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

Chapter Ten

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


Scully gave the shower handle a twist to turn it off, and as 
the water disappeared she became aware of a banging noise 
from the outside.  Grabbing a thick towel, she wrapped 
herself in it and opened the bathroom door.  Steam poured out 
around her even as the chill raised goose bumps on her arms. 
Someone was beating on her hotel room door.  She stood on 
tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

"Scully?  Scully, it's Mulder."

She held the towel up with one hand and cracked the door with 
the other.  "What is it?" 

He looked down at her bare legs.  "Get dressed in a hurry.  
We've got another murder."

"Another?  So soon?"

"It gets worse.  The victim was Annette Crenshaw."

"I'll be ready in five minutes."

She dried as best she could but ended up forcing pantyhose 
over slightly damp skin.  They resisted and she cursed them 
out as a run developed down one leg.  No one will notice, she 
thought, and pulled on wool trousers over the nylons.

Her hair was still wet, nearly dripping at the end, but she 
went to join Mulder, who was pacing the hall and chewing on a 
coffee stirrer.  "You stopped for coffee?" she asked, 
incredulous.

"What? No."  He pulled the red straw out of his mouth.  "This 
was in my pocket."

Of course it was.  She suppressed a roll of her eyes.  "Tell 
me what happened," she said as they walked down the hall.

"Annette worked at a pre-school.  When she didn't show up for 
work this morning at seven and didn't answer her phone, they 
sent someone to her place to check on her."  He glanced down 
at her.  "Because of what had happened on the news.  They 
thought she might be too upset to come.  Instead her co-
worker found her dead in her bedroom." 

"Same killer?"

"I guess we'll find out when we get there."

Forty minutes later, standing in front of a bloody bed that 
could have been a carbon copy of the other murder scenes, 
they had their answer.  Annette Crenshaw's pajama bottoms had 
been torn from her body, and the top sliced open.  Buttons 
lay strewn about the bed.  Her arms were bound overhead, and 
tape covered her mouth; a trickle of dried blood was visible 
on her chin.  Her hair on one side was matted in blood, stuck 
to her head where the bullet had pierced it.  She lay stiff 
and unseeing amid the chaos.

Manny Ahuja had a cat under one arm.  "This is my fault," he 
said.  "I must have led him here somehow.  I had no idea this 
was going to happen.  I didn't think he'd come after her like 
this."

"You couldn't know," Mulder said quietly as he eased further 
into the room.  

"I don't get it," said Manny.  "This was supposed to be an 
unrelated case.  The blood samples didn't match.  Why would 
he come after Annette if it's a different guy?"

"Maybe there's a connection we haven't found yet," replied 
Mulder.  "Or maybe it's the same as before -- we know this 
guy watches his evening newscast.  Annette's name was 
mentioned on more than one station last night."

"But how would he know where she lived?" Scully asked.

"That I can't explain."  Mulder knelt down near the open 
closet door.  There was a sweater, a belt, a couple of shoes 
and a felt hat on the floor.  "This is new, huh?  He hasn't 
gone through the closet before."

"That we know of," Ray Peterkin said as he joined the group.

"What would he want with the closet?" Manny asked.

"I've got blood here," Mulder said as he moved the sweater 
with one gloved finger.  Scully crouched next to him and saw 
a smear of blood on the dark carpet.

"Maybe a footprint?" she said.

"Did someone say footprint?" Jane Dunbar stuck her head in 
the door.  "'Cause we've got 'em.  Come check it out in the 
kitchen."

The group, including Manny and the cat, followed her to the 
kitchen.  She had the lights off and took out a flashlight as 
she walked to the back door.  "Right here," she said as she 
shone the light on the pale linoleum floor.  "See?  He's 
getting sloppy.  It's a perfect salt print."

"The bastard must have come in through the back door," Manny 
said as he stroked the cat's head. 

Jane looked out the back window.  "There are more footprints 
out here leading away from the house.  Hard to tell how much 
we'll get from them because of the melting snow.  At least 
this guy is starting to make some mistakes."

"Maybe this murder was personal," Manny suggested.  "He's 
more emotional over this one."

"Maybe," Mulder agreed, but Scully noticed he didn't sound 
convinced.

At that moment, Chief Windsor stepped into the house.  His 
heavy boots clanked through the hardwood hall, and he scowled 
at the lot of them in the kitchen.  "Well, do we have another 
one or not?" he asked.

