*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 12 of ? (12/?)
by Kronos (clb@roadrunner.com)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 24 of the Wait
Sunday, 10:43 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia

Skinner turned to the nurse and said, "I need to speak with 
Agent Scully.  Can you ask her to come out for a moment?"

The woman nodded and smiled before heading down the 
hall.  Skinner leaned against the desk wearily and looked at 
his watch.  It sounded like he was in for another long night.  
He wondered idly when he might actually see a bed again, 
then turned at the sound of shoes approaching.  

Scully was coming towards him, pulling a sweater close 
about her.  She looked concerned.  "Sir?  Is everything all 
right?"

Skinner forced a smile and forced his body away from the 
desk.  For a moment, he wasn't sure if his legs were going 
to hold him.  He took a step towards her and gestured a 
don't worry sign.  "We just heard that Stevens is awake 
and, evidently, ready to talk with us.  Jerry and I are 
heading to the bureau and then over to the prison infirmary 
where he's been moved."

He could see it in her face.  She wanted to come.  He shook 
his head and opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to 
it.

"I need to be there."  She was resolved.  Determined.  He 
recognized the signs quite well, but didn't know how to 
deflect her.

"Agent Scully... Dana.  You don't need to be with Stevens.  
You need to be with Mulder.  What if he wakes up?"

The momentary anguish spoke volumes.  He saw her gather 
her breath, and it seemed her resolve as well, before saying, 
"Mulder is coming back to us.  I know that.  If he does 
wake up while I'm gone, his mother and my mother will be 
with him."  She looked away from him then, back towards 
Mulder's room and said, "I know Mulder.  I know how he 
thinks."

Skinner couldn't help the little snort that escaped.  It 
brought a wry grin to her face.

"At least as well as anyone else on the planet.  I might be 
able to help in a way that no one else can."  And then she 
did what he'd been dreading.  She took a couple steps 
towards him and laid her hand on his arm.  Her face was 
weary, as she looked up at him beseechingly, but the 
determination shone through brightly, despite the 
exhaustion that she must have been feeling.

He closed his eyes and wished he could know the right 
thing to do, then opened them again and nodded.  Her smile 
lit the hallway.  

"I'll be right back, sir."  And then she was gone in such a 
rush he could almost hear a pop from the vacuum of air left 
in her place.

He watched as she spoke with her mother, then turned 
down the hallway towards Mulder's room, Maggie 
following more slowly behind.  Scully was only there for a 
minute and he guessed she'd done no more than say 
goodbye to Mulder's mother.  He was quite certain, 
however, that she'd taken her leave of Mulder as well.

She stopped in front of him and Jerry, who'd joined him 
once more, and nodded.  "Let's go."  Then, she took off 
down the hallway, leaving the two of them behind.  He 
couldn't help grinning.  This was the Scully he knew and 
admired.  He'd been worried about her the last day, 
wondering if he'd ever see this Scully again.  He put his 
worries behind him and gestured towards Jerry to lead the 
way.

Twenty minutes later, Skinner, Scully and Jerry brushed 
past the couple reporters staking out the Bureau so fast, the 
man and woman didn't even have time to ask a question.  
Once in the lobby, Skinner looked to his right and grinned 
slightly at Jerry and Scully.  That was one way to avoid 
questions.  They'd barely spoken to one another on the ride 
over and the tension of the unknown was building to an 
almost palpable pressure within.  Without even thinking 
about it, he turned into the stairwell instead of heading for 
the elevator, Jerry and Scully close on his heels.  

The conference room door was open and the sounds 
spilling down the hallway suggested some excitement 
occurring within.  Skinner paused only briefly at the door, 
then headed towards Carl Landers, over towards the right 
side.  The SAC hadn't seen him yet.  Landers was bent over 
the table, obviously going over a file with another agent 
hovering to the man's right.

Skinner stopped a foot away.  "Carl, what have you 
found?"

The other man looked up sharply, obviously caught by 
surprise, but adjusted quickly.  "Walter, I'm glad you got 
here."  The man nodded to Scully, asking,  "How's 
Mulder?"

She nodded to him, saying merely, "Doing better." 

Skinner waved at the files spread across the table.  "What's 
happening?"

The other man put both hands to his back and stretched.  
Despite Lander's exhaustion, a smile lit his face.  "I think 
we've got it narrowed down."  The man picked up the 
sheets in front of him and ran his finger down the list.  
"We've got these seven men who have had the greatest 
potential of crossing paths with our assailant.  They also fit 
the profile specified by Mulder."  The SAC then waved 
towards those in the room, where some eight or so agents 
were engaged in either discussion, phone conversation, or 
some other near frantic activity.  "I've got the team tearing 
these men's lives apart.  In another fifteen minutes or so, 
we'll be able to compile the details into a coherent report."

Skinner nodded in appreciation, especially considering the 
hour, but was somewhat confused.  "Carl, your phone call 
suggested some urgency."  

The SAC breathed deeply.  "We've had a couple of our 
people over at the Richmond PD.  Harold Stevens was 
moved out of the hospital into the jail infirmary.  He's been 
questioned several times.  We've received a report that he 
might be ready to say something significant.  I thought you 
might want to be in on it.  I'm expecting a call from my 
man any minute."

And as if it had been prearranged, a cell phone rang out at 
the very moment Landers completed his sentence.  
Everyone in the room automatically reached into pockets to 
determine whether it was theirs.  Landers flipped his open, 
leaving everyone else looking somewhat chagrined.  Even 
Skinner had fallen into the trap. 

The one sided conversation was enough to convince him 
that it was time to move.  Landers confirmed it just a few 
moments later when he closed his cell phone and looked 
directly at him.

"Okay, Walt.  You're on.  Take Friedman with you."  
Landers nodded towards Scully and added, "And Agent 
Scully, of course."

Landers turned to Jerry then.  "You know where to go.  The 
lead D on the case is Struthers.  He's expecting you.  
They're holding off until you get there."

Skinner gripped Lander's arm briefly.  "Thanks, Carl.  I'll 
be in touch with you.  And let me know when you make 
sense of your suspects.  It might help in the interrogation.  
Give Jerry a call.  He can let us know."

And then they were turning for the door.  It wasn't certain 
that Stevens either would or could help them, but it was at 
least something to do.  But, before he even took a step, 
something else surfaced in his consciousness and he came 
to a stop.  He realized that they'd been ignoring an 
important piece of evidence.  Just as in the DC Murders 
case.  He turned back to Landers, catching Scully's 
expression of confusion as he did.

"Look, Carl.  I just remembered something.  The messages 
the guy left the 911 operator.  Have those been looked at by 
a linguistics expert?"

Skinner could see the change of topic had surprised 
Landers, but the man adjusted quickly.  Landers replied, 
"We sent them off to Quantico, of course.  Someone at ISU 
looked at them.  Mulder looked at them, of course.  We've 
had the profilers crawling all over those tapes."

Skinner nodded impatiently.  "I know the profilers have, 
but what about someone who's professionally trained in 
forensic linguistics?"

Landers shook his head, raising his hands a bit.  "I have no 
idea.  I don't know whether the profilers had anyone else 
look at them."  The man took a breath and said, with more 
confidence, "If you think it's important, I'll make sure it 
happens, Walt."

Skinner nodded his thanks and turned once more, Scully 
and Jerry at his heels.  They were in the hallway before 
Scully asked quietly, "Sir, what made you think of that?"

