////////////////

Chapter Five

////////////////


Scully slept like the dead, awaking still groggy at the 
persistent beep of her travel alarm.  She staggered into the 
bathroom and turned on the shower to a rain of hot, stinging, 
needles.  Shedding her pajamas to the floor, she walked into 
the spray, closing her eyes as the water blasted away 
yesterday's skin and turned her into a new person.

Her twin bullet holes no longer burned in the shower.  She 
touched the one on her belly gently, probing for feeling.  
The skin at its edges was tender and sensitive where the scar 
itself was raised and deadened.  She recalled the force of 
the bullet as it had ripped through her; the fiery pain had 
stolen her breath.  The wall was hard at her back as she 
fell, that long slow slide into death.

Except that she had lived instead.  Now she would carry this 
new reminder of her stolen life everywhere, yet another 
talisman of her dance with the dark side.

The plastic surgeon's office had phoned two weeks ago to 
schedule her an appointment, but Scully had not had the 
chance to return the call.  There was Cassandra and Spender 
and all the missing people in the stars.  And Diana and 
Marita and those angry words in the Gunmen's lair.

And Mulder, always Mulder.

She stepped free from the tub and toweled the remaining 
moisture from her body.  Steam occluded the mirror so she 
swiped a patch clear with her hand to see her own face and 
worn-out body in front of her.

Mulder had seen the scar, she knew.  He had peeked during 
their decontamination procedure and gotten an eyeful.  If he 
had any comment, he did not share it.

Scully wrapped the towel around her wet hair and pulled down 
another clean one to wrap her body.  On her way back to the 
main room, she paused to touch the rose sitting in the water 
glass.  Its peach petals tickled her pruned fingertips.

No card was attached.  The man at the desk said he had not 
been on duty when the flower was dropped off for her.  "Maybe 
a secret admirer," he'd suggest last night with a smile.  
"One day late."

One day late, Scully thought again as she went to dress.  
That would be in keeping with her usual luck on the romantic 
front.

She was in the process of buttoning up her blouse when her 
cell phone rang.  The caller ID read, "Mulder, F." 

"Yes?" she said, attempting to button with one hand.

"He hit again, Scully.  Last night.  A South Boston couple 
was found dead this morning by the woman's sister -- both of 
them shot to death in the bedroom."

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way to the scene now."

Figures, she thought.  He was always two steps ahead of her, 
even when they were staying at the same damned hotel.

He gave her the address and she said she would meet him 
there.

She finished buttoning, her scars disappearing beneath the 
expensive silk.  By the time she left her room, Scully 
appeared perfectly whole once more.

//////

Mulder had to fight his way to the crime scene.  Millicent 
Road was like the streets he had shown her before from the 
skyscraper, narrow and crammed with SUVs where cows had once 
tread.  The police had blocked off the road from both ends 
with their cruisers to keep the press and curious gawkers 
away.  

He slowed his car down and showed his ID to the uniformed man 
guarding the street, and the cop moved aside to wave Mulder 
through.  Mulder stopped several houses away, behind the 
crime scene van, because passage became impossible near the 
McKillops' house -- a half dozen cruisers, two ambulances, 
and the Chief's car all sat double-parked in the street.

He walked across the dead lawn and up the front steps.  The 
pictures of the previous crime scenes had prepared him for 
the horror inside, but two-dimensional images never compared 
to the sight and smell of dead humans.

The living room was small but neat with a leather couch and 
matching armchair.  Mulder touched the end of a bobbing fern 
as he pressed deeper into the house.  He poked his head in 
the kitchen, which was decorated in all white with only a 
collection of blue vases by the window for color.  In the 
corner by the sliding door, stood a uniformed officer.  "This 
where he got in?" Mulder asked the man.

"Appears so," he replied, and looked at the ground.  

Mulder walked around the center island so he could see what 
the officer was looking at, and jumped back a bit when he got 
the answer.  "Oh, no," he said, covering his face with his 
arm.  

On the floor lay a slaughtered dog.  It had bled out all over 
the white tile; the officer stood at the very edge of the 
sticky pool.

"Everyone else upstairs?" Mulder asked.

"Yes, sir.  In the bedroom, sir."

Mulder knew exactly what he would find.

Cops clogged the hallway upstairs, forcing him flat against 
the wall as he made his way to the bedroom.  Ray Peterkin and 
Chief Windsor were already inside.  So was Diana.


"I still say this guy has to be in the system someplace," 
Windsor was saying.  "Ours or someone else's.  Look at this -
- itıs like a god damn rerun.  You donıt get this controlled 
without practice."

"Weıll broaden the search," Peterkin replied.  "Look for 
similar MOs along the East Coast."

"Worth a look," Mulder murmured as he crept closer to the 
bloody bed.   The victims were both nude with their hands 
tied.  The man had been fastened hand and foot to the 
headboard, kept completely immobile while the killer had 
enjoyed his playtime with the wife.  Both victims had 
superficial cuts on their torsos and a gunshot wound to the 
head.