"It looks like the same killer, sir," answered Manny.  "All 
the same elements are present -- forced entry, victim bound 
to the bed, signs of sexual assault and the gunshot wound to 
the head."

Windsor pinned him with a cold blue gaze.  "I met O'Hara 
outside, and he tells me you two already knew the victim.  I 
understand I have you to thank for the mess on the news."

"Hey, we never talked to the press."

"Someone sure as hell talked!  I've got at least fifty calls 
this morning asking me, what do I know about Annette 
Crenshaw?  And now we've got another dead girl on our hands.  
You want this case so bad, Ahuja?  Well, you can be the one 
to explain this to her parents."

Manny squared his shoulders.  "I'll talk to them," he said.

The chief looked disgusted.  "You're damned right you'll talk 
to them.  Then you'll have a long talk with me -- you and 
O'Hara both are lucky I don't just suspend you right here, no 
questions asked."  He ran his gaze over Manny one last time.  
"And get rid of that damned cat."

In the exchange, Scully failed to notice Mulder disappear 
from the room.  She went in search and found him standing on 
the threshold of the open front door.  Outside, cop cruisers 
with their lights on littered the street.  Neighbors had come 
out from their houses to gawk.

The bitter wind frosted the ends of Scully's damp hair, 
making her shiver.  "What are you thinking?" she asked as he 
moved aside in the doorway to make room for her.

"I'm not sure yet," he said, "but I can tell you one thing -- 
this killer is as controlled as ever."

"How do you know?"

Mulder stepped out onto the stoop.  "Look at the walkway 
here. It's been shoveled."

"So, it's been shoveled.  Maybe she has a good landlord."

"It was shoveled before the snow ended.  See, there's about a 
half inch still here on the ground."  He ducked down and put 
his finger in to prove his point.  "No landlord is going to 
come over here in the middle of the night and shovel, 
especially before the snow had stopped."

He stood up and walked back to the stoop, where a shovel 
rested against the front of the house. "And since Annette was 
dead, that leaves her upstairs neighbors or..."

"Or the killer."

He gave a quick nod of assent.  "We need to canvass the area 
and see if anyone saw or heard him.  Maybe we'll get lucky."

Jane stepped out from the house and joined them on the front 
porch.  "The Chief is pretty steamed," she said.  "I've never 
seen him like this before."

"You've seen a lot of him then?" Mulder asked, squinting from 
the sun.

"Oh, no.  I just mean...  This case is making everyone a 
little nuts."

Scully put her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders 
against the wind.  "I'd best speak to the coroner about 
transport of the body," she said.  "Although I can already 
guess what I'm going to find upon autopsy.  It's just more of 
the same."

"The closet is the new twist," Mulder reminded her.  "We 
haven't seen that before."

"I have," said Jane.  She looked at them both.  "From the hat 
thief."

"There was a hat on the floor," Mulder agreed.  "Maybe your 
instincts are right on this one.  Maybe the cases are 
connected."

Scully hated to break up such an intriguing brainstorming 
session, but there was one detail they were overlooking.  "In 
that case," she said, "why didn't he take the hat with him?"

///////

Manny took a deep breath and steeled himself before opening 
the door to the Captain's office, where Annette's parents 
waited.  He jerked it open and both immediately turned their 
heads to look at them.  He froze, trapped by the force of 
their unspoken accusation.

They seemed smaller than when he'd last seen them, bent and 
broken now as they sat in their separate armchairs.  Mrs. 
Crenshaw still wore her heavy winter coat.

"We don't want to talk to you," said her father.

Manny did not advance into the room.  "Okay, I can get 
someone else if you'd like, but I'm the one who has been 
following your daughter's case."

"You're the one who got her killed!"  Mr. Crenshaw's jaw 
trembled and he gripped the armrest.  "You put her name all 
over the news, and now Annie is dead!"

"I had nothing to do with the news.  I swear it."

"All we know is that you came to the house looking for her, 
and now she's dead."

"I am so sorry about that.  Truly."  He took a tentative step 
into the room.  Mrs. Crenshaw pulled a tissue from her purse 
and blew her nose.

"She was doing so well," her mother whispered sadly.  "I 
thought all the trouble was behind her now.  I thought we'd 
all escaped."

Manny drew up a chair and took a cautious seat.  "I need to 
know about that trouble she was in."

"You already know," her father bit out.  "You know... what 
she was."

"She was a call girl."

Her mother nodded and dabbed at her nose.  "Of course, that's 
all you ever see.  You didn't know her."