He smiled a bit and glanced over at her.  "Agent Scully, all 
our talk about the DC Murder's case reminded me about a 
key piece of analysis that was almost overlooked.  It was 
Fox..."  He stopped, then, realizing he'd referred to his 
agent by his first name.  Smiled and said, "Mulder, that is.  
It was Mulder who first began looking at the notes in the 
DC Murder's case through a different light that helped 
break that case.  It occurred to me that we'd been ignoring 
the phone calls in this case just as we'd ignored the notes 
back then."

"What did Mulder do, sir? How did it break the case?"

*******************************************

PAST
September 10, 1986
Wednesday, 12:08 p.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


A knock at the door caused Fox to stop his pacing and turn.  
It was unexpected, but at least provided a potential for 
saving him from the stuporous boredom he'd been 
subjected to for hours on end.  No television, no books, no 
nothing.  If he had a nickel for the number of times some 
faux nurse told him to lie down and take it easy, he'd be 
able to buy his way out of the damned infirmary.

The sight that greeted him brought a smile to his face.  
Shirley stood in the doorway, at first hesitant, then smiling 
broadly when she saw he was mobile.

"Hey, Fox.  Having fun?"

His own smile broadened.  "Shirley, please rescue me from 
this hell.  I think I'm going crazy."

"Not very far to go for that."

He gave her a fake grimace, then gestured towards a plate.  
"Look at this, Shirl.  Mush for breakfast and mush for 
lunch."  He took another step and fell into the padded chair 
in the corner.  He patted his legs and she sauntered across 
the room, then broke into laughter and practically jumped 
into his lap.  He gave an 'oomph' and then was prevented 
from saying anything for a long minute as they exchanged 
pleasantries.

Shirley pulled back with a contented sigh.  "So, seriously.  
How are you?"

The residual smile left his face then and he sighed deeply 
before answering.  "Fine.  Pretty much.  A little headache is 
all.  There's certainly no need for them to keep me here."

She looked at him critically, head tilted slightly to one side.  
He could tell her gaze lingered at his neck.  "So what 
happened, really?"

He ran a hand up and down her arm, enjoying the silky 
smoothness.  "What have you heard?"

She leaned into him and said, "Oh, that you got into a fight 
with one of the instructors.  That he pulled a knife and you 
fought with each other and you got your butt kicked."

He pulled way back and stared at her in shock.  He couldn't 
tell whether she was serious or not.  When she started 
laughing, he had his answer.

"I'm sorry, Fox, I couldn't resist."  She wiggled a bit in his 
lap, making him groan slightly, then said, "Not really, of 
course.  The word is that you almost caught the bad guys at 
station one and that one of them wasn't too happy.  That he 
slammed you around and even held a knife on you."  She 
looked at him quite seriously.  "Is that true?"

He considered lying, but decided against it.  Not with 
Shirley.  "Pretty much.  He gave me a concussion and a 
little souvenir here."  He gestured to his neck.  "It got just a 
bit out of hand.  Do me a favor, though.  Keep it quiet, 
huh?"

She nodded, then gently ran a finger over his forehead.  She 
leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek, then 
trailed the kiss down to his neck. Her voice was low, 
almost a whisper when she said, "I'm sorry."

He was confused and tried to remember the past couple 
minutes, which was somewhat difficult given what Shirley 
was doing to him. He thought he must have missed 
something, given his level of distraction.  "What?  What are 
you talking about?"

Her expression was bittersweet.  "I'm sorry it happened.  
I'm sorry any of the last week happened to you.  That's all."

He was touched and surprised, and pulled her to him again.  
He'd have to be more careful.  She was finding her way into 
his heart in a way that he hadn't anticipated.  He kissed her 
gently, but she responded enthusiastically, turning the kiss 
into anything but chaste.

When she pulled away, it came to him, as clear as day.  
"Shirley!"  He'd startled her.

"What?"

"I need you to do something for me."

She was curious now.  "What?"

"I need a diversion."

Her eyebrow raised and her voice was suspicious.  "What 
are you talking about?  Just what are you thinking?"

"I need to do something.  Right now.  It can't wait until 
tomorrow."

Shirley was shaking her head slightly, obviously confused.

"Just trust me, okay?  I need you to give me a diversion so I 
can get the hell out of here for just an hour or so.  Please, 
Shirley."

She pushed herself off his lap and stood in front of him, a 
look of anger beginning to surface.  "You are crazy.  Fox, 
you're hurt.  You need to stay here and rest."  She backed 
up a step and crossed her arms.  She was looking at him as 
if he were some unrecognizable creature that'd just pissed 
on her leg.  

He pushed himself out of the chair and was actually 
surprised when she jerked away from him.  "Look, Shirley, 
I'm fine.  They're just being overprotective.  Look at me."  
He could tell she was wavering now.  He took a step 
towards her and she didn't back away.  He took her hands 
and said, "All I need is a little diversion.  Who better than 
you to wreak a little innocent havoc?"  He smiled at her 
and, at her grudging nod of acceptance, pulled her to him 
and swung her around, kissing her soundly.  "I knew I 
could count on you."

She pulled away from him and slapped his roving hand 
smartly.  "Yeah, yeah, you smooth talker.  Now, just what 
the hell am I supposed to do?  And am I going to be kicked 
out for it?"

He headed for the closet and started pulling socks and 
sneakers out.  "Look, Shirley, you won't get in trouble.  I 
promise.  You just keep out of sight and do whatever you 
need to do from a safe location.  I promise I'll take any 
heat, if there is any.  But, look... All I'm doing is going for 
a little walk.  What can they do to me for that?"

He glanced in the mirror and made sure he looked 
presentable, deciding that the slight blood splatter on his tee 
shirt wasn't that noticeable.  He'd do.  He turned back to 
look at Shirley and found her standing with crossed arms, 
her face wearing an expression of irritation.  Time to do 
more fence-mending.

"Shirley, I promise.  You won't get into any trouble.  
Would I do anything to screw you over?"

She dropped her arms and propped her hands on her hips.  
"Not intentionally.  I'm starting to think you've got a talent 
for getting yourself into trouble, though."  She said it with a 
slight smile so he didn't take it personally.

He glanced at his watch.  "Let's make it ten minutes from 
now.  Just pull the busybodies away from that desk for 
thirty seconds or so.  That's all it'll take me."

Shirley nodded and then turned for the door.  She turned 
back right before reaching it.  "So what happens when they 
come in to check on you and you're not here?"

He froze for a second and then just shrugged.  "I'll 
apologize to them and say I just felt like a little walk.  No 
big deal. And if I'm lucky, they won't even miss me.  It's 
supposed to be lunchtime around here."

She shook her head again, but said, "Good luck.  I hope it's 
worth it."

He smiled.  "So do I, Shirley.  So do I."

And ten minutes later, on the dot, an alarm sounded down 
the hallway.  He peeked out and saw both nurses running 
around a corner.  He quickly jogged down the other 
hallway and out the exit into the cool night air.  He stopped 
on the stairs outside and breathed deeply, relishing the 
crispness, as well as his freedom.  He smiled and headed 
for the library.  He'd had a thought earlier that he wanted to 
explore.  