Blood had pooled beneath them and coagulated on the white 
sheets.  As Mulder knelt for a better look, the stench of 
urine and sweat from the bed nearly knocked him back on his 
heels.

"If youıve got a better idea," Chief Windsor snapped, "Iım 
sure weıd all love to hear it."

"Not better," Mulder said as he stood.  "Just different.  I 
think itıs entirely possible this man has had a run-in with 
law enforcement somewhere.  But Iım wondering now whether 
itıs necessarily so."

"This is a highly sophisticated crime," Diana pointed out.  
"He controls two adult victims easily.  He gets in and out 
without any witnesses and leaves little trace evidence 
behind.  The degree of confidence here is impressive."

"Agreed," Mulder said.  "But Windsor said it best -- the 
amount of control is staggering.  Itıs possible he has been 
rehearsing this for so long that hands-on training wasnıt 
necessary, so to speak."

"So he just wakes up one day and starts killing people?" 
Windsor asked.

"They all wake up one day and start killing people," answered 
Mulder.  "Some of them just start earlier than others.  
Hereıs a question for you:  this guy is so smart and 
organized that he leaves no fingerprints, no witnesses, and 
very little in the way of fiber evidence behind, but he 
doesnıt bother with a condom -- why?"

Peterkin slapped his notepad against one palm and shook his 
head.  "Because he knows his DNA isnıt in the system."

Mulder turned and gave him the double-fingered point.  "That 
man wins the washer-dryer!"

"So he's not in CODIS," Diana replied.  "That only means his 
DNA is not in the system, not that he himself doesn't have a 
record."

Mulder tilted his head and looked at her.  She looked nearly 
the same as the day they had met, with her tailored charcoal 
gray pantsuit and her dark hair worn down around her 
shoulders.  Despite everything that had happened since then -
- their brief partnership and even briefer marriage -- it was 
really that first day he always remembered when he looked at 
her.  He hadn't been in the basement yet; no, the FBI had 
made him nurse his new obsession out in the open where 
everyone could walk past his files and snicker.  Perhaps they 
had thought this would cure him.

So he had been bent over a series of grainy photographs of 
the night sky in 1968 when she'd approached.  Her shadow had 
obscured the entirety of his small cubicle, interrupting his 
work so that he had been forced to put down the magnifying 
glass and deal with her.  "Agent Mulder, my name is Diana 
Fowley," she had said.  "I was wondering if you might need 
some assistance with your work."

Mulder hadn't said anything for a moment.  Then he had held 
up a photograph for her scrutiny.  "I'm looking for UFOs," 
he'd told her, daring her to blink.  "It's like 'Where's 
Waldo' only with aliens."

Diana had bent ever-so-slightly at the waist and studied his 
picture.  "There," she'd said, tapping it.  "On the left."

Mulder hadn't bothered to check her work; he had finally 
looked at her face, expecting to see amusement in her eyes, 
but found only curiosity.  "This isn't for The Enquirer," 
he'd said.  "I actually believe in this stuff."

"So do I."

Looking back on it now, Mulder saw he had been ripe for the 
picking.  He had gone from the man whom no one questioned to 
the man whom no one believed by his own design, but that had 
not lessened the sting.  Diana gave him the one thing no one 
else had: validation.

"Ahem," said Peterkin, and Mulder turned.  Scully had arrived 
at some point during his staring contest with Diana because 
she was now standing in the doorway, cheeks pink from the 
cold or from pique at being the last one on the scene.

"Agent Scully," Windsor said with a resigned sigh.  "Looks 
like we've got another deuce for you."

"I can see that."

Scully was putting on a pair of rubber gloves from her 
pocket.  They were purple, not like the white latex the 
others wore, because somewhere along the line Scully had 
developed a mild allergy to latex from repeated exposure.  
When she could, she used the rubber now.

As he watched her small hands disappear under protective 
cover, he thought about how many times he had seen her do 
this, how many times they had stood together in a room full 
of death.

She stepped to the bed and examined first Tom McKillop and 
then Hannah.  The room was silent except for the faint 
clicking from the baseboard heaters.  "Rigor is fully present 
in both victims," Scully said.  "My guess is that time of 
death was approximately six to eight hours ago."

"We'll bag them up and ship them to the morgue for you," 
Windsor said, "but I'm not sure what good it'll do.  We've 
got two more deaths and we don't know anything more than we 
did yesterday."

"On the contrary," Mulder said.  "We've learned he watches 
the evening news."

"Beg your pardon?" the Chief said.  "He watches the news?"

Mulder pointed at the door.  "You didn't notice the dead dog 
downstairs?  The very big dog?"

"It's a Boxer," Scully supplied.  "His throat was cut."

"Yeah, I saw the dog -- so what?"

"So that was your exact advice on the evening news," said 
Mulder.  "Get a very big dog instead of a very big gun.  
That's what you said."

"I know what I said.  You really think this was on purpose?  
That he picked a house with a dog because of what I said to a 
bunch of reporters?  Maybe it was a coincidence."

