Twilight By Shannon sjbryan@athenet.net Date: 11 Mar 1997 07:18:28 GMT Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em. The characters of Scully, Mulder and Skinner belong to Chris Carter's wonderful imagination, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. Kay Howard, Al Giardello, John Munch, Mike Kellerman, Meldrick Lewis, Tim Bayliss, Frank Pembelton, J.H. Brodie, and Julianna Cox belong to Paul An? ,NBC, and Baltimore Productions. I have used these wonderful characters without permission and no infringement is intended. All other characters belong to me. Subliminal reads: Please don't sue! I have also quoted from the works of T.S. Eliot, Carl Sandburg, and Sylvia Plath. Seeing as all these fine poets are dead, they can't sue me. But their estates can...but I hope they won't! Thank you also to the Cranberries for "allowing" me to quote the song Empty from their album 'No Need to Argue.' The song actually belongs to Island Records. Rating: Probably PG-13 Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street) Bonus: Mulderangst AND Baylissangst...for those of you who like that sort of thing :-) Summary: A serial killer is on the loose in Baltimore. Mulder (and Scully) are called in to assist the Baltimore Homicide Squad in profiling-and finding-the killer before he strikes again. Fox Mulder and Johnny Munch in the same story. Need I say more? It helps to have read my previous XF story, Illaqueate, but is not necessary. This story takes place before Leonard Betts on the X-Files and right around the episode Have a Conscience on Homicide. I stand very humbly in LoneGunGuy's shadow. Please send feedback, praise, and (merciful) criticism to: sjbryan@athenet.net Flames will be promptly extinguished. *************************** Twilight By Shannon Part 1/9 When he locks the door behind him, it is dark out. He walks toward home, a too-small, too-cold apartment tucked above a hair salon on Richmond Street. The streets are quiet and he is thankful. He has spent the entire day among a mad crush of bodies. Thousands of frenzied shoppers, whining kids, and screaming babies. He is pretty sure every last one of them had come into the restaurant today. He passes the library, cuts through the bus station for a moment of warmth, and comes out on Richmond. The old stone building that houses the salon and his apartment also houses a father-son accounting firm. He approaches Carver & Son Accountants and notices that a figure sits in the darkened doorway. Craig's heart quickens momentarily, but he relaxes when he recognizes the shape of a woman. This is a decent section of Baltimore, within spitting distance of Charles Center, but that doesn't make it safe for someone to sit outside, alone, at this time of night. He digs in his pocket for his key and glances back at the woman, vaguely curious as to why she is sitting outside in dark. He rubs his hands together. And in the cold. That is when he realizes the woman is not sitting, so much as leaning against the brick wall. He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. "Everything okay?" There is no answer. Under the streetlight's yellow eye he sees that she isn't wearing a coat. Long hair obscures her face. He hesitantly reaches out and touches the woman's shoulder. She falls forward and rolls onto the sidewalk. Craig stares down at her, shocked. Trembling, he bends down. "Miss, are you okay?" He pulls the hair out of her face and tries to find a pulse. He makes a choking noise when he realizes she is blindfolded. And there is blood. He pulls his hand away with a cry of sheer terror. His fingers are red. The blood is everywhere and panic hurtles at him, almost knocking him over. He knows the woman is *not* okay. She is dead. He lurches to his feet, the cold forgotten. Sweat pores off him in sticky sheets. Oh God oh God oh God oh God! He takes a deep breath. But it seems...wrong to leave the young woman alone. He takes a hesitant step toward the door and sways, the world spins, he can almost see the buildings slide past him. He closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sight at his feet, but her face is welded to the inside of his eyelids. So much blood! He suppresses a sudden urge to vomit. He takes another halting step, fear chains his ankles together, he can barely move. And then he notices a smear of black on her forehead. Helpless, he leans forward and reads: Falls the Shadow. And then Craig begins to scream. *** For one brief moment Tim Bayliss wishes he had quit the department last year. He had spent weeks--months--debating whether he should type up a short, sweet letter of resignation for Gee. But now, like then, Tim knows there was never really a choice. It's a thought he trots out periodically, dusts off, and then shelves in the back of his mind before he can look too closely. It is merely a reflex, a mental blink, when he's forced to stare eyeball to eyeball into the face of another grisly homicide. Like now. "Looks like the same guy," Frank Pembeleton says softly and looks up at his partner, his thick lips pulled into a grimace. His tone leaves no room for argument. The woman sprawled beside the dumpster lays quietly, oblivious to the small herd of uniforms milling around her. She pays no heed to the camera flashes or the technicians looking for stray hairs, fibers, bits of skin that they can put under their microscopes and convert into some kind of lead. The ME has come and gone, she will make a closer acquaintance with the victim in a few hours. Tim sketches the scene in stick-figure fashion in his notebook. Frustration makes his pencil move faster than he intends. He is being sloppy and it takes a substantial amount of willpower to calm himself. Their investigation is already an exercise in futility, he knows they will not come away with worthwhile evidence. The woman was killed elsewhere and left here. Although her sweatshirt is drenched with blood from her open neck, the ground is noticeably clean. She lies with one arm bent behind her head, the other stretched out at her side. Her legs are straight, crossed neatly at the ankles. If it hadn't been for the gaping hole in her neck she might have been relaxing, taking a break to gaze up at the sky. Of course the blindfold over her eyes might have impeded the view. "Should have let Munch answer the phone," Pembleton grouses. Here--smack in their face--is another bouncing red ball, and Frank has no desire to get a black eye. This is the third murder in three months. Every single politician--not to mention every other joe in a suit, every soccer mom, and every granny on her front porch--is breathing down their necks, demanding they find the killer. It's not as if they haven't been looking. Howard and Munch found the first body. Western took the call for the second. Three bodies and no crime scenes. Somewhere, this woman was murdered, her blood is pooling on somebody's floor in great abundance. She took her last breath in a garage, a warehouse, a basement, some lunatic predator's back seat. But this slab of cement outside Quik Stop is not where she died. It is merely the unloading zone. Tim steps forward for a better view of the body. His eyes stray to the black words printed carefully across her forehead: Falls the Shadow. One of the ME's who did the autopsy on the first girl said the words were from a poem by T.S. Eliot. Tim shakes his head in frustration. Frank walks around the woman's body, speaking softly into his hand-held tape recorder. There are no witnesses. There are no suspects. Quantico spit a profile over to Marks and Delgott after the second murder. Doesn't look like it did much good. He moves over to Tim, and looks at his partner's diagram. He laughs. "What is that? A game of tic-tac-toe?" Tim looks at his partner mildly. "Don't mock my artistic skills, Frank." He wants to tell Frank not to worry, soon he'll be drawing his own damn sketches. This is what Frank is, first and foremost: an excellent detective. A damn good cop. One of the best in the Box. Even after the stroke, Frank dominates in that cramped, sweat-soaked room like few can. Tim has respected Frank from day one. And now, after almost five years together, he knows Frank basically sees him the way he did that first day. Yes, they are *almost* friends, yes Tim is a good detective, certainly above average. But not up to Frank's level, he thinks bitterly. Except he is damned close. During Frank's recovery he hadn't exactly been sitting with his thumb up his butt, meditating. He'd closed *five* cases over the past six months: two dunkers and three whodunits. The last whodunit had been stone cold and he'd *still* closed it. Without. Frank's. Help. He'd had his share of confessions extracted out of some tight lipped twink in the Box. It was like reeling a shark in with a shoelace, but miracles happened. He'd stayed with Frank this long, hadn't he? Surely *that* was a miracle. The worst part is he does not *want* to break with Frank. He genuinely likes Frank. He respects Frank, hell, admit it, he looks up to him. He does not want to stop being partners. But he has to. And soon. The clerk who found the body is watching them from the doorway and Frank stalks over to the greasy haired teenager. The kid looks a little green around the gills. Whether it's from discovering a murdered woman or the prospect of talking to Frank, Tim isn't sure. In another hour they head back to the station. Frank shakes his head. "He's out there, laughing at us," he says. Tim doesn't argue. He can hear him too. *** "What's this?" Dana Scully asks her partner. She picks up the file gingerly, with thumb and index finger, as if something with too many legs might scuttle out of it at any moment. Fox Mulder grins and waves a hand impatiently. Mulderspeak for "hurry up and open it." He paces the length of their cluttered office while she scans the papers and photographs inside. He notices the tight look of control Scully wears when she looks at the pictures of the three victims. "Last night the body of a young woman was found outside a convenience store in Baltimore. She is the third woman murdered in the area within a three month time period. After the second murder police suspected a serial killer, now they're certain. "All three women were blindfolded, beaten, and had their throats cut." Mulder takes Scully's mug off the corner of her desk, refills it at the coffee machine and brings it back to her. She gives him the briefest hint of a smile. A silent thank you. "Each victim had the same words written on her forehead." Scully's brow furrows and she leafs through the folder. She reads aloud. "Falls the Shadow." She frowns. Mulder studies the far wall for a moment. He recites: "Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow." Scully stares at him, one eyebrow raised. He smiles. "The killer is leaving quotes from a poem with each victim, Scully. 