The attendant just waved him through without even 
questioning him.  He'd been there enough to have become a 
familiar fixture.  He headed to the card catalogue and 
finally found what he'd been looking for.  He tracked down 
several books and journals on linguistics and headed for an 
out of the way corner.  He picked up a pad of paper and pen 
on the way, then settled himself in to do some reading.

He'd seen an interview a couple years ago about a professor 
of linguistics who could use several samples of writing and 
make projections about the author.  They'd already been 
lectured to on a related topic by one of Patterson's people, 
but this was a bit different.  

He knew the notes were important in more ways than one.  
Dialectology, a subset of forensic linguistics, would 
provide insight as to any dialectic uniqueness of the writer, 
which could point to an area of the country in which the 
UNSUB might have been born or raised. Author 
identification, as a sub-discipline, could be invaluable in 
comparing the notes to other writings, so as to determine 
whether the words, style and structure of the notes were 
consistent with other writings of a suspect, once suspects 
were identified.  Even discourse analysis could be used, in 
order to obtain any hints about who might be penning the 
notes and their motivation for doing so.

The more Fox read, the more he realized that Patterson's 
group was, for whatever reason, ignoring, or at least 
downplaying, a critical aspect of the evidence. Whether it 
was because Patterson had little respect for forensic 
linguistics or whether he just didn't have an expert in the 
field on staff made little difference.

Fox pulled his pad towards him and closed his eyes.  
Cleared his mind and recollected the photos of the notes 
from each case.  He rewrote each, by victim order. The first 
was delivered a couple weeks after Hannover's murder.  

Play the Game, if you choose.
But I will win.  You will lose.
You are stupid, I am smart.
To play with me requires heart.
Shooting's easy, shooting's fun.
Can you guess why he's the one?

The second note arrived a week or so after Lorri Kiley's 
murder.

A beauty she was, a beauty for sure.
A virgin she wasn't, her spirit impure.
Blonde and beautiful but stupid as rock.
The clock's ticking fast -- tick tock, tick tock.
Gunshot, strangulation, what's it about?
Do you have what it takes to figure it out?

The third came a week after Jesse Smith's body was found.

The Game's afoot and you're nowhere around,
I'm way ahead as the idiocy abounds.
An ax was messy, I must admit,
But not enough to call it quits.
Perfect he seemed, but it's all just a lie,
You won't catch me, whatever you try.

Ellen Haggerston's murder was originally thought to have 
been a bungled burglary, until the fourth note arrived.

The Game has rules, I know them well.
It's elementary, truth to tell.
You're all so slow, you haven't a clue.
Better learn fast to know what to do.
I'm way ahead, if we're keeping track.
You just can't win, 'cause I'll be back.

They were still waiting on the fifth note, the one for 
Margie, but Fox knew it was only a matter of days before it 
would come, confirming what they all suspected.  He 
pushed back a bit so that all four verses were clearly in 
sight.  Then, started reading over them again, slowly, then 
again, more quickly.  The first thing he noticed was that 
there were almost no colloquialisms whatsoever. The 
closest thing he could identify was the reference to 
Sherlock Holmes. Beyond that, however, it was intriguing 
to see the somewhat sophisticated use of language. Various 
phrases were interesting...  'requires heart', 'spirit impure', 
'idiocy abounds', 'truth to tell'.  

Fox was quite certain that the writer of these notes was 
well-read, in addition to being quite obviously intelligent.  
The use of the apostrophe in front of 'cause', the correct 
use of apostrophes in all the contractions...  these were all 
indicators of a learned individual.  And then something else 
started to bother him about the notes.  There was something 
about the tone of each which was more than just superior.  
More than arrogance. It was almost ... 

Fox quickly stacked up the books and journals and gathered 
his notes.  A quick glance at his watch indicated that he 
was long past his originally planned one hour of freedom.  
Still, he couldn't go back to the infirmary just yet.  There 
was one last thing he had to do.

He raced across the compound, heading for Waring's 
office.  He turned his head to glance towards the infirmary 
as he passed, worried that someone might actually see him 
and put a halt to little outing.  And then, just as he was 
turning his head back towards his objective, his body 
slammed into an immovable wall of muscle.  The impact 
forced the air from his lungs, even as his legs collapsed and 
he crashed backwards, head making contact with concrete 
with a sick thud.

Once his vision cleared and he could breathe again, Fox 
opened watery eyes to see a shape bending over him.  The 
sun was behind the man, giving an impression of a huge, 
black, towering figure, faceless and nameless.  He was 
consumed with an instant terror, disoriented, left gasping 
for breath. Without thinking, he started to scramble 
backwards, practically clawing the concrete in an effort to 
escape the very vision that had been haunting his dreams.

"Whoa - Trainee Mulder!  Fox, it's all right.  Stop!"

It dawned on him that this black forbidding silhouette 
somehow knew his name.  Was, in fact, reaching a hand 
down to him, as if to help him up.  Fox raised a shaky hand 
to wipe across his eyes and it seemed to help.  He reached 
back to feel whether there was blood and found only a 
bump. He wiped at his eyes once more.

Through still bleary vision, he could make out a man, tall 
and broad, perhaps in his thirties, dressed in a suit that 
looked slept in, weapon at his hip, granite chin and eyes 
hiding behind glasses, with hair falling down into his eyes.  
Fox didn't recognize the man, who was quite obviously an 
agent, but realized that somehow, the man recognized him.

Fox shook his head and wiped his hand on his shirt before 
reaching up to take the hand being offered.  As the agent 
pulled him off the ground, he said, "I'm sorry about that.  I 
wasn't really looking ahead.  I was trying to read and walk 
at the same time."

Fox got a good look at the agent once he was back on his 
feet and then saw the scattered files lying on the grass, right 
next to Fox's own pad.  As he bent to pick them all up, he 
recognized one of the files as that belonging to the Margie 
Connor case.  He realized then that this man must be on the 
investigative team.  The agent must have been informed of 
Fox's involvement. It made him wary.  Insecure even.  
Who was this man and what power did this agent hold over 
him?

The man took the files with a nod.  The piercing look the 
agent gave suggested that Fox was right to be wary.  He 
cleared his throat and managed to say, "I'm sorry, sir.  I 
guess I wasn't really paying attention either."  

He saw the man's eyes slide down to take note of the dried 
blood splatter below the neck and then down further to the 
pad that Fox now held tight to his chest.  He could almost 
feel the curiosity pouring out of the agent.  He chose to 
remain silent, however.  The agent's eyes slid back to Fox's 
face and stayed there.  It was as if Fox were being held in a 
physical grip.  He couldn't move, couldn't back away, 
couldn't turn his eyes.  He could only stand and wait it out.  
Fox felt the sweat that gathered at his back, causing his 
shirt to stick uncomfortably.  Could feel the drops tickling 
his ears and neck. Damn!  Why did he feel guilty?  He 
forced himself to stand still and ignore the pounding in his 
head and the sweat that was distracting him.

Finally, the agent nodded to him and said, "Carry on, 
Trainee.  And next time... slow down and watch where 
you're going."

Mulder attempted a swallow and couldn't quite manage it.  
He nodded, saying in a relatively steady voice, "Yes, sir."  
Then, he slowly walked around the agent and headed 
towards Waring's office.  He could still feel the man's eyes 
on him and forced himself into a confident gait, despite the 
almost overwhelming feeling of insecurity. When he 
reached the building he'd been headed to, he paused at the 
steps and turned.  The agent was gone from sight, leaving 
Fox wondering just who he was and what the man knew 
about Fox himself.