"Mulder's right," said Diana.  "This killer knows exactly 
what he's getting into before he enters a house.  He would 
have known about the dog in advance and come prepared for 
it."

"Exactly," Mulder said, "which tells you something else."

"What?" Windsor said impatiently.

"He's not stalking particular victims," said Scully.  "He has 
a roster to select from and will adjust as the situation 
demands."

Mulder nodded at her.  "So trying to find him via his victim 
selection may be more difficult than we had anticipated."

"Great," Windsor said.  "That's just great.  I've got another 
brutal crime scene, the press howling at the door, and now 
you're telling me we aren't going to find this animal in the 
system or by figuring how he picks the victims.  How the hell 
are we supposed to catch him then?  Can you tell me that?"

Mulder paused and shook his head.  "I can't," he admitted.  
"Not yet.  But in the meantime, I'd watch what you say on the 
news."


/////


Jake took a cup of coffee from the pot before it was fully 
finished brewing.  His bagel sprang up from the toaster and 
he pulled the peanut butter down from the cupboard.  Licking 
the excess from his thumb, he grabbed the remote and switched 
on the TV.

There was a special news report playing.  A young handsome 
reporter stood against a gray sky and shouted into his 
microphone.  "Police have confirmed that it is another double 
homicide -- the third in as many months and the second this 
week alone.  Victims are believed to be Hannah and Tom 
McKillop."

Jake leaned back, the counter edge digging into his spine.  
There were crowds of people in the background as everyone 
pressed in for a better look.  He saw the twirling blue 
lights from the cruisers and the yellow police tape flapping 
in the wind.

These people wouldn't be so eager, he thought, if they knew 
how easy it was for someone to get inside.

He closed his eyes and imagined the scene on the inside of 
the McKillop house, blood running red on the walls.  The 
reporter's voice echoed in his head: "The picture we're 
getting now is the coroner's van as it presumably is taking 
the McKillops' bodies to the city morgue.  One source I 
talked to say the couple most likely died sometime after 
midnight last night."

"Morning."  

His mother's voice startled him, making him jump and slosh 
coffee down the front of his T-shirt.  "Mom," he said as he 
touched the spreading stain.  "You're up early."

She looked lucid, her hair combed and her clothes neat.  
"I've got an early shift," she said as he helped herself to 
coffee.  She smiled and tousled his hair.  "I'm surprised 
you're so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, though.  You got in 
awfully late last night."

He froze.  "What do you mean?"

"I heard the door, honey.  I didn't look at the clock but it 
was long after I'd been to sleep.  Where were you?"

"Studying."

"With Tommy?"

"Yeah."  He dumped out the rest of his coffee in the sink 
while his mother stopped in front of the TV.

"What on earth are you watching?" she asked.  "Oh.  Oh, no.  
There's been another murder.  We should get better locks or a 
dog or something.  God, this is awful."  She sank into her 
chair, her gaze transfixed on the screen.

"Mom?  Mom, I've got to go change for school."

"Okay, honey."  She didn't turn from the TV.  

The handsome reporter was talking about how the police were 
searching the neighborhood for any witnesses.  "The Chief is 
expected to have another press conference later today to 
discuss these developments, and we will be sure to bring you 
that event live when it happens.  I'm Bill Harris, NBC news."

Jake ran up the stairs two at a time until he reached his 
room.  He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, 
his heart bouncing around his other organs like a pinball.

"Jake?" his mother called up to him.  "If you can be ready in 
ten minutes I can give you a ride to school.  Jake?"

He did not answer her.  Instead he ransacked his desk, 
throwing aside schoolwork and comics until he found the pill 
bottle he was seeking.  He opened it with shaking fingers and 
swallowed two of her pills dry.

"Jake, did you hear me?"

"I heard you!" he shouted back.  He backed slowly into the 
chair and rested his head in his hands.  "I heard you," he 
murmured to himself.  "I heard you."

////

Scully walked around with Mulder on the first floor of the 
McKillop house.  "These floors have been redone recently," 
she said, eyeing the smooth hardwood.

"He was a lawyer and she was an architect," Mulder replied.  
"They might have been young but they had some money."  He was 
looking through the top drawer of a mahogany desk.

She stooped to pick up the previous day's newspaper from 
where it sat folded on the coffee table.  "COUPLES KILLER 
HITS AGAIN -- police confirm serial killer loose in Boston," 
read the headline.  And you still never saw it coming, she 
thought as she replaced it gently.

She wandered over to the towering bookcase.  It held a 
collection of photos, collectibles and antique books.  She 
smiled as she spotted an original edition of "Gulliver's 
Travels."  But then a smudge on the shelf above her head 
caught her attention.  She stood on tiptoe for a better look, 
and the smear appeared to be a bloodstain.  "Mulder?  Come 
take a look at this."

Mulder materialized over her shoulder.  "What've you got?"

She pointed at the stain.  "It looks like blood."

"It certainly does."  He was taller, so he could see what was 
on the shelf above.  "It's right in front of this book...oh, 
it's not a book.  It's a photo album."