"No, I didn't.  That's why I need you to tell me.  I need you 
to tell me what secret Annie was protecting.  What happened 
the night she reported her assault?"

Her father frowned. "What's that got to do with this?  Are 
you saying it's the same guy?  He came back?"

"I don't know what to think right now.  I need to find out 
what Annie told the cops that night."

"Why ask us?  Ask them."

"I have asked.  I'm not satisfied with the answers."

Her parents traded a look.  "You think... you think a cop 
might have hurt Annie?"

"Anything you can tell me about what happened to her -- I 
need to know."

"She didn't like to talk about it," her mother answered with 
a sniff.  "She just wanted to move on.  I could see she was 
afraid, but in a way, I was almost glad.  It seemed to shake 
her up enough that she started getting her life together.  I 
didn't want to ask too many questions."

"I asked her point blank if she knew the guy that did it to 
her," her father said.  "She said no."

"Someone gave her money," said Mrs. Crenshaw in a hushed 
voice.

The look her husband gave her told Manny that this was news 
to him.

"Go on," Manny urged.

"After it happened, someone gave her money.  She used it to 
get the apartment and enroll in a new school."

"I thought that was savings from her job."

"She was a drug addict, Paul.  She didn't have any savings."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"Annie didn't even want me to know.  It just slipped out one 
day.  She said it was a settlement from the escort service, 
on account of what happened to her, but I got the feeling it 
was from a client."

"Did you know her clients?"

"No, of course not.  We didn't even know she was..."  She 
broke off with a sigh. "There was a lot we didn't know."

"So you have no idea what Annie might have said to the cops 
that night?"

"She didn't even tell us about it until six months after it 
happened," her mother answered, and her face crumpled again.  
"My poor baby girl."

"The news is saying it's the same guy who killed those 
couples," her father said.  "Is that really true?"

"We're trying to answer that now," Manny told them.  "I 
promise you we'll keep you informed of any new developments 
we have in the case."

"When can we see her?" Mrs. Crenshaw asked, raising watery 
eyes to his.

Manny looked away.  Right now, Scully had their daughter 
splayed open on an autopsy table, a last violation of 
Annette's person that her parents did not need to witness.  
"I'll let you know," he said as he rose.  He extended his 
hand.  "I'm very sorry for your loss," he said.

They did not shake it.

"When you see us again," her father said, "it had better be 
to tell us the name of Annie's killer.  Otherwise we have 
nothing to say."

Manny left then, and leaned against the wall on the outside 
of the office.  His hands were trembling and the back of his 
neck was sweaty.  In his mind's eye, he saw Annette curled in 
her armchair with her cat.  He saw himself leaving the house. 
Somehow, he had passed death on its way in and never even 
known it.

O'Hara saw him standing there and crossed the room.  "You 
talk to the parents?"

"They don't know anything except that they hate me."

"They probably hate the whole world right now."

Manny shoved away from the wall.  "Then they can get in 
line."

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

Jake woke up with a jerk, as if startled awake from some 
outside force, but the house was quiet.  His mother was 
either still passed out in her bedroom or had gone to work 
without waking him.

He breathed a bit easier as he sat up.  Apparently the cops 
hadn't been sniffing around.

He had slept face down in the pillow with his overcoat and 
shoes still on.  His arms and shoulders ached as though he 
had been in a fight.  The clock read after noon. 

Fumbling around through the covers, he located the TV remote 
and switched on a local channel.  Sure enough, the cops were 
out in Medford.

Jake sat back against his pillows and chewed on his nails.  
If Tommy and Chris saw this news report, what would they say?  
Or maybe they were down talking to the cops right now.

"A source close to the investigation told me that detectives 
believe they may have caught a break in the case -- a 
footprint left behind in the house that may belong to Annette 
Crenshaw's killer."

Jake's gaze flew to his sneakers.  They were the same black 
hi-tops he always wore, with the ratty shoelaces and the pen 
ink on one side that read, 'F U' upside down.  Except now 
they were a bit different.  On the right one, near the toe, 
was a dark brown smear of blood.

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

Mulder had long ago perfected the art of walking and talking 
on the phone at the same time, but the teeming mass of people 
in the Boston police station made it difficult.  He had to 
dodge bodies and try to hear and Scully was not making the 
conversation any easier.

"I understand what you're saying, but I'm going to be here at 
least two more hours finishing this autopsy," she said.

"I need you there.  I've got the entire Boston media lined up 
for three PM.  We want to make sure to hit the early 
newscasts."