The building was blessedly cool.  His headache had 
become a dull throb and he managed to relegate it to the far 
reaches of his consciousness.  He glanced around and saw 
that the hallways were practically empty.  He smiled to 
himself, aware that this, at least, at gone his way.  So far.  
A tiny part of his mind kept reminding him that he was 
breaking rules.  Still, there were priorities.  Getting 
information about the DC Murders case to Waring trumped 
an infirmary stay.  At least in his mind.

He headed down the stairs to the floor where Waring's 
temporary office was.  The place was completely deserted 
and Fox began to suspect that he was missing a lecture.  As 
he walked softly down the hallway, glancing right and left 
at closed doors, a voice started to become clear. He 
couldn't tell who it was, but began to make out the words, 
as well as the tone.  It was clear that an argument of some 
sort was underway.

"It's over!  Do you hear me?"

Fox slowed, not sure whether to turn back or continue on.  
The voice was harsh and angry.  Furious, even.

"You are too smart to be wasting your life with that loser.  
It's over."

Fox could tell the man, whoever it was, was struggling to 
calm himself.

"We'll talk about it tonight.  Be there or don't come back."

The slamming of the phone into the cradle echoed down the 
hallway.  Fox turned and looked back in the direction he'd 
come, thinking that maybe his search for Agent Waring 
could wait.  But just as he decided to leave, Agent Malloy 
stormed out of his office, slamming the door behind him.  
Fox prayed the man would choose to go the other way, but 
his hopes were dashed almost as soon as they'd been 
raised.

Malloy stomped towards him and stopped abruptly after 
lifting his head and seeing Fox.  The look of pure hatred 
and contempt chilled him. Fox couldn't understand what he 
had done to this man.  What Malloy seemed to be blaming 
him for... 

Fox cleared his throat and started to say, "Sir, I'm..."

He was cut off as the older agent gestured him to silence, 
then approached, somewhat threateningly.  

Malloy stopped a foot away and practically growled at him.  
"You don't belong here.  Get the hell out of here and mind 
your own fucking business."

Again, the sweat started to pool, but this time, Fox found 
himself to be more annoyed than frightened.  Who the hell 
were these people to threaten him?  Who did they think 
they were?  Just because Malloy was an instructor didn't 
mean he could bar Fox from seeing Agent Waring in the 
man's own office - a place the trainees had been invited to 
visit.

Malloy must have sensed the rebellious thoughts because 
the man turned an interesting shade of red and purple.  Fox 
could see the veins standing out at the man's temple, the 
pulse beating fast and furious.  But before either man could 
move to round two, another voice entered the fray.

"John, Fox...  What's going on?"  Dean Waring's voice 
seemed to drop into the tension filled hallway from 
nowhere, but Fox found himself incredibly relieved to see 
the older man.  He shifted back and away from Malloy 
slowly, putting another foot between them.

Waring said, "Fox, I thought you were supposed to be in 
the infirmary until this evening at the earliest."

Fox swallowed and nodded, knowing he had to answer.  
"Yes, sir.  I was supposed to be.  I needed to ..."  He found 
his voice drifting off, unable to complete the sentence in 
front of the still furious Malloy. 

As if sensing the difficulty, Waring said, "John, is 
everything all right?  I'll talk with Trainee Mulder so you 
can go on to the lecture.  I'll join you in a few minutes."

Fox saw Malloy's jaw working back and forth and was 
surprised the man hadn't broken any teeth. Finally, with a 
last malevolent glare, Malloy nodded jerkily to Waring and 
stomped off towards the exit.

Fox hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until 
Malloy was ten or so feet away.  He felt the pent up air rush 
out of his lungs and he had to bend over slightly to avoid 
passing out.  Then, there was a hand on his shoulder, 
squeezing gently, and he knew that Waring, at least, wasn't 
out to prove anything.

Waring said, "Come on, Fox.  Looks like you need to sit 
down for a few minutes."

Fox forced himself upright and nodded, attempting a weak 
smile.  "Yes, sir.  That sounds pretty good right now."

Fox immediately felt comfortable once he was seated in 
Waring's office.  It was a warm place, with photos and 
personal items scattered around.  One wall was covered 
with clippings from newspapers and magazines. Books 
were stuffed in every way imaginable on the generous 
shelves.  He realized that Agent Waring was giving him 
time to look around, despite the fact that the man was 
supposed to be teaching soon.

Fox sat straighter in the chair and met Waring's eyes.  He 
was relieved to see only curiosity and concern.  "Sir, I 
know I wasn't supposed to leave the infirmary, but I felt 
fine and I remembered something that I'd come across a 
year or so ago that I needed to check on."

Waring wasn't judgmental.  He merely nodded in 
encouragement.  Fox licked his lips and pulled out his pad 
of paper, covered in a messy scrawl.

"Sir, I remembered reading an article about forensic 
linguistics."  Fox saw the spark of interest come to 
Waring's face. "I knew that the notes had been examined 
by Patterson's group, but only in a superficial way. I 
thought perhaps..."  His voice dwindled and he colored 
slightly in embarrassment.  It occurred to him that he was 
criticizing the man responsible for the creation of the ISU.

Waring merely nodded again and said noncommittally, "Go 
on, Fox."

Fox licked his lips and glanced again at his notes, even 
though he knew intimately everything on the pages in front 
of him.  He looked up once more, meeting Waring's gaze. 
"I needed to understand what was possible with the field of 
forensic linguistics and how it might apply to the notes 
received after each murder."  Fox began to feel excited.  He 
slipped the pad across the desk so that Waring could see the 
text of the four notes.

"Sir, as I looked at these more and more, read them through 
carefully, it seemed to me..."  Again, he had to stop.  He 
realized the pure arrogance of what he was doing, what he 
was suggesting, and felt his throat go dry.

Waring smiled slightly, then frowned, both so quickly in 
succession that Fox almost doubted he saw the smile at all.  
Waring said, "Trainee Mulder, nothing about this case - the 
crimes themselves, the notes, even the handling of it - has 
been normal.  If I didn't want to hear your opinion, I 
wouldn't have asked you for it."  The man's face seemed to 
harden a bit then, before he said, "Sometimes, we do things 
in this job that we'd never have thought we could ever do.  
I've found that even I have managed to surprise myself."

The last sentence was said almost to himself.  Fox was 
confused. Not at all sure what the man's words had to do 
with him.  Still, he knew he needed to finish what he 
started. "Sir, it seemed to me that the man who wrote these 
notes is extremely intelligent, has read widely, possibly had 
advanced schooling beyond high school, and..."  Fox 
stopped.  Chewed on his lower lip and searched out 
Waring's face.  He didn't have any evidence for what he 
was going to suggest, but he knew - from the bottom of his 
soul - that he was correct.

Waring said nothing, but again nodded with 
encouragement.

Fox swallowed hard and then continued with his surmise.  
"Sir, I think the UNSUB is sexually conflicted."  He saw 
Waring's eyebrows raise, and rushed on. "I think the man 
may be struggling with his own sexuality.  He may be gay 
or he may be fighting transgender tendencies. It's even 
possible there's a split personality involved, with both 
sexes represented."