He carefully brought down the album, which was white with the 
date May 24, 1993 stamped on the cover.  There was another 
bloody smear on the lower right-hand corner.  "Looks like 
their wedding album," Scully said.  "What would the killer 
want with that?"

"I don't know," Mulder replied as he lifted the cover with 
one gloved finger.  "But did you know that something like 20% 
of burglars look through family photos while they're in the 
home?"

The first picture in the album had been removed.  All that 
remained were the faint traces of the adhesive.  

"He took it as a souvenir," Scully said.

"We should go back and check the other houses, see if he took 
anything from there. It won't help us now, but it might help 
link him to the scenes after we catch him."

Scully smiled a bit.  "Such certainty," she murmured.  "It's 
refreshing."

Mulder smiled back at her and nodded his head toward the rear 
of the house.  "Come on, I want to see how he got in."

She trailed him outside, drawing her coat around her as the 
winter wind blew her hair free from her collar.  She shivered 
and hurried across the frozen ground to keep up with Mulder.  
He stood on the small back patio next to a covered grill.

"It's the same as before, Scully.  He jimmied the back door 
open and came in through the kitchen.  The dog must have met 
him there.  He would have cut its throat immediately to keep 
it quiet."

Scully turned around and looked at the narrow backyard.  "No 
tree line to keep him hidden here.  Anyone from these 
neighboring houses might have seen him enter."

"Possible," Mulder agreed, not sounding like he believed it 
was likely.

Scully hugged herself.  It was cold and she didn't see much 
purpose for standing out here any longer.  "I'd better get to 
the bodies," she said.

"Scully."

She stopped and turned to look at him.  He was squinting from 
the wind and the bright daylight, his hair on end as a 
particularly frigid breeze blew their way.  "We're okay?" he 
asked. "About last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"About Diana..."

She stiffened at the words and cut him off.  "Is this going 
to be some new confession, Mulder?"

"What? No."

"Because unless it relates to the case in some way, I don't 
really see the point in even having this conversation."

Mulder took a step forward and lowered his voice.  "She's on 
this case."

"You think that's somehow escaped my observation?"  She took 
a breath and wondered if this was some Mulderesque way of 
asking her permission to renew his relationship with Diana.  
"Look," she said, "if you're waiting for some sort of 
screaming catfight in the hall..."

Mulder gave a sarcastic chuckle and looked at the sky.

"What?" she demanded.

"Cats fight to defend their territory.  We both know that's 
not how you operate, Scully.  Diana applies for the X-Files 
and you come running up here looking for another assignment."

"She's not why I'm here."

"No?"

"You're making this too personal."

He looked at her.  "I believe you're the one who reminded me 
of your personal interest."

She looked back at him for a long moment.  "So that's what 
you're waiting for here?  For me to 'defend my territory' 
with guns blazing?"

"I know what she wants," he said, and Scully huffed and 
rolled her eyes.  "You, I can never tell, but Diana has 
always been easy to read.  She sees what she wants and she 
goes after it."

"Is that why you married her?"

"So then it does bother you."

"I didn't say that."

Mulder scrubbed his foot on the grass in frustration.  "Hey," 
he said suddenly, "who is that?"

Scully turned around in the direction he was looking and saw 
a man in a suit hanging around in the neighbor's yard.  
Mulder took off after him, but the man didn't run.  Instead, 
he started jogging towards Mulder.  Mulder had him by the arm 
when Scully caught up to them.

"Who are you?" Mulder demanded.

"Bill Harris, NBC news.  See?"  He used his free arm to show 
his press credential, and Mulder dropped his hold in disgust.

"You're not supposed to be here," Scully told him.

"I'm not that close," Harris protested.  "And I didn't cross 
the police line."  He was trying to see past them to the 
McKillop house.  "You think he entered through the back, like 
before?"

"No comment," Mulder said.

"I heard there was a dead dog this time too.  Can you confirm 
or deny?"

"No comment," Mulder repeated.  "Now get out of here before I 
have to arrest you for interfering with a police 
investigation."

"Who's interfering?  The investigation is on another property 
entirely.  And it's not like I brought the camera.  Please, 
can't you give me something?"

"I can give you a go directly to jail card," Mulder replied, 
taking hold of his arm again.  "If you don't get out of here 
in ten seconds.  Two people are dead and instead of following 
leads on that case, we're forced to be out here with you -- 
on another property entirely."

"I think it's more than one guy," Harris blurted.  "I mean, 
it's got to be, right?  How can one guy be getting away with 
all of this?"

"Leaving," Mulder said, walking him across the lawn away from 
the McKillop's house.  "Now.  And if I see you back here, 
there won't be a warning next time."

"Okay, okay.  I've got it."  Harris stalked off as Mulder and 
Scully watched him go.

"Two killers," Mulder mused. "That's extremely rare."

"Only one DNA type found on the bodies so far," Scully said.  
"Speaking of, I have two of them waiting for me at the 
morgue.  I'd better go."

"Scully..."