'The Hollow Men' T.S. Eliot." Scully's brow furrows. "Eliot...author of 'The Wasteland'?" Mulder grins broadly. "Exactly." Memories of Phoebe swim toward the surface of his consciousness, the two of them reading Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" aloud before they...Dangerous waters. His smile fades. He pushes the memory away. Scully takes a sip of coffee and peruses the file one more time. "Why do we have this?" she finally asks. "It doesn't look like an X-File to me." She looks up at him. "Unless I'm missing something...?" Mulder shakes his head. "You're not missing anything. Skinner got a call from VCS this morning. It looks like Dailey wants us on the case. His top profiler is on medical leave so he requested...yours truly." Scully nibbles her lower lip thoughtfully. Roger Dailey is Patterson's replacement. Mulder studiously avoids eye contact; she knows Patterson is a subject he doesn't wish to discuss. "What about the cases we're working on now?" Scully knows none of their current X Files are particularly urgent. In fact, most of them are dead ends. But she remembers what happened during the John Mostow case and is afraid to put Mulder back in that position. She remembers the gruesome drawings--hundreds of malevolent faces--that papered his apartment walls. Most of all she remembers *why* Patterson needed a replacement. Mulder left Violent Crimes for a reason. She also doubts that Dailey asked for both of them. She is sure her involvement is Mulder's doing. For that, she is grateful. If he wants to pursue this, at least she will be there with him. Watching. Mulder shrugs. "Skinner agreed with Dailey. Right now the important thing is catching this killer. Checking the authenticity of my newest batch of crop circle photos can wait." He touches Scully's shoulder, aware of her concern. "I'll be okay," he says quietly. "I won't be there alone." Scully looks into his hazel eyes and believes him. But the stone of worry in her stomach remains. "Besides, I was hoping you would do the autopsy on last night's victim. Her name is--" Scully cuts him off, having read it in the file. "Sara Trenton. Age 22." She glances at Mulder again and notices the slight twitch below his right eye. "Are you *sure* you're okay with this case, Mulder?" He grimaces. "Yeah. I'm just tired. I didn't sleep very well last night." Scully doesn't have to ask him if it is because of the dreams. She has been his partner for four years. She knows him well enough to hear his answer without asking the question. *** He can feel their flat, glassy stares from across the room. Three dead women, waiting for him to work his magic. To show the agents who are still green behind the ears what his nickname really means. Three dead women put their silent lips to Mulder's ear and ask for justice. He spreads the photographs out on the floor. He has that familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, that mixture of dread, resignation, and excitement. The thrill of the chase. For the first time in months Fox Mulder is going to be the hunter, instead of the hunted. Three dead women look up at him. He cannot see their blank eyes through the blindfolds, but he knows they demand answers. He fingers one of the photographs. Sara Trenton, 22 years old. Her body was found beside a dumpster behind JJ's Quik Stop on February 2, 1997. Bethany Carr, 19. Her body was found on the basketball court at Sunset Park on January 16, 1996. Jill Mahoney, 20. She was found outside an accounting firm, in a high-traffic business district the day after Christmas. Sara and Beth were from Baltimore, Maryland. Jill was from New Devon, ten miles away. All three bodies were left at public locations in Baltimore. Decent, middle class locations. No back alley outside Poe Homes for these women. Not that it mattered, they were just as dead, no matter where they were found. Each woman received a direct blow to the back of her head by a blunt object, probably a baseball bat. Not hard enough to kill, but hard enough to put them out of commission. Scully told him it was extremely unlikely any of them regained consciousness. Mulder pushes his half-eaten sandwich out of the way and arranges the police reports in chronological order. He already knows the reports by heart, but he keeps looking anyway. Surely he is missing something. The same words carefully printed on each woman's forehead with a magic marker: Falls the Shadow. No definitive sign of sexual assault. All three were blindfolded with silk scarves. All three had their throats slit. Mulder takes off his glasses and tosses them on the couch. He and Scully are meeting with the Baltimore police at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow--no, make that today. Mulder wants to have a preliminary profile completed by that time. Dailey wants the profile completed no later than Friday. His laptop sits on the floor next to him, cursor blinking patiently. But he does not type. He will never tell Scully, but he feels the same grain of fear that she does. One cold finger against his neck, warning him that he can be the next Patterson. He rubs his eyes. There is no time for doubt. The three dead women care little for his feelings. They spur him on with their still faces and their blond hair, now turned to straw. Straw. Mulder sighs. At least this case is tangible. Something concrete. There are questions and answers waiting to be found. There is no conspiracy. No framework of lies. He pulls a book off the chair and begins to read. *** Scully stares at the ceiling. When she was a child Ahab bought her a set of glow in the dark stars to put on her bedroom ceiling. Each night, when he finished reading a chapter of "Moby Dick" he turned out the lights. He told her that those stars were what Ahab saw when he looked up into the night sky from the deck of his ship. Those same stars were there to guide her. At least until she was 15 and decided to take them down. Right now, Scully would like those stars back. Not for guidance, but because she can't sleep and counting stars, counting *anything*, would be preferable to lying here and thinking about Mulder. She worries. Arguably, it's what she does best. She can't help it. All the scientific thinking in the world can't force her to turn that tiny switch in her brain to "off". With a weary sigh she gets out of bed and pads into the living room wearing a flannel nightshirt and bulky socks. She settles onto the couch and turns on the television. There's nothing good on. She looks at the telephone and considers calling him. But she doesn't. She just stares at the lousy late-night movie and wishes that her damn stomachache would go away. *** He reads the poem countless times, long after it's safely file in his eidetic memory. He dissects it. Verse by verse. Line by line. Digesting each word, each syllable. Mulder pages through the folder and scans the photographs again. Looks for something beyond the body--the real message. We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Mulder chews his lower lip, concentrating, pulling himself into the killer's mind. It's an ugly place. It always is. *** "No." He draws the word out, deep and long. Gee's eyes narrow but he says nothing. "No," Frank repeats. "I do not want a couple of tight-lipped, dark-suited G-Men peeking over my shoulder and getting their sanctimonious fingerprints all over our case." Munch shifts against the door and Gee's eyes pin him in place. "What?" he barks. "Just admiring Frank's eloquence," the lanky, graying detective says. He just manages to keep a straight face. He feels Kay nudge his foot. Giardello rises from his chair, his bulk unfolding with surprising grace. "Number one: Sara Trenton and Jill Mahoney are *our* cases. Western has agreed to shift Bethany Carr over to us as well. That will not change. But listen." He pauses. "Do you hear that?" Bayliss is leaning against the far wall. Frank stands in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on Gee. Kay Howard sits in a chair in the corner and Munch leans against the closed door. They all listen intently for a moment. "Hear...what?" Kay finally asks. A large smile spreads across Gee's dark face. "That's the sound of the gallows going up." The smile is quickly replaced with an ugly scowl. "Every time one of you wastes my time--and yours--with a complaint," he looks pointedly at Frank, "another nail is pounded in. Each hour, each day without a suspect, *without an arrest* brings us all closer to a public hanging. And since this fine city doesn't have an actual killer to string up, we all know the police will do just as well. "It seems to me that board out there is full of red. Unless someone simply lost the black marker, we have a problem. "We have three, count them, *three* red balls hopping off that board. My butt is in a sling. Your butts are