Fox ignored the look of incredulity on Waring's face and 
continued.  He leaned forward, pointing at the notes.  
"Look here, sir, and here...  These are not typical 
expressions that a man would use.  And it's not even the 
writing itself...  It's more the tone of the notes."  He again 
pointed to the second note.  "Look here.  'Blonde and 
beautiful but stupid as rock'.  That's not something a 
typical man would write.  And here, in the third note about 
Jesse Smith, 'Perfect he seemed, but it's all just a lie'.  And 
from the Haggerston note, 'It's elementary, truth to tell'.  

Fox looked up at Waring then, expecting to see approval.  
He was disappointed at the furrowed brow and shaking 
head.

Waring said, "Fox, I'm sorry.  I don't see it.  Why wouldn't 
a 'typical' man write these expressions? What does any of 
this have to do with the UNSUB's sexuality?"

Fox was filled with confusion.  It was all so clear to him.  
Why couldn't Waring see it?  Fox became aware once more 
of the dull ache in his head, which seemed to be escalating 
now.  He was tired and suddenly filled with frustration. Of 
all people, he expected Waring to see what he had.  He 
raised a hand to rub his forehead and was surprised that it 
shook slightly.

Waring's eyes narrowed, but his voice was kind as he said, 
"Fox, there's a reason I'm not with the ISU.  I may have 
some talents in teaching some aspects of profiling, but there 
are others that one just has to be born with.  I'm good - 
very good, in fact.  But greatness is something that's a 
gift."

Waring paused, eyes searching, as if to determine just how 
much Fox was understanding.  Then he reached out a hand 
and rested it on Fox's arm.  "You, son, have a gift.  What 
that means is that you will see what everyone else sees, but 
to you, it will make sense, where to others, it will seem 
unconnected and confusing.  You will draw conclusions 
while others struggle with hypotheses. And you will be 
challenged at every step of the way because what will be 
obvious to you will be completely opaque to your 
colleagues, supervisors, and underlings."

Fox felt a chill pass through him. This wasn't a gift Waring 
was describing.  It was a curse.

Waring squeezed his arm, shaking it just slightly. "With 
this gift, you will be able to save lives, to give people 
futures they wouldn't otherwise have.  Never doubt it.  The 
challenge will be to ensure you don't lose yours along the 
way."

Waring was staring at him, almost through him, the eyes 
piercing in their intensity.  Again, Fox felt his arm shaken 
in Waring's grip.  "Do you understand, boy?"

Fox wasn't sure.  He wasn't sure of anything anymore, but 
he nodded.

Waring pulled back, taking Fox's pad of paper with him.  
The man tapped it and said, "Let me look at this.  Let me 
think about it.  Then, at the appropriate time and to the 
appropriate people, I will make any suggestions I feel are 
warranted."

Fox swallowed hard, realizing that Agent Waring was 
protecting him.  He nodded and stammered out, "Thank 
you, sir."

Waring stood and Fox pushed himself to his feet as well.  
Waring offered a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and 
said, "Why don't you get back to the infirmary.  I have a 
feeling you've been missed by now."  Fox smiled at 
Waring's wry expression.  "Stay there, Fox, until you're 
officially released.  Do you understand?"

Again, Fox nodded.  He was filled with appreciation and 
gratitude.  Again he said, simply, "Thank you, sir."

Fox turned and left, knowing that he had at least one friend 
amongst the instructors.

*******************************************


Present Day
Monday, 12:43 a.m.
Prison Infirmary, Richmond, Virginia


Scully felt crowded.  Even though the infirmary was a large 
room, there were no fewer than eight people gathered 
around the bed of Harold Stevens, six of whom could have 
been linebackers for any professional football team.  
Considering the hour and what the man had been through in 
the last day and a half, Stevens was remarkably alert.  In 
fact, Scully got the impression that the man was enjoying 
his present attention.

Stevens was lying in a hospital bed, one arm and one leg 
cuffed to the rails.  There was no sign of permanent trauma 
and Scully felt a wave of anger and indignation at the fact.  
The confrontation between this man and her partner had 
left Mulder fighting for his life. This man had the gall to be 
lying there, a small smile playing at his lips, acting as if he 
were a special guest of the prison system.

Skinner spoke first, showing what Scully felt was amazing 
restraint.  "Mr. Stevens, my name is Walter Skinner.  I'm 
with the Federal Bureau of Investigations."  He didn't 
introduce anyone else.  Scully assumed it was an 
intentional move.  "Mr. Stevens, I know the Richmond 
police have spoken with you quite a few times already.  If 
you don't mind, however, my agents and I would like to 
speak with you a bit more."

Stevens nodded magnanimously.  

Skinner said, "You don't mind if we record our 
conversation, do you?  It's certainly a lot easier than 
writing everything down."

Again, the man nodded.

Skinner said, "You led us on quite a chase."

The smile on Stevens face grew wider, but he didn't say 
anything.  Scully wanted to gag.

"We barely figured out your message in time."

Scully could see the smile fade just a bit. There seemed to 
be a hint of confusion, even. 

"You were way ahead of us on this case."

The smile was back full force.  All the flattery paid off.  
Stevens finally spoke.  "It was only luck your man stopped 
me. He really wasn't up to it.  He was a wimp.  Pure luck."

Scully wanted to leap across the foot of the bed and 
strangle the bastard.  Skinner's voice was still smooth and 
clear when he spoke, with no sign at all of irritation.  "He 
was lucky.  There was an awful lot of luck involved in our 
catching you."

Stevens glanced around at those standing by his bed, as if 
to make sure that they were all listening to Skinner.  Scully 
had to again force her expression to remain carefully 
neutral.

Skinner said, "We're curious about a few things.  We 
wondered if you might help us out with them."

The man's expression grew only slightly wary.  He nodded 
for Skinner to continue.

"Mr. Stevens, I know your mother passed away a couple 
years ago and that recently, you started a new job."

It was all Scully could do to keep from snorting.  The 
suspicion was the Harold Stevens had somehow killed his 
mother and the job was playing gopher to a serial killer.

Stevens said slowly, "Yes, my mother died.  But I don't 
know what you mean about a new job."  The wariness was 
back.

Skinner smiled and nodded.  Leaned in just a bit, as if the 
two of them were having a friendly conspiratorial chat.  
"Don't worry, Mr. Stevens.  We're not the IRS.  In fact, 
anything you do that screws over the IRS is just fine with 
us."

Stevens laughed a bit, then said.  "Well, I was doing some 
work off and on.  Nothing regular."

Skinner nodded and asked, "We know you're skilled at a 
lot of different things, Mr. Stevens."  Again, Scully had to 
bite her lip.  As far as they knew, the man was a screw up 
at just about everything.  Skinner was saying smoothly, 
"We were just curious about the nature of that job."

Stevens shrugged.  "It wasn't much.  Just helping out a 
friend."

"What kind of help did you provide?"

"Oh, moving things.  Lifting things.  Rearranging things."

There was a bit of a smirk on the man's face.  Scully so 
wanted to wipe it off - forcibly.

Skinner merely nodded, as if the answer was just what he 
was looking for.

"Did it pay well?"

The man in the hospital bed was obviously trying to look 
nonchalant.

"It was okay."

Skinner turned to one of the agents to the left and reached 
for some papers.  He looked at them for a moment and then 
said, "It seems you were able to make some nice deposits in 
your account over the last several months."  Skinner flipped 
through a few pages and said, "The first one was about a 
half year or so ago."  Skinner looked up and towards 
Stevens again.  "Does that sound about right?"