"It's my territory, Mulder," she yelled back as she walked 
away.  "I've got to go defend it."  She did not stomp, 
exactly, but the ground met the force of her footsteps with 
an equally unyielding resistance.  It wasn't until later, 
when she was stewing over Mulder's imperiousness at a red 
light, that a thought occurred to her.  Mulder had chosen the 
X-files.  So had Diana.  Scully had merely been assigned to 
them with no choice involved.

"You don't defend your territory," Mulder had said.

What he didn't understand was that she was no longer sure it 
was hers to defend.  Or indeed, if it had ever been.


////


Manny entered Mallory's bar at around four-thirty, shortly 
after the shift change.  He scanned the room from left to 
right and waved to a couple of guys he recognized from the 
six-ten.  They motioned him over to their booth, but Manny 
shook his head.

He took a stool at the bar and grabbed a handful of pretzels.  
The regular guy, one he had seen before, came to ask him what 
he wanted.  "I'll take whatever light beer you've got on 
tap."  Gina would approve of that decision, even if she 
wouldn't like the pretzels and peanuts.

When the beer came, Manny smiled at the guy.  "Thanks... 
Dave, is it?  I could sure use one of these today."

"Yeah, I saw on the news today that it's a bad one.  I guess 
I won't be seeing the Chief in here any time soon, huh?"

"How do you figure?"

"On account of the press outside.  You wouldn't want to be 
caught with a pint in your hand while there's a homicidal 
maniac on the loose, now would you?"

"No, I sure wouldn't."

"Hey, level with me. You guys any closer to catching this 
lunatic?"

"We're closer than we were this morning," Manny hedged.

Dave looked unimpressed as he wiped down the bar.  "I hear 
the cops come here and talk the talk.  Everyone likes to go 
on about their cases, about the big fish they caught.  Funny 
how no one ever mentions the ones that get away."

"Who said he's getting away?"

"So far?  Him."

Manny took a long drink and glanced up at the TV.  They were 
teasing a report on the killer for five o'clock, with a 
special report from Bill Harris.  "Well, don't believe 
everything you see on the news," Manny said.  "This guy isn't 
invincible."

"You want another one of those?" Dave asked, nodding at 
Manny's beer.

"No thanks.  I'm actually looking for a guy named Lou 
LeBlanc.  Do you know him?"

"Sure, he works out of the A-1.  Nice guy except for nights 
that the Sox lose.  I saw him just a little while ago."  He 
leaned over the bar and looked to the left.  "That's him at 
the table by the window.  He's the one built like a weather 
balloon."

"Sox win or lose today?" Manny asked.

"It's spring training.  Who cares?"

"Betcha Lou knows. What's he drinking, do you remember?" 

"Sure, a Jack and Coke on the rocks."

"Can you give me one?"  Dave brought the drink and Manny set 
a twenty on the bar in return.  "Thanks," he said as he took 
his beer and the drink and went in search of Lou LeBlanc.

Lou was sitting with two other guys, one white, one black -- 
all of them clearly off-duty cops, all of them with many 
years on the job. Manny would be the youngest guy at the 
table by a good decade. All three looked up in unison as he 
approached the table.  "Can I help you?" one of the not-Lous 
asked.

"My name is Manny Ahuja.  I work out of the D-4, and I was 
wondering if I could talk to Lou for a minute."

Lou looked him up and down and was apparently not impressed. 
"Do I know you?"

"No, sir.  I just wanted to pick your brain about one of your 
old cases."

"You a detective?"

"He detected your drink," one of Lou's pals said with a 
smirk.  "Check it out."

Manny held up the Jack and Coke.  "It's yours if you want 
it."

"What case you want to talk about?"

"About two years ago, a prostitute named Annette Crenshaw 
reported an assault.  You caught the case."

Lou's features hardened and he knocked back the rest of his 
drink.  "Sorry, can't help you."

"I have some of the report with me, if you'd like to take a 
look at it."

"I don't need to look at it.  I said I can't help you."

"I see.  And does your lack of cooperation have anything to 
do with the parts of the file that are missing?"

At that point, the white non-Lou stood up and pressed his 
considerable belly into Manny's.  "Look, kid, you seem to 
speak English all right, but you don't understand so good.  
He can't help you."

"Suit yourself," Manny said, setting down the Jack and Coke.  
"I have to find out what was in those missing pages one way 
or another, and if that takes going to the brass..."

Lou laughed, a phlegm-laced ironic chuckle, but his eyes held 
no amusement.  "Oh kid, that's the last thing you want to do.  
Do yourself a favor.  Put the file back in the drawer and 
walk away.  It's been laying there for two years now, hurting 
no one.  Leave it be."

Manny held his temper.  "I'd like to take that advice, sir, 
but you see this file has surfaced in conjunction with the 
serial murder case I'm working on."

Lou's mouth fell open just a bit.  "You're working the 
serial?"

"That's right, and whatever is in this file may help us catch 
the guy."  It was a half-lie, really.  Scully had already 
said the DNA didn't match.  But the MO was so similar, and 
the missing pages had piqued Manny's interest.  Now the cop 
on the case wouldn't talk and the little hairs on the back of 
Manny's neck were standing up.  What the hell had he walked 
into here?