in a sling. This is no longer about *your* case versus *their* case, Frank. This is about keeping our jobs. This is about stopping this...this serial killer so that families will think this city is safe to live in. This is about stopping the killing, plain and simple." Gee studies each of the detectives in the room. "Have there been any arrests?" he asks Tim. Bayliss sighs. "No." Gee turns to Kay. "Any confessions from the Box that will take an incredibly heavy mill stone named Gaffney off my back?" She smiles crookedly and shakes her head. "Sorry, Gee." Gee nods. "How many times have you canvassed the Richmond Street neighborhood?" Munch looks up. "Four times." "Then make it eight." "Do you have any suspects, Frank?" Frank takes a deep breath and lets it out. He speaks to the ceiling: "No." Gee taps the desk. "Hmm. I see. It looks to me like you might be able to use some help. No more complaining. No whining like a bunch of spoiled brats who have to share their toys. I don't even want to see so much as a raised eyebrow." Gee pounds his fist on the desk. "We *have* to get this guy. End of story." "So who are they?" Kay asks. Gee sits back down slowly. "One of their best profilers. He's been out of VICAP for four years, but apparently, he's so good they've brought him back in to help us." "What's his name?" Munch asks. "Fox Mulder." Munch laughs out loud. "Hey, I've heard his name before," Kay says, "his profile of Monty Propps led the NYPD right to him in '88." Munch stops laughing. A brief pause. "Really?" Kay gives him a look that would turn a lesser man to stone. "You said there were two agents coming?" Gee glances at Tim. "Yes. The other agent is a forensic pathologist. She's going to do the autopsy on Sara Trenton." "Whoa. Does Cox know this?" Munch asks. Gee smiles sardonically. "I'm sure she does by now." He rubs his eyes. "Look. Roger Dailey runs the investigative support unit at Quantico. I've been friends with him since we both walked the beat along Reservoir Hill. He's offering to help and I accept. These agents aren't here to usurp the investigation. They're here to *assist*. Understand?" Reluctant head nods all around. "Good. Then get out." His voice follows them back into the squad room. "And you will be on your best behavior!" ***** Part 2/9 Frank sits behind his desk, tapping a pencil against the manila file folder. His dark eyes follow Tim to the coffee maker to his desk and back to the coffee maker. The guy cannot sit still. He hovers frenetically around everyone: Howard, Munch, Kellerman, Lewis, even the detectives still on from last night, Brown and McLarney. Everyone but him. Bayliss has been polite, even friendly, but it's obvious he's keeping his distance from Frank. Tim's words from a few weeks ago flash through his mind: Frank turns back to the reports in front of him, mildly...worried? No, perturbed. He has no time for Tim's idiosyncrasies. Why would Tim want to stop being his partner? Sure, they rub each other the wrong way now and then, but basically, they work well together. They'd solved their share of cases. But Frank won't complain. He'd never wanted a partner to begin with. If Tim wants to grant him his freedom, so be it. The fibbies are supposed to be here in half an hour. He can already see the profiler: some puffed-up podunk who thinks he wrote the book on investigation and spends an excessive amount of time admiring his own appearance. Frank has worked with the FBI before. Once burned, twice shy, as the saying goes. After all, he is finally feeling *well* again. He is the primary on all three of the so-called Poet killings. He is not looking forward to the added stress of the Feds stepping on his toes. Tim is pouring his third cup of coffee when the tallish, dark-haired man walks in. He wears a navy blue suit, unremarkable except for the bright red tie. Betty Boop's face smiles at him, one large eye closed in a flirtatious wink. Tim stares at the tie and grins. Some instinct tells him this is their G-Man. The man has a flat black bag slung over one shoulder, it probably holds a laptop. He looks tired, faint smudges ring his eyes, a few strands of hair fall over his forehead. He sees Tim watching him and offers a cautious smile. "I'm looking for Detectives Tim Bayliss and Frank Pembelton." Tim extends a hand. "I'm Tim. Are you Fox Mulder?" They shake hands. "Please," the man says, "call me Mulder." Tim smiles inwardly. Mulder runs a hand through his hair. "Detective Bayliss...just so you know, I'm not here to rain on the HPD's parade." Pause. "I just want to ride one of those little bicycles." Tim nearly spills his coffee. Pembleton looks their way. After a minute or two of silent debate he gets up to join them. This guy with the Betty Boop tie, crooked grin, and the 'I won't step on your feet' joke is the FBI? He makes an effort to wipe the surprised look off his face and shakes Mulder's hand. "Frank Pembleton." The way Mulder is moving his feet around, he either has to go to the bathroom real bad or is itching to get at the case. Frank hopes for the latter. Munch leans back in his chair. "Hey. Are you the illustrious G-Man who's come to save the day?" Mulder turns and looks at the acne-scarred detective. A slow, sardonic smile spreads across his face. "I'm usually known for ruining someone's day, not saving it." And then his attention focuses back on Bayliss and Pembleton. He is suddenly all business. "I'd like to go over your files to see if I've missed anything. I'd also like to see where each of the bodies were found. After that, I'll show you what I have." Munch stands up and wiggles his eyebrows mischievously. "Really? I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Mulder stares at the older detective for a moment. "I wouldn't want to make you jealous," he grins and follows Tim across the room. He's already taking files out his bag. Munch laughs. Frank rolls his chair over to Tim's desk. Munch follows. Bayliss looks up at John. "Where's Kay?" "She's at the courthouse. She'll add her two cents later." "Right. Fo--uh, Mulder, where's you partner?" Bayliss asks. "Probably elbow-deep in Sara Trenton's autopsy. She'll get here when she gets here." The four men begin going over the various reports and files. When Kellerman walks into the room 45 minutes later he sees three detectives listening intently to some guy in a dark suit. He laughs. Looks like three disciples gathered around the Second Coming. *** Mulder's stack of notes lay on Tim's desk, but they are there for looks more than reference. He already knows everything that's typed on those pages. He has turned his chair around so that he straddles the seat and his arms rest casually on the back. Even Pembleton has stopped asking questions and listens. Mulder's face is pale, a light sheen of sweat covers his skin, his eyes stare at someone only he sees. He goes down the list he's compiled in his mind, just the bare bones so far, a skeletal profile. Mulder hopes to flesh the killer out tonight. The "Poet" is a white male between the ages of 25 and 35. Well educated. Probably has a degree in literature. A professor or librarian. Disassociative personality, but he masks it well, each woman seems to have gone off willingly enough. He feels "The Hollow Men" is specifically written for him, but he twists it to fit his purpose. He's not looking for understanding. He's bragging. Daring them to find him. The fact that he leaves the bodies in public places reinforces this. When Mulder is finished speaking Munch yawns and stretches his long legs out in front of him. Tim taps a pencil against the palm of one hand. "We've checked out the professor angle and--" "Partially," Frank interrupts. "Checked at Johns Hopkins and UM, the technical college, even the extension. But there's no proof this guy is from around here. Maybe he settled here recently. He could have taught in Idaho for all we know, gave it up, and decided Maryland had the right kind of women for killing." "Who knows how many women he's left behind him," Munch says. Mulder shakes his head. "I don't think so. There are no similar murders within the past ten years. Lots of throat slashings, but not coupled with the blindfold, notes, or the words written on each victim." "Maybe he's changed his MO," John says. Mulder chews on his lower lip. "Maybe. But I don't think so. Something set this guy off. The first murder happened right after Christmas. What happened to push him over the edge?" Tim frowns. "Or...what is he leading up to?" Mulder rubs a hand over his face. And suddenly smiles. He wiggles his fingers. "Scully! Over here!" Scully stands at the edge of the squad room. When she sees Mulder she returns his smile and for a split second her cool exterior is cracked and he glimpses the sun, warm and golden, beneath the surface. She walks over to the group of men. Mulder stands and pulls a chair over for his partner. Tim also pushes himself to his feet, heart thudding just a little faster. To say she is beautiful is an understatement. She is petite with coppery, shoulder length hair. Her eyes are the sky on a perfect summer day. Aware that he is gaping like a hormonal teenager, Tim pulls his eyes away reluctantly. If only he could get someone like *this* to replace Frank..! While Mulder makes introductions, another redheaded woman enters the room. Her wavy hair is longer than Scully's and her attire is more masculine. She wears brown corduroy pants, a cream dress shirt and a man's striped vest. She wears a tie also, thankfully more subtle than Mulder's. "Mulder, Dana, this is Kay Howard." Munch leers at Kay. "We've got our own gorgeous redhead." Mulder is amused to see a faint blush creep up both Dana and Kay's faces. Kay shoots Munch a glare. The look transforms into a smile when she faces the two FBI agents. "Nice to meet you." They all sit again and Scully tells them the results of the autopsy. "Sara experienced head trauma, just like Beth and Jill. Cause of death was massive blood loss from the wound in her throat. Her clothes have been sent for testing, but I'm pretty sure her killer wore gloves. I don't think we're going to find any prints. There were no scrapings under her fingernails. There were a few hairs and fibers I took off her skin, but..." she shrugs. Everyone knows what she means. Hair and fibers are flimsy leads. Most of the time they belong to the victim. Sometimes a stray hair comes from the detectives at the scene, or even from the examining table at the morgue. "Both eyes were blackened, the right eye had several burst blood vessels. She also had bruises and contusions on her arms, neck, and back." Kay looks up from his notes. "Signs of sexual assault?" "There was a welt on her left inner thigh, but I don't think that points to an assault. There was no bruising or tearing." At this news Bayliss leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling. Scully continues. "The throat wound is consistent with the other killings. He used a double edged blade, nothing more exotic than your average __ inch hunting knife." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind one ear. "Can I see the notes from Jill Mahoney's autopsy?" Kay scans the top of Tim's desk. "I think I've got that file. Come on. Bethany Carr's files were just dropped off about an hour ago." The two women stand. "Want some coffee?" Scully smiles and nods. Before they leave her eyes search out Mulder's. Their mutual look says to the other: find out everything you can. We'll talk later. A woman in a police uniform approaches the remaining men. She calls Pembelton's name. "A call just came in. Trey VanAdams is back in his apartment." Frank springs to his feet, a hungry smile on his face. "There *is* a God," he intones. He turns the smile on Bayliss. "Did you hear that? An honest to God suspect in the Babos case." He rubs his hands together. "My, my, *my*." He hesitates, remembering Mulder wants to see where the bodies were found. Bayliss waves Frank on. "Go ahead. Grab the scumbag and toss him in the aquarium. By the time we get back maybe I can help crack him." Tim can't quite look Frank in the face. Frank nods. "Okay." He knows Tim is lying. With a strange sinking feeling, like a stone taking a six-mile drop inside his stomach, he knows Tim is not going to help him nail VanAdams's guilty butt to the wall. "Okay," he repeats. "I'll catch you guys later." He gives Mulder a quick nod, grabs his coat and hurries out the station house. Bayliss rubs his eyes. "Do you want to see where we found the bodies?" Mulder rises. He packs his folders back into the bag and follows the detectives. *** John Munch has seen much in his lifetime. He has seen horrible crimes spread out on the sidewalk like a gruesome virtual comic book. He has seen three of his best friends shot right before his eyes. He has witnessed hundreds of detectives do their job over the years, sorting, filing, fingering, testing evidence; searching for clues; looking for Who, not the Why. But standing next to Carver & Son Accountants on Richmond Street, Munch sees something new. He sees an FBI agent sitting in the spot where Jill Mahoney was found. He is *sniffing* the red brick walls. He is closing his eyes and waiting, as if God is going to come down and personally whisper The Answer into his ear any minute. Munch stares. He turns to Bayliss, sotto voce, "What's he doing? Trying to channel Jill's spririt?" Bayliss shrugs, not very interested in Munch's joke. He is familiar with the power of the dead. He still feels Adena's hold at night. She's still waiting for justice. He sighs. "You done yet? It's too damn cold out here." His voice is sharper than he intends. Their next stop is Sunset Park. Mulder repeats the process. He stands in the middle of the basketball court and turns in a slow circle. He tries to see with the killer's eyes. He tries to understand why he chose this place to leave Bethany Carr's body. He sees the way Munch looks at him and hides a smile. He's seen that look a million times. That look always says the same thing: that guy is *spooky*. *** The yellow crime scene tape--not that you can call it the crime *scene*--has blown away. A long strip of it lays tangled around the legs of the green Dumpster. There is no trace that Sara Trenton was found on this piece of concrete two days ago. All that remains of Sara Trenton now is a body waiting to go to a funeral home, a pile of bloody clothes and a grieving husband. Mulder rubs his eyes. He can feel the death here. Fresh snow has covered the faint blood smears and smoothed away the muddy footprints. The huge oak tree's naked branches reach skyward in prayer. It is a peaceful scene. But only on the surface. Mulder's hands clench and unclench in his coat pockets. He doubts the detectives feel what he does. This feeling that curls his stomach and makes his palms itch and puts the needle of a headache between his eyes is why he was Boy Wonder once upon time. This feeling is not something he learned from Reggie Purdue or John Patterson. This feeling just...*is*. Mulder shakes his head. "The snow has no voice," he says wearily. Bayliss blinks. "What?" Mulder looks up at the pale gray sky. "Nothing. Just a line from a poem." He smiles. "Wish it did. Maybe it could tell us who to look for." "Sara's husband said she wrote poetry too," he says quietly. "She went to poetry readings sometimes. At a place called Espressly Yours." He smirks at the insipid name. Mulder turns to Bayliss, eyes wide, but Tim shakes his head. "No luck. She hadn't been there the night she died." "Did Bethany Carr and Jill Mahoney write poetry too?" "Jill's mother said she did. She liked poetry readings too--but not at Esspresso Whatever. She'd only been to two readings according to her mother, a place called The Coffee Bean." Mulder doesn't reply. He feels the words forming in his brain, nudging one another. They buzz, clamoring for an outlet. Mulder taps one foot against the pavement. He nods at Bayliss. "Okay." The profile will come soon. But first there are more questions to be answered. *** A familiar noise interrupts her concentration. She gives Kay an apologetic look and reaches for her cell phone. "Scully." "So...what's Kay wearing?" Scully stifles a laugh and scoots her chair a few inches away from the red haired detective. "Mulder..." There's a world of warning in her voice but Mulder cheerfully ignores it. "Learn anything new?" Scully sighs. "Not really. It looks like Julianna Cox did a thorough job on this end. Sara's clothing analysis hasn't come back yet..." she trails off. "How about you?" "I don't know...maybe..." His answer is vague, but Scully doesn't press him. "Are you on your way back?" "No...not yet. I want to talk with the victims' families. See what else I can find out. Can you do me a favor, Scully?" "What?" "Trenton and Mahoney were into poetry readings. Can you call The Coffee Bean and Espressly Yours and get a listing of the dates they've had poetry readings for the past three months?" She jots the names on a yellow sticky pad. "I'll see what I can do." "Thanks Scully." Dana slips the phone back into her pocket. She drinks the cold dregs of her coffee and grimaces. Turns to Kay. "Do you have a phone book?" Kay looks up from the file she's reading, reaches into a desk drawer and slides the book over to Scully. "Yo, Sarge! You busy? A call came in from Riverside Drive. An elderly couple got popped while they were sleeping. Probable b and e gone bad. You want to ride along?" A light-skinned black man wearing a long coat and a jaunty hat stands in the doorway of the break room. Scully opens the phone book, flips to the business section. "Go ahead." Kay grins and reaches for her jacket. "Now you know why they call this place Charm City." *** "I'm starving," Munch complains. "Let's go to the Waterfront first." He notes Mulder's expression. Leans forward. "It's just the best damn bar in Baltimore. The height of culinary excellence. Smooth beer. And possibly the best company you could ask for." Mulder arranges a polite smile on his face. "Thanks but I'm not really hungry. If you guys want to go there, just drop me off at the station and I'll drive myself." "I'll drop you off, Munch," Bayliss says softly. "Come on, Timmy. Take a break. You too, G-Man." John's tone is wheedling. It gets under Tim's skin like a sliver. "Maybe when we're done." It's not really a lie. There's always a possibility...Tim sighs. Okay. It's a lie. He realizes it's after 5:00 and wonders how long it took Frank to crack VanAdams's cocky veneer. Munch gives up. If they don't want to come, fine. He's practically out of the car before Bayliss stops. The silence hangs heavy in the car without Munch's steady dialogue. Tim breaks the quiet. "So. Mulder. How long have you and Dana been partners?" Mulder is staring out the window. He brings himself back to the inside of the Cavalier with some effort. Concentrates on Tim's question. "Uh, four years." Tim's hands clench the steering wheel. He's been with Frank for almost five. And there's never been a day, *one* day, when they were on the same wavelength that Mulder and Dana Scully were. He saw it in the squad room today. The way they looked at each other, their eyes flashing some kind of private transmission back and forth, visual Morse code that told each other more than mere words. Their respect for each other was both solid and mutual. Tim had sensed that the moment Scully walked into the room. His throat aches unexpectedly and his knuckles whiten around the wheel. Here is proof: partners can respect each other. So why doesn't Frank respect him? He's a detective for God's sake, what is he missing? "Four years...that's a long time." Tim works to keep his voice steady. "Get along pretty