Stevens seemed to be looking for a trap.  He finally 
answered, "Yeah.  I think so."

Skinner smiled and said, "Whoever you were working for 
must have been pretty happy with your work.  He kept 
giving you more jobs."

Stevens relaxed again.  "That's right.  I was really good at 
what he wanted me to do."

Skinner gave the pages back to the agent and gestured 
towards Jerry.  Jerry handed him the case file on Stevens.  
Skinner opened it and again, seemed to be reviewing 
carefully.  Scully knew that Skinner was aware of every 
detail of the file already.  Skinner said, "Mr. Stevens, can 
you tell us about your car?"

Stevens was obviously confused by the change in topic.  So 
was Scully, at first.  "My car?" 

Skinner nodded.  "Yes, sir.  It's not the same one your 
mother used, is it?"

Stevens shook his head.  "No, I bought my own car."

Skinner nodded again.  "We can't seem to find much 
information on it.  It doesn't seem to be registered with the 
state."  Skinner smiled at Stevens and said, "Frankly, we 
don't really much care for the DMV, either."

Stevens relaxed and said, "I bought it from a friend.  It was 
all off the books."

Skinner pulled out a photo from the file and showed 
Stevens.  "This is it, right?  A blue Ford Taurus wagon?"

The man again nodded slowly.

"We're curious about what happened with your mother's 
car. It seems to have disappeared."

Stevens licked his lips and then adopted an innocent 
expression.  "I'm not really sure.  I gave it to a friend of 
mine."

Skinner merely nodded and then handed the file back to 
Jerry.  He shifted his stance slightly and gripped the rail at 
the bottom of the bed, where he stood comfortably.  "I 
guess that explains it.  We hate unanswered questions 
around here.  That's all."

Scully sensed the implicit threat in the words but thought 
that Stevens missed it.

Skinner said, "You know, the Richmond PD weren't able 
to take you on for training because of those few problems 
you had with the law."

Again, the change in topic caught Stevens by surprise, but 
Scully saw the narrowing of the eyes.  Harold Stevens was 
not a good actor.  He probably stunk at poker, too.

Skinner followed up quickly.  "It's not really fair for police 
departments to hold the indiscretions of youth against 
everyone, is it?"

Stevens was sulky.  "They were just misdemeanors.  
Nothing serious.  And it was just bad luck I got caught on 
those."

Scully had to appreciate the degree of arrogance and self-
involvement.  The man wasn't upset that he'd done these 
things - only that he'd been caught.  And, of course, he 
failed to even mention the larceny charge, which had been 
thrown out for lack of evidence.

Skinner said, "Hey, we all do crazy things when we're 
young, right?  We don't really think about how it'll play 
out years down the road.  I'm sorry you were screwed by 
the RPD, but you know, they just have their rules to follow.  
They can't really do anything about it either."

Stevens eyes moved around the bed, focusing on the few 
RPD officers in the room.  Scully noted that each wore 
carefully controlled expressions of neutrality.

Stevens shrugged slightly, then muttered, "Whatever."

Skinner said, "A guy like you - big and strong, obviously 
smart...  Why didn't you ever apply to the Bureau?"  
Scully was amazed at the sincerity in Skinner's voice. Had 
she not known better, she'd have sworn her former boss 
actually meant what he was asking.

Stevens resettled himself before replying.  "I thought about 
it.  Figured they'd probably have it in for me, too.  Figured 
the RPD probably lied to 'em about me."

Scully recalled that Stevens had been described as having 
paranoid tendencies. 

Skinner nodded knowingly.  "That's probably true."  He 
shrugged as if to say, too bad.  Then added, again on an 
entirely different track, "You know, I bet you're the kind of 
guy who could take a weapon apart in no time. I knew 
some fellows like you in 'Nam.  Real talented.  Big guys, 
diverse skills, real good with weapons."

Stevens looked like he was in love. He was certainly 
enjoying Skinner's apparent appreciation of his talents.  
The man said, "I'm not bad.  Can strip and clean a gun in 
under 5 minutes."

Skinner looked impressed.  "Do you prefer a slotted end or 
a Jag on your rod?"

"I like the slotted end."

Skinner nodded, then reached to his side a pulled his 
weapon out.  Stevens didn't seem concerned.  "I don't 
generally carry my service issued .38.  I prefer the 9 mm.  
This is a Glock 21.  Only 33 parts to the entire thing."

Stevens looked like he was in heaven.  "I got me a SIG-
Sauer P220.  That's pretty close to yours."

Skinner smiled.  "That's a fine weapon.  I still prefer the 
Glock for its reliability, though."  Skinner shifted a bit and 
replaced his weapon in its holster. Then he said, "Where do 
you manage to get in target practice?  Not too many places 
around your neck of the woods, are there?"

Stevens answered, without even thinking. "We go out to 
James River Park, way out towards Ancarrow's Landing. 
We go on late at night and ain't no one for miles."

Skinner again nodded.  "You set up targets?"

Stevens actually laughed.  "Naw.  Plenty of animals to go 
after."

Skinner laughed, too.  "Nothin' like goin' after a squirrel or 
rabbit to make you realize just how tricky it is to hit a 
living thing."

"Squirrels and rabbits?  I like bigger game, myself."

Scully was chilled at the thought that the bigger game 
might include people.  She glanced at the PRD officers and 
saw them looking at each other.  She knew that there would 
be an investigation launched into any missing hikers or 
claims of shots being heard in that area.

Skinner followed up with, "Your friend use a SIG-Sauer, 
too?"

Stevens shook his head quickly, "Naw.  He uses a Colt 
1911."

Skinner appeared impressed.  "The M1911A1?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Impressive."

"That's the weapon of choice for quite a few police 
departments."  Skinner turned to the RPD officers.  "What 
about you guys?  What do you use?"

There was silence for just a moment and then one of the 
officers, Hernandez, said, "We got Glock 21's as our 
standard duty issue.  Most of us go with those, but we can 
carry something different as long as it's approved."

Scully felt that the entire conversation was surreal.  She had 
to force herself not to scream at Skinner to move on.  Still, 
she understood what he was doing and why.  She 
desperately wanted to call the hospital, but stood firm, 
knowing that any movement would be distracting.

Skinner said, "In Glock we trust."

Stevens laughed.  

Skinner added, "Too bad your friend... what was his name 
again?  Too bad your buddy and you haven't tried a Glock.  
We swear by 'em."

Stevens smiled again.  "We gotta try one, I guess.  Frank 
really don't like to try new things, though.  He's kind of set 
in his ways."

Skinner smiled.  "I know how that is.  The older you get, 
the more difficult it is to try new things.  Your still a young 
guy.  Just 33, right?"

Harold Stevens nodded, obviously flattered that Skinner 
recalled that fact.

"Your buddy Frank sounds like me.  I'm ... well, let's just 
say I'm closer to 50 than I am to 40."

Stevens laughed again, then said, "Frank's not that old.  He 
just turned 40 this year."

Scully was amazed.  Did Stevens not understand what he 
was doing or was Frank truly just some friend not 
connected to the murders?

"So is Frank the guy who hires you on occasionally?  He 
sounds like a great friend."

"Yeah, he is. I don't know what I woulda done if he hadn't 
been around after my mom... passed."