Lou's shoulders slumped and he reached for the drink Manny 
had brought.  "You're on the wrong trail, kid.  There's no 
connection in the Crenshaw case."

"I can't be sure until I see the pages."

"Well, I don't have your damn pages."

"Yeah, funny thing, that -- no one seems to have any record 
of them." 

Lou shrugged.  "Stuff gets lost.  Shit happens."

"But surely you have some original notes on the case."

"I got nothing."  He rubbed his face and then snatched up his 
drink.  "Me and the kid are going to go have a chat, okay?  
Save my seat."

"You sure, Lou?"

"I'm sure."  He jerked his head to get Manny to follow him 
away from the others.  They went to the back end and took an 
empty booth by the pool table.  Lou swallowed half his drink 
and then regarded Manny with darkened eyes.  "You seem like a 
good cop.  Must be a smart one too if they have you on the 
task force.  So use your head here and stay away from the 
Crenshaw case.  There's nothing to be found there."

"You know what happened to the missing pages, don't you," 
Manny said, leaning forward.  "Just tell me what's in them."

"You're not getting it, are you?  Those pages are missing for 
a reason, and that reason's got nothing to do with your 
serial killer."

"Then tell me the reason."

Lou shook his head.  "Like talking to a goddamn wall," he 
muttered.  "You're the detective -- you figure it out."

"She was a call girl who was raped and brutalized," Manny 
said.  "That much is still in the file."

"We never did catch the bastard either."

"Kind of hard when you're only working with half the 
information."

"Hey, everything related to her assault is right there in the 
file.  The guy just got lucky this time."

"Everything related to her assault," Manny repeated, trying 
to think.  "So you're saying the missing part has to do with 
something else?  What?"

"Think about it.  If you're worth your stripes, it'll come."  
Lou took another drink and looked around nervously.

"Some other john?  Someone who'd rather not have his name in 
a police file?"

"Now you're getting it."

"Who?"

"Never mind who.  You got what you came for.  Now if you'll 
excuse me, I've got to get back to my boys."  Lou heaved 
himself out of the booth and walked away without a backward 
glance.

Manny sat with his beer, twirling the bottle and racking his 
brain for more answers.  Annette Crenshaw had come into the 
station to report the assault, but somewhere in the 
interview, she had mentioned another name.  Someone she 
thought might be able to help her, maybe.  Someone in the 
government.  Or a cop.

Manny got up, knowing he had exhausted this road for the 
moment.  Lou wasn't saying anything more and the papers had 
gone missing.  That left only one person who knew the content 
of the file: Annette Crenshaw herself.

/////  

Scully spent a long day on her feet, quietly cataloging each 
indignity done to Hannah and Tom McKillop.  She measured each 
wound and combed their bodies for any hairs or fibers that 
might be of later use.  As she snapped their pictures under 
the bright light, she thought again of their wedding album 
and the happy photos within it.

If you wanted a souvenir picture, Scully thought, you should 
have taken one of these.

She knew some cultures believed that photographs could steal 
a person's soul.  Maybe that was what the killer had wanted -
- a memento of what he had taken.

Near the end of the afternoon, she was cleaning up when Ray 
Peterkin appeared at the door.  He waved at her through the 
Plexiglas window and she went to see what he wanted.  "Any 
news?"

"Not a lot.  Give me ten more minutes and I'll give you the 
full report."

He peered past her at the shiny metal tables that still held 
the McKillops' bodies.  "I'll be back in ten, then," he said, 
and disappeared down the hall.

Scully put away her tools and the bodies before scrubbing 
death from her hands with strong lemon soap.  She exchanged 
her white lab coat for her navy suit jacket and checked her 
hair in the mirror.  She looked slightly better than a dead 
person, she decided with a sigh.

The hall outside was empty so Scully kept walking in the 
hopes of finding Ray but he was nowhere to be seen.  She 
opened the back door that led to the parking lot and found 
him huddled close to the building, trying to get out of the 
wind as he smoked a cigarette.  "I didn't know you smoked," 
she said as she joined him.  She didn't have her winter coat 
on, so she stood as close as etiquette would allow.

"I don't, not usually."  He looked rueful.  "I picked it up 
from a college girlfriend but I only do it now when I'm 
stressed or drunk."

"I'm guessing it's the former and not the latter?" Scully 
asked with an arch of the eyebrow.

"No, but the bottle is looking pretty good right now too."  
He held out the pack to her.  "You want one?"

Scully surprised herself by saying yes.  The old friend felt 
sleek and warm in her cold fingers.  Ray cupped his hand 
around hers as he lit the end of her cigarette.  The tip 
flared to life, nearly burning him, but he didn't flinch.

"I see you've done this before," he remarked, amused.

"Way before college," she replied before taking a puff.  "But 
you know what they say about girls maturing early."