"Well, then you'll just have to go on without me this time.  
I can't sew her up just to rip her open again for the sake of 
a news conference."

"Can't you have someone else take over?"  Mulder flattened 
himself against a wall to make room for an officer coming 
through with a handcuffed suspect.

"Mulder, this is my job.  I can't hand it off to someone 
else, not something this important, and not halfway through a 
critical investigation."

"You said it yourself.  We're not likely to get anything new 
from the autopsy.  We have to go after this guy in front of 
the cameras.  We have to push him harder so he'll make 
contact.  If you want to help catch this guy, you'll do 
better down here than you will in the morgue verifying the 
same two pieces of non-identifying evidence we already have."

She huffed.  "So now I don't want to catch this man?"

He fisted one hand, frustrated.  "No, that's not what I 
said."

"You implied that what I'm doing has no meaning."

"Of course it has meaning.  Just not immediate meaning, which 
is what we need right now."

"We tried it your way, Mulder.  We posed for the cameras and 
you said all the right things and this guy didn't take the 
bait.  He hasn't sent us so much as a postcard."

"We know he watches the news.  It's our best bet to 
communicate with him."

"So go communicate.  I'm going to be here with the body."  

She hung up then, and Mulder bit back a curse as he pocketed 
the phone.  He had just about reached the front door when he 
heard someone calling his name.  He turned to see Diana 
hurrying towards him.

"Mulder, where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm going to buy a newspaper."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion.  "We have a dozen right 
here."

He pulled out a section from his inside jacket pocket to show 
he already had the paper he needed. "I want to talk to the 
Herald about the article they ran this morning on Annette 
Crenshaw.  What did you need me for?"

"I wanted to say you were probably right about the shoveling.  
A canvass of the neighborhood found two people who heard 
possible shoveling sounds in the middle of the night, but 
neither of them got up to look.  One thought she must be 
dreaming."

"Great, thanks." He turned to leave, but she stopped him with 
a touch on the arm.

"Mind if I tag along?"

"With me?  I guess that would be okay."  He dangled the car 
keys. "But I'm driving."

As they started across town, Diana pulled the mirror down on 
her side and began applying lipstick.  Mulder watched her out 
of the corner of his eye.  It's funny, he thought, the small 
gestures that take you back.

Diana pressed her lips together.  "I heard you have another 
news conference scheduled this afternoon."

"That's right."

"You and Scully plan to cozy up for the cameras again?"

"Scully is doing the autopsy on Annette Crenshaw.  She won't 
be making it to the conference."

"Oh?  Trouble in paradise?"

"It's her job, Diana," he said, irritated at her and Scully 
at the same time.

His phone rang again, and he expected to find it was Scully 
calling to say she had changed her mind, but the number on 
the ID was the tie line for FBI Washington.  "Mulder," he 
said, wondering if it was Kersh trying to haul his ass back 
home.

"Mulder, it's Skinner.  I see you're making headlines in 
Boston."

"Sir, about that--"

"Save it.  I don't care what you're up to if it's helping 
them catch that sick sonofabitch."

"Sir?"

"I'm calling about the X-files.  They officially open again 
next week and we have only one field agent assigned to the 
department.  That's you.  I need to know what other name to 
put on the paperwork."

Mulder chanced a look at Diana, who was listening openly.  "I 
can't really answer that right now."

"Here's the thing.  I've got your name and an application 
from Diana Fowley seeking assignment to X-Files.  I don't 
have anything from Agent Scully."

Mulder tightened his grip on the wheel.  "I think that's a 
matter you might want to take up with her."

"I plan to.  But as the senior agent in the department, your 
wishes carry some weight.  If you want, I can simply approve 
Agent Fowley's application and the process will go ahead."

"No," Mulder blurted.  "I mean, not yet.  Can't this wait 
another week?"

"I can stall maybe another forty-eight hours.  After that, 
forces greater than me will see to it that Fowley's name is 
added to the paperwork."  He paused.  "Unless you have some 
particular objection to her assignment that you'd care to 
share with me."

Skinner had not been there when Diana had walked away the 
first time, but he must have heard the office gossip.  First 
Diana, and now Scully was threatening to leave.  Maybe I'm 
the problem here, he thought dully.

Aloud he said, "I'll let you know."

He clicked off the phone to find Diana watching him.  
"Skinner?" she guessed.  He didn't answer.  Diana nodded to 
herself and settled back in her seat.  "He called me earlier 
today too, to see if I still had interest in joining the X-
files.  I assured him my heart is still in it."

