories but when it came to Mulder in profiler mode, she considered them significant. "So whatcha got for me, G-woman?" "You first, Mulder, how are your teeth?" "Two temporary caps. Should last a week or so. What did you find?" Their footsteps echoed through the empty rooms as she replied, "Okay, this one was the left-hander, small object penetration. More damage done to sever the head than the right-hander, two distinct blades again. According to the other CS photos each foot has been strung on the lines with a neat hole drilled through the large toe. Doesn't make a lot of sense when they could have simply pierced the flesh. But it conceals the fact that they are excising the large toenails. In the first autopsies I did, the evidence was only partially conclusive due to damage to the toes. In this last case, the right toenail was naturally missing. Probably a bruise or local infection, nothing unusual though I need to check with the parents -- except that as you pointed out, this right foot was hung through a hole drilled between the first and second metacarpal just below the big toe, and the second toe tip is missing. When I examined the left foot, the drill hole all but covers up the fact that the left big toenail was excised, but there is no mistake." "They're taking trophies, Scully." "Looks that way." **************************************** Day 6 - Thursday Central Hotel, Seattle 5:50 am "Take it, Mulder, it's just a mix of vitamins. If you won't eat, you should at least drink this." Mulder ignored her as he pulled off his bloodstained tie and shirt. Between her stitches and the dentist, his jaw felt like shit. He couldn't talk without dribbling like a fucking baby and had a feeling it would get worse. He knew she'd be on his back all morning, so he shrugged and took the glass. He frowned and screwed up his nose when he saw the bright red color. Turning to her, his eyes asked what the fuck was this shit? Not for the first time, Scully wondered if she should seek an iridologist's advice about Mulder's eye language. She had never met another human being who could swear so profusely with an iris. "It's just vitamins, Mulder. Shut up and drink it." His eyes gave her back equal lip, but he downed the contents of the glass in a few gulps, then spat a few more expletives at her with his lashes. He sat down and pulled off his shoes and socks while Scully rummaged around in her bag and found a bottle of pills. She poured three into her hand and said "Take these, too." He was beginning to get seriously pissed with her mothering. Now, she was trying to numb his brain when he needed to concentrate. The pain helped, the last thing he wanted was painkillers. "Scully, look, just leave me alone will you? I need to get these profiles revised. I need to concentrate." "Mulder, they're just aspirin," Scully persisted, holding them out for him to see. His eyes blazed and he turned on her, accidentally knocking the pills from her hand. But the expected apology was not forthcoming. Instead he said "You're not my fucking wife, Scully, so cut the nagging!" She pulled back, stunned at his outburst. His absolute refusal to eat bothered her. He'd eaten sparingly the night before and the smell of his breath in the morgue told her he'd probably lost that sometime during the night, possibly as a result of the local anesthesia she'd administered for the stitches. He'd reacted similarly in the past. As he pulled off his undershirt, her eyes narrowed. It was not really that noticeable, but he had definitely lost weight. Could it have all been in the last few days? Was he keeping anything down at all? Scully started to speak, but he had undone his belt and pulled his trousers, shorts and all, down to his ankles. Scully barely turned away in time, but he was heedless of her presence as he went to the bathroom and turned on the shower, not bothering to close the bathroom door. Scully frowned, in all the years they had traveled together, he had never, ever, casually stripped naked in front of her. Sure they'd walked in on each other occasionally. But they'd averted their eyes, mumbled an apology and never been embarrassed. It was an unavoidable fact of being on top of each other all the time. No big deal. But the way in which he had done it just then was as if he'd erected a huge wall between them. He was absolutely, totally indifferent to her presence. She simply did not matter. Somehow, that bothered her more than his outburst of temper. Scully spent a few minutes tidying his room and collecting his soiled laundry. She opened his room door and hung a 'do not disturb' sign on it, then returned to her own room, pulling the adjoining door closed, but not latching it. She needed to change clothes and eat something before starting on her own report. All she could safely do now was just be there for him, keep an eye and ear out, ignore his outbursts and try and keep the fluids up. But first, she also allowed herself a moment to lay on the end of her bed and soundly curse the bastards who demanded this of him. ********************** End Chapter 8 End Mind Games I