"Yes, but I have a scientific question for you: do the boys 
ever catch up?" His eyes twinkled in the streetlights and 
Scully found herself smiling.

"The results of that experiment are still pending," she said.  
The taste of the tar took her back to warm summer nights on 
her parents' back porch, sneaking quick puffs and watching 
their bedroom in case the light came on.

A woman came out of the back door, forcing them to move 
aside.  She looked at them like they were crazy, shaking her 
head before pulling her hood up and walking away.

"When did smokers become lepers?" Ray asked.

"When people caught on that it could kill you." Scully noted 
the irony of having this conversation in front of the city 
morgue.

"Everything will kill you, some things just faster than 
others."  He blew a smoke ring.  "At least we'll look cool on 
the way out, right?"

Scully smiled again and shivered.  "There is a theory that 
smokers really are cool people, you know.  At least the early 
ones.  The theory is that the cool people take it up because 
they're rebellious and fearless and the rest of us follow 
because we want to be more like them."

"Who did you want to be like?" he asked.

"Allison Shalinsky.  She had long hair that curled at the end 
and everyone always wanted to sit next to her on the bus.  
She wore eye makeup and owned her own moped.  Rumor was she 
even had a tattoo somewhere, and let me tell you that every 
boy in the seventh grade was determined to find out where."

"Ah," Ray said knowingly.  "In my class, her name was Barbara 
Mansfield.  She wore the tightest little sweaters..."

"Did she have a tattoo?"

"If she did, I was never lucky enough to find out."  He eyed 
her.  "What about you, Agent Scully?  Do you have any ink?"

Scully felt her cheeks grow warm and she looked at the 
ground.  On her back, the tattoo seemed to burn.  "I..."

"You do!"  He looked amazed and tickled at the same time.  
"Oh my God, I wasn't serious.  Where is it?"

"Covered up," she said, meeting his gaze. He held it for 
longer than was strictly necessary.

"It's going to snow soon," he said, leaning back against the 
wall.

"How do you know?"

"See that light on top of the old Hancock tower?  It's 
flashing red, which means snow is coming.  I hope it holds 
off until after the town hall meeting tonight."

"What meeting?"

"Didn't you hear?  The Chief is having an open meeting 
tonight to answer the public's questions about this case.  
Reporters can attend, but no cameras inside.  We're all to be 
there with our dress-suits on, looking like we know more than 
we do."

"That's for sure.  I didn't find a thing on the bodies that 
advances the case beyond what we already know."

Ray crushed out his cigarette on the side of the cement 
building and tossed it in the garbage.  "With luck, we won't 
have to say anything.  We're just window dressing so the 
Chief can show off how many people he has working on this 
very important case."

Scully got rid of her cigarette also.  Ray held the door open 
for her as she stepped back inside the heated building.  "He 
advertised this meeting?"

"On the airwaves all day," he said as they walked.  "Why?"

"All these people working the case, they're going to be lined 
up for the public tonight instead of hunting the killer.  
Seems to me that would be a highly opportune moment to 
strike."

/////

Mulder took his place on the stage quite near Chief Windsor.  
The public would be expecting an FBI profiler, and Windsor 
would have one at the ready.  He smoothed his tie and looked 
again for Scully.  When he had tried her cell phone earlier, 
she had not answered, and so far she was a no-show for the 
meeting.

The auditorium was filled with the sound of people walking in 
and sitting down.  The crowd struggled to find room for their 
heavy coats in the narrow seats.  The house lights were up 
but Mulder couldn't really make out too many faces.  It 
looked like they were in for a packed audience.

At two minutes to seven, Scully appeared with Ray Peterkin on 
her heels.  Ray was to sit to Windsor's left while Scully's 
place card put her next to Mulder.  She sounded out of breath 
when she took her seat.  "Running a little late?" he asked.

"The autopsies took longer than I thought they would," she 
said.

"Find anything good?"

"Unfortunately no.  Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the 
head.  I retrieved a few more black fibers consistent with 
yarn from a ski mask and that's about it."

Mulder leaned over and sniffed her.

"What are you doing?"

"You smell like cigarettes."

She didn't get to reply because Windsor called the meeting to 
order.  Mulder watched the faces in the front row as the 
Chief went over every avenue of investigation.  It was an 
even mix of men and women, young and old.  The case seemed to 
have spooked everyone in the city equally.

When Windsor opened the floor for questions, the first person 
to stand up was a young man who appeared to be about college 
aged.  "Have you been able to detect any pattern to when he 
attacks people?" the man asked.

"Other than he strikes in the middle of the night, no we have 
not found any pattern as yet," Windsor replied.

A woman in a knit cap was next.  "I heard all the women had 
long hair.  Is that true?"

"All three female victims did have longish hair, but this is 
true of many women.  We have no reason to believe that hair 
length had anything to do with these women being targeted."

"But you don't know for sure, do you?" the woman asked.

"No, ma'am, we don't know for sure, but I promise you that if 
we learn anything that might help people protect themselves, 
we will share it with you immediately.  Right now, I don't 
think long-haired women have anything in particular to fear."