well?" "Scully's only had to shoot me once," Mulder says, his expression bland. Tim's eyes widen, almost comically. "What?" Mulder laughs. It's easier to mess with Tim's head--and far more fun--than to try and explain. "Nothing. Just a joke." He reconsiders the question. "The truth is, I don't deserve Scully. I never have. Probably never will. She's..." He stops, embarrassed at his candor. "She's my best friend." He snorts laughter. "Then again, she's my *only* friend, so it may be a mutually exclusive deal." Mulder glances at the detective. "Have you and Frank been partners long?" Tim stares at the road, turns his head so that Mulder does not see his face. "Too long." *** The evening segues into night as the two men make their rounds. Sara Trenton's husband is first. Jill Mahoney's family is second. Bethany Carr's roommate is last. They are greeted with flat blue eyes; eyes that still swim and stare with a grief too overwhelming to comprehend. With cold, angry eyes that snap a familiar accusation: why hasn't the killer been apprehended? And: why, WHY did he have to take *my* daughter/sister/girlfriend? Eyes that blink too slowly, that are submerged behind a gray fog of depression. Eyes that look but no longer see. The questions flow in an endless loop. They are the same questions that Munch and Howard asked, the same questions Marks and Delgott asked. The same questions Tim and Frank asked. They are the same questions rearranged, brushed off, painted, disguised. They are asked with a smile this time, or a silent moment of understanding. They are asked with a different inflection, couched in subtlety. Mulder uses his psychology training, nods appropriately, listens, asks again, and hopes for a new, improved answer. Where/why/when did she go there? She called you at what time? You didn't hear from her? You expected her home when? When the old questions are done, Mulder has new ones waiting. Did she write poetry? No? Read it? Where? When? Who was her favorite author? Go to the library much? Which one? Why did she drop out of college? No one stalked her? You're sure? Did she meet anyone at the coffee shop? No? Why not? Yes? What are their names? What are the dates she went? Can you double check? Ever talk about making a new friend there? Did she keep a diary or journal? Can we see her poetry? Has she taken a writing class recently? You're sure you don't recognize these other women? Okay, thank you. When they finish questioning Beth's roommate, Lindsey, Mulder puts a hand on her shoulder. She stares at the same distant point on the floor she has spent the last 20 minutes admiring. She doesn't look at him. She doesn't move. She just sits on the couch, silent, a woman turned back to clay. "It's not your fault," Mulder says quietly. Lindsey's eyes swing up to his face. She smiles like a small child. "I was supposed to go with her that night. She asked me...to go shopping with her. I didn't want to." Her smile falters. "I didn't *want* to!" "It's not your fault," Mulder emphasizes, his eyes burning into the girl's face, trying to connect with her through the haze. "I think you should talk with somebody about the way you're feeling. Do you have any friends or relatives you can talk to?" She shakes her head and her eyes fill. "Only...Beth." Tim sits on the coffee table across from them and pulls a card out of his wallet. He hands it to her. "This is the number for a local survivor's group. I want you to call it, okay?" His voice is very gentle. He wants the girl calls the number. If she kills herself...his gut clenches at the thought. If she kills herself, he's going to see that the Poet is charged with another murder. ********* part 3/9 It is almost midnight when they leave. Mulder's body is bone tired, no, more like *marrow* tired. But his mind darts with a thousand possibilities. Sleep is still a long way off. Tim rubs his back. A familiar pain whispers down his spine but he's not in the mood to listen. "I've got to crash for a bit," he admits. "Want me to drop you at the station?" Mulder nods. "Thanks." "Driving back to D.C. tonight?" "No. If I can find an empty corner I'd like to finish the profile." Tim doesn't question the agent. He's had his share of nights when the brain wants to keep working, regardless of what the body wants. Mulder leans his head back against the headrest. "Scully and I will check out those coffee shops tomorrow. And the Pratt and Peabody libraries." "We've checked them out already," Tim says, with the understanding Mulder will do it anyway. Mulder grunts noncommittally. "You think we missed something?" Tim is not argumentative, just curious. Mulder bites down on a sarcastic reply. All day long he is busting his hump to make nice with the BPD. All day long he follows procedure and smiles and nods like one of those figurines stuck to the dashboard of an old Caddy. He didn't ditch Bayliss. And he didn't complain when Bayliss dragged Munch along either. Skinner breathed his fire and brimstone back at HQ. He knows the drill: Play nice, Mulder. Share your toys. Or you're out of the playground for keeps. Riley's smug request still hangs over his head like a two-ton weight. The Word From On High is: if he comes within a hair's width of trouble he's suspended indefinitely and undergoes "intensive psychiatric treatment". Mulder's skin crawls. He can just imagine what the Higher Ups have in mind. Thick padded walls and an exciting display of needle track marks. Added bonus: constant drooling and plenty of restraints. So what if their last case was the be-all and end-all of red herrings. So his mental state hadn't been entirely up to par after the ordeal. He had pulled himself together, hadn't he? It was amazing how far ten hours of sleep, some Dr. Scully-prescribed Valium, and a shower and shave could go. They couldn't break him as long as he had Scully. His secret weapon. His knight in shining armor. He smiles at the thought. How sorry is that? Pretty depressing to realize he makes a better damsel in distress than Scully does. His smile fades. <*You're* usually the one who puts *her* in distress.> He doesn't really blame Skinner for the sermon. The AD is only trying to do his job. And if he can write a successful profile and find the killer, he'll finally have a gold star to buy him some time. Riley can crawl back into his cage. Skinner can relax. And Mulder and Scully can go back to the X Files sans the microscopic scrutiny. Mulder knows Tim is expecting an answer. He tries to dredge one up. It's just that it's so damn nice to be away from Washington. He loves the X Files, but sometimes it's necessary to step away. To remind himself how much he needs them. And this case gives him the opportunity to save some lives. To *make a difference. That was the one good thing about his profiler days. No monsters this time out. No conspiracies. Just an evil, vomitous excuse of a man who *thinks* like a monster. He does his best Scully impersonation. "I'm sure you were very thorough. But when I'm working on a profile, I like to cover all the bases." He offers Bayliss a small smile. "You know how it is." Bayliss sighs. He knows. *** Scully swears under her breath and drops the receiver back into its base with slightly more force than necessary. She can only bear to hear his clipped "This is Fox Mulder. Leave a message" speech so many times. She cannot reach him on his cell phone either. What's the use of carrying a cell phone if it's never turned on? But her anger is only a thin cover for what she is really feeling: worry. It's after 3:00 a.m. and Mulder is not at home. He is not answering his cell phone. She has not heard from her partner since his call to her at the BP station around 4:30 that afternoon. Almost 12 hours ago! She slumps against the headboard of her bed and sighs. How many nights has she spent like this? Waiting to hear from her partner, not knowing where he was. If it was anyone else she would have walked out years ago. But not Mulder. He is her friend. More than her friend. He is the reason she loves a job any sane person would run from. He is the reason she has lost contact with most of her friends and her social life has been dormant for so long it has petrified. But being with Mulder is more interesting, more exciting, and more important than Friday night dates or a weekend movie. Dana Scully has seen too much to be able to go back to that mundane way of life. Fox Mulder has changed her--for better or worse. She knows she has lost a part of herself. She will never be the naive woman who walked into Mulder's basement dungeon four years ago again. The phone rings. Scully is across the room before the second ring is finished. "Hello? Mulder?" Silence. A faint rustle. The sound of someone sniffling. Crying? Her heart slams inside her chest, fear spinning the room like a bad special effect. The last time she received a call like this, when Ahab died. When her daddy-- "No...my name Lisa Nolan. I'm trying to reach Dana Scully." Her voice is little more than a whisper. Dana pulls herself together. "How did you get this number?" she demands. Her number is unlisted. "From a--a mutual friend," she stammers. "Please don't hang up. I have some information that might be able to help you with the case you're working on." If she weren't so suspicious she would laugh. An informant? Coming to *her*? "What case?" "There's a man who's killing women. He slits their throats." The woman's voice is stronger now. "He writes on their forehead and blindfolds them." Scully stares blankly at the far wall. The blindfolds and magic marker have been kept out of the papers. "Who are you?" "I told you. Lisa Nolan. I want to help." She pauses. "I--I might be able to help you find the man you're looking for." Scully leans against the kitchen counter. Is she supposed to believe this woman? "How?" "Can you meet me somewhere?" Alarms go