"That when you met him?  Right around then?"

"Just before, yeah."

"Where'd you meet him?"

"Gun show.  Down at the Convention Center."

"He the one who got you to help with these kidnappings?"

And just like that, the interview was over.  Stevens shut his 
mouth, closed his eyes and turned his head.  The message 
was clear.

Scully could see the regret on Skinner's face.  She knew he 
was likely blaming himself for moving too fast.  Scully 
knew few investigators who could have been as subtle as 
Skinner had been, though.  She'd never seen him 
interrogate anyone before.  At least, not with words.

Skinner said, "Well, Mr. Stevens.  It was a pleasure talking 
with you.  Perhaps we'll get a chance again after you've 
been able to rest a bit."

The officers and agents around the bed started turning to 
file out.  Scully knew she should follow.  Knew she should 
be walking out next to Skinner, but she needed to look on 
this man once more.  This was the man who almost killed 
her partner.  The man she now admitted - to herself and to 
him - that she loved.  Damn this piece of shit waste of 
human skin.  This pestilence.  This complete and utter 
scum.  

Scully felt a hand at her elbow and looked up to see that 
Skinner had returned for her.  She took a deep breath and 
turned to follow. She noticed Stevens eyes on her, though, 
following them both. She thought to herself, 'Soon, Mr. 
Stevens.  Soon, I'll see you fry on death row for what 
you've done.'

As soon as they exited the infirmary, everyone slumped.  
Scully moved against a wall for support and took a deep 
breath.  Skinner was there, in front of her.

"Agent Scully, are you all right?  I thought for a moment 
you might have decided to put Stevens out of his misery 
right then and there."

There was appreciative laughter from several of the men 
around the hallway.  She heard one mutter, "I wouldn't 
have stopped her."

Scully smiled and said, "I'm fine, sir.  Sorry about that.  
You, however, showed amazing restraint."

She could see the frown settle on his features.  "Not 
enough, apparently.  I rushed it."

Friedman and one of the Richmond police officers both 
said, "No" at the same time.  Friedman said, "No way, sir.  
It was brilliant."

Detective Struthers stepped forward and said, "Sir, you got 
more out of him in 20 minutes than we have in the past 20 
hours.  Let's give it a break and maybe you can come talk 
with him again tomorrow."

Skinner nodded and shook the man's hand.  Then gestured 
to the others.  "Thank you all for letting us talk with him. 
We'll give a call tomorrow and set up a time to come back.  
We'll keep you informed of any progress we make from 
our end."

Twenty minutes later, they'd dropped Jerry off at the 
Bureau and were heading back to the hospital.  

Scully had had time to think about the interaction with 
Stevens.  She turned to Skinner, taking note of the 
weariness so evident in every move.  

"Sir, do you think Stevens was aware that he was being set 
up as the fall guy?"

Skinner shook his head.  "No way.  When I mentioned that 
we almost didn't figure out his message, he had no idea 
what I was talking about."

Scully thought about it some more.  "Do you think Frank is 
the guys real name?"

Skinner said, "Probably not.  You never know, though.  
Mulder said this guy would be smart. Sociopathic 
tendencies.  That means he's probably also arrogant.  
Sometimes, people like that think they have an inherent 
immunity."

Scully nodded.  "What about the messages, sir?  You said 
they were instrumental in the DC Murders case.  How do 
you think that relates here?"

"Well, Scully, you have to understand what happened with 
the notes back then. Waring called me that very night.  I 
went back to Quantico and we discussed the possibilities 
for almost an hour.  We decided to feed the information to 
Patterson while at the same time send the notes to an expert 
in the field.  We decided not to take any chances.  We 
found out soon enough what Patterson thought about the 
information."


*******************************************

PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 9:53 a.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


"Fox!"  

Fox turned and saw Chris and Rob, his roommates, coming 
up the steps towards where he sat.  Their joy at seeing him 
was sincere and brought a broad smile to his own face.

He stood up and reached out his hand.  "Guys!  How have 
you managed without me?"

They both laughed.  Rob slapped his back hard enough to 
knock the wind out of his lungs.  "So, they finally let you 
out of infirmary hell, huh?  We were wondering how long it 
would take."

Chris added, "We thought you'd be back last night.  
Especially after Shirley reported you as being hearty and 
hale."

Fox grimaced slightly, wondering just what Shirley was 
telling people.

Chris said, "No worries.  She just told us.  She knew we 
were worried about you."

"Well, they couldn't really find any reason to torture me 
any more so they finally had to give me my walking papers.  
First thing I did this morning was go get some real food.  I 
swear they were trying to starve me."

Chris and Rob both laughed in appreciation.  Then, Rob 
said, "So you managed to make it to Patterson's lecture, I 
see.  Better be careful, Fox.  I hear that he's starting to take 
notice of a certain trainee."

On that cautionary note, the doors below swung open to 
admit the man himself.  The room quieted immediately.  
Rob and Chris nodded to Fox and headed back down a few 
rows, leaving Fox once again alone on an upper row.  Fox 
didn't mind at all.  That was just what he wanted.  He saw 
Patterson gesture towards the projection room, so wasn't 
surprised when the lights dimmed and a particularly 
gruesome picture was projected in front.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you've heard from one expert after 
another about profiling. You've learned about forensic 
technology, forensic psychology, forensic sciences, ... 
some of you have even learned about forensic linguistics."

The last was said with a snide glance up at Fox himself.  
Fox forced himself to avoid any reaction of any kind.  

"But no amount of evidence gathering, no amount evidence 
identification or assimilation will ever replace basic 
understanding of the human psyche."  Patterson gestured to 
the screen behind him without even looking. "The 
gentleman who did this liked little old ladies who all had 
one thing in common - they lived alone and had short, 
white curly hair."  The man glanced back and added, "Not 
that you can tell the hair's white with all the blood."

Fox felt a chill at the nonchalance of the words.

"There were five little old ladies who turned up like this."  
Patterson nodded towards the control room and four more 
slides were projected, one after the other.  "The murderer 
wasn't found through criminal profiling. He was finally 
stopped because of victim profiling.  It's not enough to 
know the criminal.  To get into his head and understand his 
thoughts.  Is that important?  Hell, yes.  But, you also need 
to understand the victim.  Who they were.  What they 
wanted. Who they'd be willing to open a door to.  Why 
they'd open a door.  Under what circumstances they'd get 
in a car with someone, give money to someone..."

Fox let the words wash over him. He occasionally jotted 
down a note, but found his mind wandering more and more.  
He kept thinking about Margie and realized he wanted to 
know more.  He thought he knew her. He thought he knew 
why the UNSUB chose her.  But, maybe there really was 
more that could lead to finding her killer.  Why would Jesse 
go off with a stranger?  Why would Margie get in a 
stranger's car?  Who would Lori get in a car with? 

Fox scribbled a couple thoughts on the pad in front of him 
and then realized the constant droning of Patterson's voice 
had stopped.  He looked up to find most of the class 
looking at him.  Patterson was looking at him as well.  He 
felt his throat go dry and realized he'd totally tuned the 
man out.

"Trainee Mulder, perhaps you didn't hear the question."

Fox cleared his throat.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I must have been 
distracted."

The man smiled. To some it might have seemed a paternal 
smile.  To Fox, it seemed quite threatening.  "I asked your 
opinion on the value of victim profiling."