The next question came from a familiar voice.  "Bill Harris, 
NBC News," he said.  "I want to know if you have any evidence 
that suggests this might be the work of two killers, not 
one."

Windsor looked at Mulder.  Mulder shook his head very 
slightly.  "Right now we have no reason to believe there is 
more than one killer," Windsor replied to Harris.  "The 
evidence from the scene is consistent with the work of one 
man."

"I don't believe it," Harris said.  "These are young vital 
individuals.  Surely the men would not stand by idly and 
allow some monster to rape and murder their wives.  They 
would fight.  The women would fight too, I should think.  It 
would be two against one.  A second killer goes a long way to 
explaining how they are able to overpower two adults."

"Mr. Harris, I thank you for that theory and I promise we 
will take it under advisement.  Next?"

Another woman stood up.  "What if it's the hat thief?" she 
asked. "What if he's not just taking hats anymore?"

"We have not found any missing hats from the homes of the 
victims," Windsor said.  "There is no reason to believe the 
hat thief is connected to these murders."

A man in the back yelled out: "If you can't even catch a hat 
thief, how the hell are you going to catch this guy?"

Mulder and Scully looked at each other.  The man had a point.

/////

That night at home, Bill Harris had all the newspaper 
clippings related to the serial murders spread out across his 
dining room table.  He had a robe over his pajamas and a mug 
of coffee in his hand.  Somewhere in all this ink had to be 
evidence that could prove his theory.

"Bill, aren't you coming to bed?"  His wife Stella came and 
put her arms around his neck from behind.  She smelled of 
rose-scented bath salts, and he smiled as her hair tickled 
his cheek.

"Soon," he said.  "I just want to look at this a little 
more."

"You've been looking for hours now."  She stroked his hair 
back from his forehead.  "You need rest."

"I know, and I'll be up in just a few minutes, okay?"

She sighed and kissed the top of his head. "I don't know how 
you can look at this stuff and not get nightmares.  It gives 
me the creeps."

He pulled her arm around and kissed the inside of her wrist.  
"You, my darling, have nothing to worry about."

She laughed and hugged him again.  "This from the man who 
won't even defend me from a spider in the bathroom."

"You can't use a twenty-two caliber pistol on a spider."

"I've always hated that thing," she said, "but now I have to 
admit I'm kind of glad we have it."  She tilted his head far 
back so she could look at him.  "You do know how to fire it 
right?"

"Of course."

"And actually hit what you're aiming for?  With my luck, a 
guy breaks in here and you'll end up shooting me."

"Never," he told her with a grin.  He reached back and drew 
her face down for a kiss.  "Go to bed.  I'll be up in ten 
minutes."

But two hours later he was still sitting over the clippings, 
taking notes and jotting down a timeline.  He used a red pen 
and wrote in a scrawl only he could decipher.  "I'm going to 
break this case wide open," he said to the empty room.  "I 
can feel it."

He was contemplating another pot of coffee when he heard a 
strange noise from the den, like the sound of the floorboards 
creaking.  He froze, listening, and heard it again.

It's the house settling, he told himself, but the lump in his 
stomach said there was trouble.  The house just wasn't that 
old.

Harris crept to the hall and peered down the dark corridor.  
He saw nothing and the noise had stopped.  His breathing 
shallow, he tiptoed to the closet where the gun was stored.  
He cracked open the door and reached up to get the lock box 
down.  There he was, stretched in the air, his fingers just 
brushing the metal case, when a knife pressed against his 
neck.

"Hello, Mr. Harris," hissed a voice behind him.  "Say one 
word and I'll cut you right here."

Harris barely choked back a sob.  Oh, God please no, he 
thought.  Stella, are you hearing this?  Call 911, baby.

"Turn around," ordered the man.  "Slowly."

Harris turned and faced his captor.  In the semi-darkness, 
all he saw were glinting eyes through a ski mask.  

"We're all alone, you and I."  He was breathing through an 
open mouth behind the mask.  The knife bit into Harris's 
neck, drawing blood.

"Please, whatever you want," Harris whispered.  "I can make 
you famous."

The man laughed.  "I'm already famous.  Don't you watch the 
news?"

"What do you want with me?"  His knees threatened to give out 
beneath him.  He had broken into a cold sweat.  One quick 
slice of the knife and he would be bleeding out on the floor.

"It's simple.  You wanted to know how one man could possibly 
be doing the things I've done.  I came to show you."

Harris thought he might be sick.  "Please no."

"Let's go find your wife, hmm?  I bet she wants to know too."

Later, as he screwed his eyes shut against the images and 
sounds of his wife being raped, Harris had only one thought 
running through his mind over and over again.

Stella, I'm sorry.  Stella, I'm sorry.

And then finally, there was nothing.

/////

End chapter five.  Continued in chapter six.

Thanks as ever to the always amazing Amanda! :-)

Feedback?  Chocolate?  Crazy theories as to who the killer 
is? (I'm looking at you here, Nancy. *g*)  Send them this 
way! Syn_tax6@yahoo.com