off inside Scully's head. She doesn't trust this woman. Not yet. Mulder has taught her well. "The Garden Cafe across from the Mall. "Do you know where it is?" It's a small cafe, frequented by tourists and business professionals alike. The cafe would provide very little privacy, but Scully is more interested in the safety of the surrounding bodies. "I can find it," Lisa tells her. "Fine. I'll see you at 6:30." She pauses. "Better tell me what you look like." "Don't worry," Lisa says. "I'll find you." She hangs up. Scully listens to the dial tone. She carries the phone over to the desk and rifles through her purse until she finds the number she's looking for. She dials and waits for someone to pick up. *** The phone bleats, and Sargeant Carter, stuck halfway through one of Baltimore's most boring night shifts in recent history breathes a silent prayer of relief. "Homicide." Finally. A body. A case. An excuse to leave the monotony of these four walls. "Hello. This is Agent Scully, with the FBI. My partner, Agent Fox Mulder, and I are working with Detectives Bayliss and Pembleton on the Poet murders. Can you tell me if Agent Mulder is still in the building?" Carter rolls his eyes. Damn! Not only is this *not* a murder, he's been mistaken for some kind of federal babysitter. But Carter is a good a cop, so if he has to go that extra mile now and then, so be it. He stands up and looks around the room with exaggerated care. No FBI agent. Just a handful of detectives trying to pass the time until a real call comes in. It's probably too cold out to commit murder. "Sorry, Agent Scully. Your partner doesn't seem to be here. I'll leave him a message if I see him, okay?" The woman sighs. "Thank you." Carter manages to hang up before he starts laughing. If Carter had bothered to walk through the break room however, and into the small conference room beyond, he would have seen that there was, in fact, an FBI agent diligently typing on a laptop. Carter doesn't have a chance to explore this route, because within another five minutes, he gets his wish. There's a dunker on James Street. Yo number one shoots Yo number two over a pair of overpriced sneakers. The uniform said there's a witness. Whistling, Carter and his partner head into the winter night. In the conference room Mulder types, oblivious to typos, his surroundings, and time. The table is littered with the crime scene photos, three ME reports, and several photocopied pages of poetry. Mulder types: Subject is a white male aged 25 to 35. He is quiet and friendly. He blends in. He is the kind of man who makes acquaintances, not friends. He spent much of his early life alone. He's either an only child or there is a wide age range in siblings. He was verbally and emotionally abused by a domineering mother. His father was either absent or too weak-willed to interfere. Subject turned to books for comfort and lost himself in a world of pages. Stories and poetry. He is extremely intelligent, and the longer he goes without being caught, the more he enjoys the game. Each of his victims expressed an interest in poetry. Each victim was believed to have participated in, or at least attended poetry readings at local coffee houses. Each victim was young, blond, and attractive. Trenton and Mahoney wrote blank verse poetry. Carr was a vociferous reader, particularly of Plath, Eliot, and Rilke. Subject's murders are based on the poem "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot. Although the hollow men referred to in the poem are only scarecrows, Subject has twisted the imagery to suit his own desires. One line specifically states "Remember us--if at all--*not* as lost violent souls, but only as the hollow men." Subject is using his own translation. He feels he is literally, a hollow man. Alone. Empty. He feels powerless to control his life, except when he kills. Then he feels his victim's fear, her terror. Only then, does Subject feel truly alive. The murders are a paradox. He needs to kill. Although subject is disassociative and not in touch with his emotions, the brutal throat slashings testify that the Subject does feel extreme anger. Trenton's head was nearly decapitated. But he also feels guilt over what he's doing and that is why the victim is unconscious when he kills her. To further protect himself, he blindfolds the victim. "The Hollow Men" is replete with passages regarding eyes: direct eyes; eyes I dare not meet in dreams; the eyes are sunlight; the eyes are not here; etc., etc. He is not afraid to commit the murders but he does *not* want to see the victim's eyes when he cuts her. The words on the forehead, Falls the Shadow, are his calling card. *He* is the shadow. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the shadow. I mentioned earlier that Subject may be a professor. I no longer consider this valid possibility since Carr was the only college student. Mahoney worked at a day care center and Trenton was a receptionist at an engineering firm. Subject may have taught at one time, but now probably works at a library or a coffee shop, or more likely, owns a coffee shop. He is in a position where he can choose his victims carefully. He gains their trust, kills them, and discards them within a matter of hours. If subject continues his current timetable of a murder approximately every two and one half weeks, the next murder will probably occur during the week of February 17. It is my opinion that Mahoney was probably not his first victim. Sometime within the last year Subject discovered he was able to kill someone. And like it. A girlfriend told him she didn't want to see him anymore and he made it a permanent separation. Placement of the bodies signifies Subject wants them found. While the locations bear no overt significance in themselves, each location was an area where discovery was imminent. A business district, park, and gas station. He may leave a body in someone's yard or at a school next. He is not trying to leave a message in their placement because the bodies *are* the message. He has power. We don't. He's the leader and we're forced to follow blindly. Every time he kills an unconscious woman he is killing the frightened, alienated child that he was/is. Now Subject is in control. Notes: What coffee shops have opened recently--or changed owners? Do any have a basement that could serve as the murder site? Have local libraries hired anyone? What about book stores? What about non-credit creative writing classes? Mulder stops typing and stares at his reflection in the screen. He thinks of Luther Lee Boggs and Donnie Pfaster. He thinks of Robert Modell and John Lee Roche. So many little men, trying so hard to be big. By five a.m. Mulder is finally satisfied. He reads the profile through for the third time, spell checks it, and saves it to disk. *** Scully looks at her watch. Six-thirty five a.m. Barely a minute has passed since the last time she checked. It's early, but the cafe is already more than half full. Most of the customers are dressed in business suits and carry their cell phones and briefcases like a modern day sword and shield. A few straggling tourists brave the February weather. "Dana Scully?" Scully starts at the sound of a voice and looks into the face of a pale young woman. Scully's voice is low. "Lisa Nolan? Sit down." Scully looks at her watch purely for Lisa's benefit. "I have to get to the office. You have five minutes. How did you know about the blindfolds and writing?" Lisa clasps and unclasps her hands. She is nervous. Now that she is actually here with the FBI agent, she is scared. Everything that sounded so rational on her way over now seems ludicrous. Insane. She sighs, gathering courage. It doesn't matter what she sounds like. What matters is making this woman *believe*. A waitress comes over, smiling, she talks about the weather and the breakfast specials. Her light chatter is lost on both women. Dropping menus on the table she asks: "What can I get you ladies this morning?" "Cafe Mocha please. With skim milk." "Nothing for me, thanks." The waitress's smile flickers as she sees her tip dwindling, but she removes the menus and nods. Lisa lays both hands on the tabletop, palms down. She closes her eyes and talks fast, the words hard and rolling, they almost bump against one another. She can't stop to think about what she is saying, she can't wait for Dana's reaction or she'll lose her nerve. She'll get up from the table and run out of the restaurant without looking back. "I can't explain to you how I know those details about the murders. All I can tell you is last year I was attacked on my way home from work. Someone hit me from behind with a--a baseball bat." Her voice hitches upward slightly, but she controls the tremor and continues. "I don't have any memory of that day, but my parents told me I was found in parking ramp." Scully's mind records the details of Lisa's speech. "Where was this? D.C.?" "Alexandria." "Where did you work?" "I worked at a bookstore. The Poet's Loft. We sold regular fiction and nonfiction as well as text books for some of the area colleges. There was also a coffee shop in the back of store called The Poet's Cup." Scully stares across the table. The woman's eyes are focused on some distant point. Her long blond hair obscures her face. The waitress brings their drinks and leaves. Lisa continues: "Since that...incident, I've been able to sense certain things." She takes a deep breath. "I don't mean to imply that I'm psychic or anything...if you gave me your wallet I couldn't tell you what your favorite color was or who you're dating. "But certain people...certain things affect me. When I read the newspaper article in the paper and saw the picture of Sara Trenton in her wedding dress," her hands clench, "I *knew* what had happened." Scully listens, wishing Mulder were here. She is not the one who should be hearing