"Your heart is still in it," he repeated.

"Of course."  She smiled.  "It always was."

He parked the car outside of the main offices for the Boston 
Herald.  The sun had vanished behind high, thin clouds, 
turning the sky a pale gray.  Scrawny trees stuck out of 
large snow banks and a river of slush flowed along the curb.  
Diana, with her stylish leather boots, sidestepped the mess 
with the agility of a mountain goat.

"Remind me what we're doing here," she said as he opened the 
front door for her.

Mulder hid an ironic smile.  He wouldn't be reminding her; he 
had never told her in the first place, but of course, she 
knew that.  "I want to offer them an exclusive of my own," he 
said.

////////

Jane was working the shoe comparison by herself.  She had a 
large double-mug of coffee and a computer program to try to 
help her figure out the manufacturer of the shoe from the 
crime scene.  First, she had to be sure the shoe did not come 
from Annette herself, but this was easy to determine.  For 
one thing, Annette had taken a petite size six shoe and the 
print from the kitchen was much larger.  

Jane did due diligence, though, and excluded all shoes from 
Annette's closet as the possible print-maker.  She noted for 
the record that there were no male shoes found inside the 
house.  Ahuja and O'Hara were searching through the victim's 
past for any male friends or boyfriends; these too, would 
either have to be eliminated or filed as potential suspects.

She rubbed her eyes and hit "next" on the computer program.  
Detective work had always seemed so glamorous to her as a 
kid.  Now she knew it consisted primarily of sitting around 
on your ass going through records or sifting through garbage.

This is better than garbage, she thought, hitting the button 
again.

The computer kicked back a possible match.  She sat up, 
squinting closer for a better look.  The tread pattern did 
appear to duplicate the pattern from the kitchen print.

"Converse hi-tops," she said.  "I don't know anyone over 
eighteen who wears Converse hi-tops."

Her heart rate sped up as she printed out the results. 
"Jane?"

She jumped and put a hand to her heart.  "Chief Windsor, you 
scared me."

"I wanted to find out for myself how you were coming with the 
footprint."

"I just got a match."  She handed him the results.  "I think 
we maybe be looking for a kid."

"I can't believe that.  An impulsive teenager doesn't commit 
crimes this clean.  They throw a cement block through a drug 
store window and leave their prints all over the place as 
they're looting it.  That's why we catch so damn many of 
them."

"Maybe he just has youthful taste."

Windsor considered the possibility with a frown.  "This is 
good work, Dunbar."

"Thank you, sir."

"But I need to ask you something now, and you must be 
straight with me."

"Sir?"

"These media leaks... the story about Annette Crenshaw.  Do 
you know anything about that?"

"What?  Of course not.  You're not thinking that I had 
something to do with that article in the Herald."

"The timing is peculiar.  Just after you joined us on the 
investigation. The reporters can be both persuasive and 
persistent. I know you're young, you're looking to prove 
yourself and make some sort of mark."

"Prove myself on the squad, sir.  Not in the papers."  She 
could feel her collar getting hot.  "I would never compromise 
the investigation by talking out of turn to the media."

"Yes, well."  He peered down at her from behind his glasses, 
and for once, he looked like the old man he was.  "I should 
hope not.  Keep your nose clean, Dunbar.  Your reputation 
means as much as your record in this department, and once 
it's tarnished, you can never get the shine back again."

"I'll remember that, sir."

"Good."  He tapped her on the shoulder with the computer 
printout. "And for now, let's keep this little development 
just between you and me."

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

Mulder waited in a small interrogation room for the press to 
finish gathering.  He had changed the venue this time, opting 
for an intimate briefing in the station newsroom itself.  The 
place would be jam-packed but at least he would be on the 
same level as the reporters rather than high above them on 
the stage.  He wanted the killer to see him on his level, 
open and available, even vulnerable.

He tugged his tie, which seemed to be choking him further 
with each passing minute.  His watch read three-to-three.  He 
sat on the table rather than in one of the chairs and went 
over mentally the points he planned to make in front of the 
cameras.  

The door cracked open and Diana poked her head in the room.  
"You look nervous," she said as she shut the door behind her.  

"I'm not nervous.  I just want to get this over with."  He 
tugged at his tie again.

"Here, let me fix that," she said, moving his hand away.

He tried not to focus on the feel of her fingers brushing his 
neck.  "Are there a lot of people in there?"

"They're sucking out all the oxygen.  But then again, I think 
that's pro forma where the press is concerned."

"See, now I always thought they sucked blood."