Fox reddened immediately. He understood what Patterson 
was really saying, even if no one else in the room did.  He 
was being put on alert that Patterson knew of his 
involvement in the case and wasn't particularly happy.

Fox said, "Sir, of course I can see from what you've 
presented that it's an invaluable tool for law enforcement. I 
can understand why it would be particularly critical for any 
serial case."  And in his mind, he thought, 'There.  Try to 
make something out of that bullshit answer.'

Patterson only smiled.  Then turned to look over the class.  
"You are dismissed."

Fox stood and prepared to head out the back when he heard 
the words, "Not you, Trainee Mulder."

Fox stopped and looked back down at Patterson.  The man 
stood comfortably looking up at him.

"If you have a minute, Trainee, I'd like to speak with you."

Fox saw Chris and Rob, who'd met up with Shirley, 
standing a few rows below him.  He nodded to them, 
indicating he'd catch up later, then started down towards 
Patterson.  He walked slowly, giving everyone else time to 
leave the room.  He had a feeling that they wanted out as 
much as he wanted no witnesses to what he was quite sure 
would be a pretty serious drubbing.

Patterson surprised him, though.  When he got down to 
where the man stood, Patterson reached a hand out.  "It's 
good to meet you personally, Trainee Mulder."  

Fox shook hands with the man, still wary and awaiting the 
lecture.

"I've looked extensively through your file, Trainee.  Very 
impressive."

Fox nodded.

"Your thesis from Oxford has been cited extensively 
already.  I'm making it required reading for our own ISU 
agents."

Fox felt himself redden again.  He didn't know what to say.  
He managed a mumbled, "Thank you, sir."  Then, fell 
silent.

"You have a gift for profiling, Fox.  Dean filled me in on 
some of your input on this latest serial case."

Fox opened his mouth, but found he couldn't manage any 
words.  He swallowed hard, still certain that the other shoe 
was about to drop.

"Fox, relax.  We in ISU don't begrudge input from some 
other source if it ends up solving the case.  That's the 
important thing, right?  That we put the bad guys away."

Fox nodded, still not sure where Patterson was going with 
this or even why.

"The idea you had about the UNSUB from the DC Murders 
case is intriguing. The idea that the perp is sexually 
conflicted."

Fox again nodded, saying nothing.

"I'm having my people look at it.  I think you might just 
have come up with something everyone else missed. We 
could use someone with your talents in the ISU, Trainee. I 
look forward to talking with you more." With that, 
Patterson smiled at him again, then turned and walked out 
without another word. 

Fox found himself actually weak in the knees and stumbled 
forward to sink down into the chair provided for the 
instructor.  He heard movement in the back of the class and 
turned to see Dean Waring walking slowly down the stairs. 
The man must have been in the control booth the entire 
time.

Fox started to push himself out of the chair, but Waring 
waved him back down.

"Bureau Chief Patterson tends to have that effect on quite a 
few people, Fox.  Just stay where you are.  I think you 
deserve a bit of battle pay after that encounter."

Fox smiled.  "He was really quite flattering."

Waring laughed.  "Bill Patterson can condemn with a smile 
and devastate with a glance. He's a connoisseur of 
contempt, but also a very skilled manipulator."

Fox laughed.  Waring came close.  Close enough that Fox 
saw the underlying concern.

"Listen, son.  I want you to take a moment and think about 
something."

"Yes, sir."

"What was the lecture about today?"

Fox shook his head.  Waring knew as well as he did, after 
all.  "Victim profiling."

"Define victim for me."

Fox became more confused, but complied, dredging up a 
textbook definition.  "One who is harmed or killed by 
another."

"Give me another definition."

Fox smiled again, and gave him two more.  "One who is 
harmed or made to suffer from an act, circumstance, 
agency or condition.  Or a person who is tricked, swindled, 
or taken advantage of."

Waring nodded and then reached out to squeeze Fox's 
shoulder.  "So, given the definition, what do you think 
Patterson just did to you, Fox?"

At first, Fox was filled with confusion.  Then he realized 
just what Waring was saying.  He flushed in 
embarrassment.  Of course.  Patterson had profiled him.  
Figured out just what to say and how to say it to make him 
intrigued.  Interested in the ISU.  He gave Waring a 
lopsided smile, then shook his head. Waring was right.  
Patterson was a very skilled manipulator.

*******************************************


PAST
September 11, 1986
Thursday, 11:43 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.


Walter stood and stretched, then reached for his jacket.  He 
was happy.  Sharon was coming into town and he was 
picking her up from the airport in just an hour.  He knew 
they wouldn't be seeing much of each other, but just 
knowing she was going to be there seemed to make his load 
lighter.

"You headin' out?"  Doug was slouched in his chair, an 
open file and sheets of paper with scribbled notes covering 
his desk.

"Just for a couple hours.  I'll check on the teams before I 
leave."

"You comin' over with Sharon tonight, right?"

Walter smiled.  "That's the plan.  We won't stay too late, 
though."

Doug laughed.  "What?  You think you'll be otherwise 
occupied?"

Walter felt himself redden a bit and then joined in the 
laughter.  "What can I say?  I miss her."

He was almost ready to leave when his phone rang.  For a 
second, he actually considered letting it ring, but then 
sighed and picked it up.  "Skinner."

The voice on the other end shocked him.  "Agent Skinner, 
this is Bill Patterson."

Walter mouthed the name 'Patterson' to Doug.  "Yes, sir.  
What can I help you with, sir?"

"It's not what you can do for me, son, it's what I can do for 
you."

Walter reached for his chair and pulled it over, dropping 
into it heavily.  "Yes, sir.  I'm listening."

"Your little experiment with Trainee Mulder seems to be 
paying off, Agent Skinner.  Our people have been 
discussing this suggestion of his that the perpetrator of your 
crimes might be sexually conflicted - perhaps even a 
multiple personality.  We've analysed the notes extensively 
in light of this hypothesis and we agree with his 
interpretation.  I believe you need to take your investigation 
in a different direction."

Walter was stunned.  When he and Dean spoke the evening 
before, they spoke of extreme possibilities.  An idea on the 
fringe.  Now, Patterson himself was saying the kid was 
right.  And if so, this changed everything.

Patterson said, "Are you there, Agent Skinner?"

Walter found himself nodded and managed to say, "Yes, 
sir.  I appreciate your considering this new theory."

"And?"  The question was drawled out.  Patterson 
obviously expected a specific response from him.  Walter 
wasn't sure what it was, though.

"Sir?"

"I assume you'll be needing to meet with my profilers?  
Find out next steps, given this new lead."

Skinner cleared his throat quickly.  "Yes, sir.  That sounds 
fine.  When would your people be available?"

"This afternoon should work.  But, I think you need to 
arrange for young Fox Mulder to be present.  I believe his 
input would be invaluable."

Walter finally realized his mistake.  By allowing Patterson 
to direct the conversation, the man had artfully manipulated 
him into a corner.  He wiped at the sweat that had formed 
on his forehead and said, "Sir, I'll have to see whether that 
would be possible.  Trainee Mulder's participation has not 
been ... widely approved."

There was silence for a good twenty seconds and then 
Patterson said, "Shall we say 3 p.m.?"

Walter replied, "I'll be there, sir."

"You do that, agent."

And the phone slammed in his ear.

*******************************************

End Part 12 of ?
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