this. She does not believe this woman. Yet she is not ready to entirely dismiss Lisa's story. The woman's eyes are clear, no sign of drug use. Her clothes are clean. She seems lucid and sincere. Scully can't bring herself to believe in the extreme possibilities Mulder is so passionate about, but she won't shut the door on them, either. Somehow Mulder found out about Addie Sparks's body at Bosher's Run Park. Whether it was his subconscious or some connection to John Lee Roche she still doesn't know. All that mattered was that he found the girl's body. So wasn't the fact that this woman knew the murder details more important than how she knew them? "You have no idea who attacked you?" Scully asks gently. She shakes her head. "No. I was in the hospital for months." She shrugs. "The police thought whoever hit me was scared away before he could...finish. "I can't remember who it was," she continues, "but I know he's the same man responsible for these deaths." Scully frowns. "Lisa..." Lisa finally looks at Scully, her eyes bright. "Don't condescend to me, Agent Scully. I know how I sound. But I *feel* this in my heart. If I sat by and didn't do anything," her voice wavers, "I wouldn't be much different than the killer." Scully takes a sip of her mocha. Their five minutes is up. She needs to get in touch with Mulder. She wants to check on some files at the office. She taps the side of her paper cup with a fingernail. The woman looks at her with desperate eyes. Eyes that expect to be turned away. "Why don't you tell me what you remember prior to your attack?" Scully says. "Who did you work with?" Lisa breathes a silent prayer and begins talking. *** Pembleton glides into the squad room, still high on last night's adrenaline. The name Babos winks at him smartly from the Board. Last night Babos went from red to black thanks to the confession of low-life extraordinare, Trey VanAdams. Bayliss is already behind his desk. "Went good last, night, huh, Frank?" "Yes it did." He smiles benevolently at the other detectives. Today will be a good day. Van Adams is going down for the count. "I did not give up. I was persistent," he says. Munch pushes his chair back. "Persistent the way those little dogs attach themselves to your ankle like a yapping tumor, Frank? That kind of persistent?" Ignoring Munch, Franks takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He says: "I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul." "Frank? Are you on medication again?" Munch asks with feigned concern. Frank simply smiles. Tom Babos' murder has been a thorn in his side for weeks. It's not a red ball case, but Babos was a real victim. He was a husband, father, a regular guy. He deserved justice. Or at least the reasonable facsimile the courts were providing these days. "Hey. I know that," Tim says. Frank hangs his coat up. "Know what?" "What you said. 'Unconquerable soul.' That's by..." Tim puts a hand to his forehead, scrunches his face in concentration. "Hemingway...no. Henley! 'I am the master of my fate: I am the Captain of my soul.'" Frank leans against his desk and stares hard at Bayliss. "What?" Frank purses his lips. "*What*?" "You know," Frank says slowly, "you look and sound just like the real Tim Bayliss." Across the room Munch breaks into laughter. "What? Just because I might know some poetry, Frank? Is that so hard to fathom?" Frank stares. Tim glares. "I *do* read books, you know." "Okay. Name the last book you read." Tim sighs. "That book about the Ebola virus. *The Hot Zone*." He stands and leans toward Frank. In a low voice he says, "No pictures even. How about that?" "I find pictures to be the best part of the fine literature I read," Munch says. "Especially the ones that fold out." Kay overhears him as she walks by and makes a face. "I don't even want to know." "We're in the middle of a deep, meaningful discussion involving Tim and his reading habits. The last book I read was by David Simon. What was the name of that..." he chews his lower lip, trying to remember. Kay smiles. "You read a book once, John? I'm impressed." John nods his head. "Ha ha, Kay. You're such a wit." He adjusts his glasses. "Please share with us, Sergeant. What was the last book *you* read?" Kay goes to the coffee maker and fills her mug. "That *Green Mile* series by Stephen King." She shrugs. "Not bad." She grins over her shoulder. "I know a few perps I wouldn't mind escorting down that mile." "I can't believe you read those, Kay! Those books are nothing more than an overhyped ploy to force the American consumer to spend his hard-earned money on one lame story doled out five paragraphs at a time. It's a huge rip-off! You're supposed to wait until all the parts are published in one book." "John...that's not the point. It's a serial. The story is *supposed* to be broken down into parts." John shakes his head and picks up a file on his desk. "Poor Kay. Stephen King is putting a Jacuzzi in his tenth house right now thanks to you." Kay stares into her mug, wondering why she even bothered to open her mouth. The room quiets into a steady drone of typewriters, telephones, and shuffling papers. Franks walks over to Tim's desk. "Okay," he says. "You can tell me. How did you know that poem?" Tim looks up in frustration. "Don't you have something you're supposed to be doing, Frank? Something besides bothering me?" "Tell me, Tim and I'll be gone," he flutters his fingers in the air, "like the wind." Tim smiles slowly. "No, Frank. That would be too easy. You're a detective. Why don't you figure it out." He gets up and heads for the break room. The truth is the poem 'Invictus' was read at his high school graduation ceremony. But he'll be damned if he's going to tell Frank that. He stares at the snack machines, already tired although the day has barely begun. He wonders which chemically-enhanced snack food will work as a breakfast substitute when movement catches his eye. Incredibly, Fox Mulder is asleep in the conference room, his head resting on his arms. Tim taps on the door. "Hey. Mulder." Mulder's head snaps up, eyes blinking. He rubs his face with the back of one hand. "The profile is finished," he says. Tim's eyes take in the agent's weary, rumpled appearance. "You work here all night?" Mulder shrugs. He smiles, a little sheepish. "I guess so." "You couldn't find a better hotel than this?" a deep voice asks and Tim and Mulder turn to see Gee standing in the doorway. Mulder holds a disk out to the lieutenant. "I finished the profile, sir." Gee swats at the disk. "Give me something I can read, Agent Mulder, then we'll talk." Mulder watches the big man go into his office. "Can I print this out somewhere?" "Yeah. Over here." "Just a sec." Mulder sweeps the table's contents back into several folders and drops them into his black bag. Betty Boop peeks at him from the back of a chair. The tie follows the files into the bag. He shrugs back into his suit coat and runs a hand through his tousled hair. Good enough. What are they going to do? Write him up because he looks like crap? Within minutes the profile is printed and copied and Mulder, Bayliss and Pembleton adjourn to Gee's office. They read the profile while Mulder taps his foot against the floor. He is impatient. He's wasting time. Somewhere in Baltimore the killer is looking for his next victim, smiling at her and saying hello. He's going to follow her home. He's going to wait until the time is right and then he'll take her to that dark place and hit her over the head and beat her and-- Gee looks up from the profile. "I understand you have quite a reputation for accuracy when it comes to your profiles, Agent Mulder." Mulder says nothing. "You seem to have a gift." Mulder's lip curls. "'Gift' is not the word I'd use, Lieutenant." 'Curse' was more accurate. His headache steps up its tempo and his fists clenched involuntarily. But if he can find the killer before another woman dies...it's worth it. Every nightmare, every headache is worth it if he can make a difference. Bayliss finishes reading. "I'm going to go to canvass Espressly Yours in Greektown and The Coffee Bean." "And I'll canvass Richmond Street again. I'll talk with Craig what's-his-name. The guy who found Jill Mahoney's body." Mulder shoots a look at Tim. Tim shrugs. "I'll check the libraries," he finally says. "One of my men should be able to handle that, Agent Mulder," Gee says. "You're free to go back to Washington." Gee taps the profile on his desk. "Thank you for the profile. Now we have someplace concrete to start." Mulder closes his eyes, opens them. Lieutenant Giardello has the profile, what more does he need? Mulder's tone is firm. "My job does not end with the profile, sir. I would like to continue with the investigation." Gee raises an eyebrow. "Looking like that?" "I can help you with this!" The faint note of desperation in his voice disgusts him. "Do you want me to pull for federal jurisdiction?" His eyes flick from face to face. He will not back down. Gee's eyes narrow. He folds his hands and bows his head. Finally, he looks up, his expression unreadable. "Go home, Agent Mulder. Take a shower. Change your clothes. I'll be reporting to Roger Dailey by the end of the shift. You can let me know if you've learned anything by 4:00." Mulder wants nothing more than to slam Gee's door on his way out of the office. To tell Giardello exactly where he can put his copy of the profile. But Gee is friends with Dailey. Dailey. Skinner. Riley. They're all watching him, waiting to see if--when--he'll crack. They're all up to their elbows in politics, and as much as Mulder doesn't want to get his hands dirty, he doesn't seem to have a choice. Mulder manages to nod once before he walks out of the office. He shuts the door quietly behind him. ********* Part 4/9 Mulder is back on the road. He is wearing a clean suit and a Looney Tunes tie. He's tried calling