"Vampiric media -- now there's an X-file."  She finished off 
his tie and smiled at him.  "There.  Now you're perfect."

He looked down at the tiny white polka dots.  "I thought it 
really said, 'I'm a showy know-it-all who deserves some 
killing.'"

"Hmm.  Well, perhaps, 'I'm a showy know-it-all whose fashion 
sense is so terrible it deserves to be put out of its 
misery.'"

"Hey, you gave me this tie."

"Oh, God.  I did?"

"No." He grinned.  "But I had you there for a second."

"Yeah," she said, smiling softly, "You had me."  She stepped 
a bit closer, fitting herself between his legs.  "You know, 
if you need someone to play your girlfriend for the cameras 
tonight..."

"Diana, I don't think..."

"I seem to remember we give a pretty good show."  She pressed 
her lips to his.

The door opened again and Scully stood there staring.  Mulder 
stared back, but she recovered first.  "I'm sorry," she said 
in clipped tones, and the door swung shut again with a bang.

"Scully, wait a second."  He scrambled off the table after 
her, shoving aside Diana in the process.  He caught up with 
Scully in the back hall near the soda machine and the 
emergency exit.  "Scully, stop."

She froze but did not turn around.  He touched her shoulder.

"That wasn't what it looked like."

She faced him then, and he could see the tired shadows under 
her eyes.  "It looked like you were kissing."

"Not exactly."

"Forget it.  I don't even want to know."  She tried to leave, 
but he sidestepped and blocked her path.

"I thought you weren't going to make it."

"I have to go back afterward and write up my notes from the 
tapes, but I managed to get through most of the work."

"And?"

She wasn't looking at him.  "You were right.  There was 
nothing of consequence."

"Of course it's consequential.  When we catch this guy, we're 
going to need all that evidence to tie him to each of the 
murders."

"But first we have to catch him."  She took a deep breath and 
her shoulders sagged.  "So that's why I'm here."

He took her by the shoulders and squeezed.  "I'm glad."

"Right.  Sure."

"Scully..."

She broke away from him and backed up a step.  "You still 
don't see it, do you?  You keep bringing her around, testing 
us both for... I don't know what for, Mulder.  I don't know 
why you keep running to her and then running back to me to 
see what I think of it all.  I wish you'd just figure out 
what you want."

"I know what I want."  He took a step toward her.

"I don't think you do."

"That's because you keep mistaking that Diana's presence has 
any bearing on my feelings for you."

"And just what are those feelings, Mulder?"  She risked a 
glance at him.  "Because I don't think they're very clear."

"Okay."  He grabbed her then with one arm around her back, 
practically lifting her off her feet.  He pressed his lips to 
hers and held her tight.  She was stiff and surprised at 
first, but as he continued the embrace her body and lips 
softened against his.  She tasted like lipstick and smelled 
like lemon.

Reluctantly, he set her back down.  She stared at him, wide-
eyed, her cheeks now a lovely shade of pink.  He wanted to 
kiss her again but he had a room full of reporters waiting.

"So are you going to come be my girlfriend or what?" he 
asked.

She tucked her hair behind both ears and smoothed her suit 
jacket over her hips.  "I, uh...yes."

"Well, okay then."

They walked out of the alcove looking pretty much the same, 
except now they were in step.  As they entered the crowded 
conference room, Mulder deliberately touched his hand to her 
back.  She looked up at him.  

"Good luck," she murmured.

Everyone had turned out for the show.  Ray, Diana, Chief 
Windsor, Ahuja, O'Hara and all of the Boston media.  Hal 
Thompson of the Boston Herald gave Mulder a wink from his 
seat in the front row.  Then he whispered something to the 
man sitting next to him.  Mulder was willing to bet this was 
the elusive Jimmy Trumbull, author of the ill-fated and ill-
informed Annette Crenshaw story.

He took the main podium, which was covered in microphones 
like mushrooms on a forest log.  Flashbulbs went off in his 
face.  "Good afternoon, and thank you all for coming.  The 
last time I stood before you, I told you that this killer was 
close to making a mistake.  Well, he's made it.  In going 
after Annette Crenshaw last night, he has proven one thing to 
us: he may be calculating, but he lacks creativity.  He is 
depending on the media reports to tell him what to do.  You 
mention Annette Crenshaw, and she becomes his target.

"In his haste to prove himself, he is becoming sloppy.  We've 
recovered many footprints from the scene today.  The snow may 
be unpleasant for most of us, but for this man it is an 
enemy.  He left his calling card all over Annette Crenshaw's 
property and we are in the process of tracking his shoes now.

"His zeal has also revealed another clue.  In committing 
these murders, he shows us that he has no outside life to 
speak of.  Anyone with a job, with a family, could not manage 
the pace this killer has set.  If he has any such ties, they 
would be greatly suffering by now.  So we ask anyone who has 
noticed erratic, suspicious behavior in a male family member 
this week to please contact the police.  Repeated absences or 
late-night comings and goings are an important clue.  He may 
be tired and sleep a lot during the day.  He could have 
scratches by now from struggling with the victims.  

"I am standing here today to let you know that we are as 
outraged as you are that he continues to go free.  We are 
working around the clock on this case and we are accountable.  
But most importantly, we will catch him.  Thank you."

Mulder took no questions; they would only be a waste of time, 
and time was something the investigation did not have.  The 
other law enforcement officials followed him out the private 
entrance back into the station.

He took Scully's elbow and pulled her aside.  "Well?  How did 
I do?"

"The hook is well and truly baited," she answered.  "If he 
doesn't make contact now, he's probably not going to."

"I guess I'd better go sit by the phone then."

"I've got to get back to the morgue."

"Scully, wait."

"What is it?"

He hesitated.  "No one can get in over there without ID, 
right?"

"After hours it's locked up tighter than a drum."

"But there are other people there now."

"For a while, yes."  She gave him a curious look.  "Why?"

"My little interview is going out over the airwaves, probably 
as we speak.  I just want to make sure you're going to be 
safe."

She smiled.  "I'll be fine.  It's not my face on his TV, 
remember?"

"Yes, but I'm going to be here surrounded by a hundred of my 
friends in blue."

"Good.  Watch your back, okay?"

"I'll call you."


Mulder did as promised and hung out by the tip line for 
several hours.  The phones rang off the hook with dozens of 
new suggestions, but nothing that sounded like messages from 
the killer.  

O'Hara hung up after one call and sighed.  "That woman wanted 
to turn in her husband, her uncle *and* her best friend's 
brother for suspicious behavior.  I said, 'Lady, they can't 
all be the killer.  Pick one.'  Then she told me it was her 
mailman."  

"Maybe our guy watches the late news," Ray suggested.  "He 
does seem to be a night owl."

"Well, then I move we go over to Mallory's for a beer and a 
burger," O'Hara replied.  "Let the new shift take over the 
phones for a while.  That way, we can be back here in time 
for the late, late show."

"I'll take a rain check," Ray replied.  "I've got an errand 
to run."

"I've got to call my girlfriend," Manny said, and then 
grimaced.  "If I've still got a girlfriend."

O'Hara shrugged.  "You and me, Mulder?"

"Yeah, okay. I could use something to eat."

The men walked the few blocks to the bar, despite the cold; 
few pedestrians were out even though the night was still 
young. Mallory's had a reasonable crowd because of the recent 
shift-change.  "When the day's over," O'Hara explained, 
"sometimes you want to go anywhere but home."

They took seats at the bar, where Dave was working with a 
second man for the evening.  It was Dave who brought their 
beers, and he gave Mulder a familiar nod.  "I saw you on TV 
today," he said.  "You're really a profiler?"

"That's right."

"He can read the psychos' minds," O'Hara said.

"I wish it worked that way," replied Mulder.  "It doesn't."

"Have you caught serial killers before?" Dave inquired as he 
poured another beer from the tap.

"Yes, a few."

"And you really think you can get this guy?"

"Yes."  

O'Hara shifted on the stool and looked at him.  "I like your 
confidence," he said, shaking his head.  "After this week, I 
ain't too sure anymore."

"I have to think we can catch him," Mulder said.  "Otherwise 
I may as well go home right now."

"When will you go home?" Dave said.  "I mean, if you guys 
don't get him.  Will you just stay here as long as it takes 
or do you just give up after awhile?"

"You're awfully interested in my comings and goings," Mulder 
said.

Dave shrugged.  "I'm not trying to ride you or nothing.  I 
think you got guts."

"Hey, what about the rest of us?" O'Hara demanded.  "We're 
just chopped liver?"

"It isn't your mug on the TV saying those things," Dave said.  
"If the killer doesn't get him like that Harris guy, I figure 
the townspeople will run him out of here on a pole.  There's 
only so many times you can tell folks you're sure that you're 
going to catch the guy before they want to see the results."

"Listen, you little punk..."

Mulder stilled O'Hara with one hand.  "It's okay.  He's 
right."  On the TV overhead, SportsCenter switched to 
competitive pool.  Mulder checked his watch and it read eight 
o'clock.  Scully would be done at the morgue by this time.

He groped around in his pocket for his cell phone but came up 
empty.  He tried the other pocket and got more of the same.  
"That's odd."  He stood up and tried his pants and his 
overcoat.  No phone.

"What's your problem?" O'Hara asked.

"I can't find my cell phone."

"Use mine."

"No, thanks, I need to figure out what happened to mine.  I 
must have left it back at the station."

O'Hara took a swallow of beer.  "It ought to be safe there."

"I'm going to head back anyway."  Mulder tossed a twenty on 
the bar.  "I'll see you back there, okay?"

"I'm right behind you."

Mulder jogged back the way they had come, his breath turning 
to icy puffs in the frozen night.  At the station, he started 
retracing his steps and looking for his phone.  He checked 
the interrogation room, the conference room, and the area by 
the tip phones.  He even ducked back to the soda machine to 
see if it might have fallen out while he was smooching 
Scully.

Baffled, he walked back to the bullpen area.  "Hey, there you 
are."  Manny was eating take-out Chinese food straight from 
the carton.  "Scully called here about twenty minutes looking 
for you.  She said she couldn't get you on your cell phone."

"I can't find my phone," Mulder said.  "Have you seen it?"

"No, man.  I haven't seen any phones lying around anywhere."  

Mulder accepted the pink message slip.  "I can't read this."

"Sorry about that."  Manny took it back and studied it.  "Oh, 
yeah.  She said she found a tattoo on Annette's body and she 
wanted to check something back at the house."

"At the house -- at Annette's house you mean?"

"Yeah, I think that's what she said."  He sat up suddenly and 
put his Chinese food down on the desk.  "Hey, you don't think 
she's alone, do you?  I mean, it could be dangerous, 
especially given that whole 'killer returns to the scene of 
the crime' thing."

"We don't know he's doing that."

"We don't know he's not."

Mulder was already heading for the door.  "I'm going to meet 
her.  Call Scully, tell her I'm coming.  Tell her not to go 
into the house until I get there."

"I'm on it."

Mulder picked up speed until he was out-and-out running for 
the lot.  Suddenly his whole "bait the killer" scheme seemed 
like a really bad idea.  In the car, he reached for his cell 
phone out of habit again and cursed when he couldn't find it.  
"God damn it, where are you?"  He ran his hand under the seat 
in case it had fallen out while he was driving.  Nothing.

"I had it this morning," he said.  "I know I did.  And I put 
it back in my pocket."

He dodged a slow-moving Buick by crossing the double yellow 
lines.  All the cops were out looking for a serial killer; 
there was no one around to bust him for traffic violations.

A chilling thought hit him.  What if the phone had been 
stolen?  Lifted, perhaps, by the killer he was seeking.  It 
could have come at any time his coat was unguarded.  An 
experienced pickpocket could have had him on the street and 
he wouldn't even have noticed, he'd been so distracted.

He wished he'd taken O'Hara up on the offer of a phone.  Now 
he was stuck barreling through narrow roads while Scully was 
all alone.

Manny's words came back to him: "She tried you on your cell."  
If the killer did have his phone, then he also knew exactly 
where Scully was.

Mulder nudged the needle up a bit higher.  Scenery flew by; 
other cars blared their horns but Mulder barely heard them.  
He heard only his heartbeat thundering in his ears: hurry, 
hurry, hurry.

The car skidded around icy corners.  Mulder leaned forward, 
trying to negotiate the dark streets as best he could. 

Then, out of nowhere, headlights appeared on the other side 
of the road.  The beams were too bright and getting closer.  
Mulder shielded his eyes and jerked the wheel, but it was too 
late.

The car smashed his left front with a great sound of 
crunching metal and shattered glass.  Mulder held the wheel 
tightly, trying to correct it as the steering gave way and 
the car hit a snow bank.  The wheels caught the edge and sent 
the car careening into the air, where it flipped twice and 
landed upside down.

Mulder had only a second to realize he was alive.

The high beams were back, and they were coming right at him a 
second time.  He could only close his eyes, brace his legs, 
and scream.

/////////

End chapter ten.  Continued in chapter eleven.

Many continued to thanks to Amanda for her help with this 
story.

Poor Mulder.  Woe!

Feedback feeds the muse: syn_tax6@yahoo.com