Scully so many times her phone number is probably imprinted on the pad of his index finger. Perturbed, he left her message and is now on his way to the Enoch Pratt Library. His hands tap the steering wheel in time with the radio. There was no time for breakfast and his headache is still hanging on, despite the two aspirin he scrounged from the bottom of the glove compartment. No matter. They have to find the killer. *He* has to find the killer. The Poet. The sun shines on the clear, cold morning, but Mulder isn't fooled. He drives mindlessly, trying to outrun the shadows of the present. And the past. *** Frank almost asks Tim if he wants to ride along. He forms the sentence in his head and opens his mouth, the words ready on the tip of his tongue. But he doesn't. Today is too good of a day for Tim to piss all over his mood. Besides, they'll cover more ground if Tim goes to Greektown on his own. Frank will round up a couple of uniforms to help him canvass Richmond Street. Frank grabs his hat and coat, listening to another one of Munch's pointless stories while he does the buttons. Across the room he sees Tim watching them. Frank nods slightly. He offers a faint smile. A peace offering. Knowing Bayliss, he won't accept. But Tim does. He smiles back. "Good luck." He leaves the station house first. Once he is on the sidewalk his pleasant mask collapses. He puts his palms to his face and rubs roughly, as if his depression can simply be scoured away. He pulls himself into a Cavalier and slams the door. As he starts the car and pulls into the street he collects himself. This is not the end of the world. He's a good detective. There are answers to be found. And it's his job to find them. The Coffee Bean, Bayliss discovers, is just about the size of one. And just as dark. More of a smoky shoebox than an honest to God cafe, it is nevertheless filled with patrons. Most of them dress in similar garb: baggy pants and striped, shrunken T-shirts. Platform shoes. Unwashed hair seems to be a prerequisite. The girl behind the counter is all cooperation beneath her dyed hair and pouty smile. Her name is Veronica Neeman. When she finds out he's a detective she lets him have a free cup of coffee. Bayliss wants to laugh. Who says Baltimore detectives aren't appreciated? A tour of the building shows him a dark, sweat-walled basement that is so small Veronica can't even stand upright. Unless the killer worked on his knees, it's a good bet this is not the crime scene. There is no blood. Only a few inches of spider webs, dust, and a hulking furnace in one corner. Veronica is the only new hire within a five-month time span. The owner, Richie Dellis opened the place last Christmas. Veronica informs him Dellis plans to open another shoebox in Federal Hill next month. "Tell me, Veronica, do you have poetry readings here?" She snaps her gum. "The first Thursday of every month. We go all out here: Richie brings in a mike and a stool." Tim looks down at the counter top, disappointed. TODAY'S SPECIAL: RASPBERRY LATTE, he reads. That means Sara Trenton's killer had probably not picked her up here, considering the next poetry reading was tomorrow. Tim glances around the hazy room. Had the killer sat at one of these tables? Smiled at her? Talked the talk that led her to her death? He turns back to the girl. "Do you have featured speakers? Or does anybody just get up and read?" Veronica blows a bubble and lets it pop. She smiles slyly. "You look like you're maybe a poet at heart, huh?" Another snap of the pink bubblegum. "There was another cop who came here asking questions a while back." Snap. "You're a lot cuter." Bayliss wonders what she would do if he reaches into her mouth, takes out her gum and sticks it to her forehead. She is driving him crazy. He dredges up a faint smile and sidesteps her comment. "Featured speakers?" he prods. The girl shrugs. "Not really. Anybody gets up and reads whatever. Mostly people just try to be heard over the cappuccino maker." Bayliss opens his notebook and takes out a snapshot of each victim. "Do you recognize any of these women?" Veronica glances at the pictures and shakes her head. "Nope." He holds up Jill's picture. "You don't recognize her?" She looks again. "Only from the news. The other cop who came around here asked me the same thing. If she was here, I don't remember her. But I usually work during the day. You should come back after 4:00 when Jason and Richie are here." Bayliss puts the pictures back. "Okay. Thanks very much, Veronica. You've been a lot of help." Veronica hasn't told him diddly that helps with the case, but he's not going to mention that. Next stop: Greektown. *** She runs into their basement office long enough to pick up some files. Scully is struck by the room's claustrophobic size, the clutter. The drab paint. Her heart aches a little when she sees the office like this, without Mulder. Without him, it's just a hole in the wall where a few dozen folders hold the mysteries no one else wants to deal with. It's so far below the corporate ladder, she can't even see the bottom rung. But when she and Mulder are here together, all of that changes. She touches one of the less daunting piles on his desk. Emotion versus logic. Always a troublesome combination, but they have learned to work together. To complement each other. When they work together their separate weaknesses become strengths. Scully lowers herself into Mulder's chair. She knows why he took this case. To take his mind off Crystal Falls, Wisconsin. He smiles and says the correct things, but she knows the pain is still there, much closer to the surface than he's willing to admit. She wants Mulder to get his gold star from this case too. On impulse she decides to check her messages at home. She dials and is rewarded with Mulder's wry voice: "Hey Scully! Where are you? I've been trying to get in touch with you all morning. And you say *I'm* never around? "I'm on my way back to Baltimore. The Lieutenant gave me a dog biscuit and told me I was a good boy, so now I get to check out Pratt. Do you have that reading list I asked for? Fax it on over to BPD or show up and surprise me. If you have a good enough excuse for not being home or at the office right now, maybe I'll take you out to dinner. Bye." Scully is so angry she hangs up halfway through the message and has to call back. *He's* been trying to get in touch with *her*? Scowling, she stalks out of their office and heads for the parking lot. *** Espressly Yours is a large pie-shaped establishment. The coffeehouse is a corner building; the glass double doors form the point and each wall is comprised of floor to ceiling windows. The flooring is polished hardwood with a boarder of black and white parquet. Marble-top tables fill the center of the room. Many of the tables are full, but here the customers are of different ages. Some talk over sandwiches, a few college students read on an overstuffed couch along the back wall. A few customers sit on stools and stare out the windows. The whole room is bathed in warm sunshine. There is no smell of smoke here, only the rich, heady aroma of coffee. Bayliss walks to the main counter. A young man with a white-blond, Caesar style hair cut wipes coffee stains off the counter top. Behind him is a large chalkboard that lists the different specialty coffees, soups, and sandwiches. "Can I help you?" the man asks. He looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties and sports a chinful of stubble in direct contrast with his light hair. "I hope so." Bayliss introduces himself. "And you are--?" "Jack Palmer." This time Tim begins with the photographs. Tiny lines appear between Jack's eyebrows as he studies the pictures. He points to Sara and Bethany. "They look familiar." He indicates Sara. "I know she's been to some poetry readings here." He looks up at Bayliss. "She had some good stuff." He pauses. Hesitantly: "Are they the women that were killed by the Poet?" "Yeah. Did you notice if Sara or Bethany came alone? Were they with anyone? Leave with anyone?" Jack makes a face. "I...don't remember. It's usually so crowded..." "Okay. That's okay. Why don't you give me the names of the other people who work here?" Jack recites a list of eight names. "Where any of these people hired within the last six months?" Jack shakes his head. "No, we've all been here at least a year. Oh. There *was* a new hire for the Christmas holidays, but she quit last week." Tim takes the name anyway. "What about the owner?" He waves the list. "Which one of these is the owner?" "Jenny DeNagrio." "She been the owner for long?" "She's the one made this place what it is. Used to be a lame gyros restaurant here." He speaks with a hint of pride. His eyes narrow. "Why? Do you think Jenny has something to with..." "No, no. Just trying to figure out a few things, that's all. Are you the manager, Jack?" "Yeah. Jon is assistant manager. Jenny will be in tomorrow afternoon if you want to talk to her yourself." Tim taps the list against the counter and smiles. "Yeah. I just might do that." He looks the younger man over, trying to pinpoint why he doesn't quite like him. "Katie's in the back room. Do you want to talk to her too?" Jack asks. "Sure." Jack enters a door marked "Employees Only" and returns with his coworker. She's short, maybe 5 feet 2 inches, Tim guesses. She wears an oversized sweatshirt and navy leggings. Her light brown hair is braided down her back. She's not exactly pretty, but she's cute. The kind of girl who is a cheerleader or on the Homecoming court in high school. She looks scared. He keeps his voice gentle. "Hi Katie. I'm Detective Tim Bayliss. I was wondering if you could look at these pictures and tell me if you remember seeing any of these women in here." Katie nods. She stares at the photographs. "Her." She points at Sara. "She was in here Saturday night." Bayliss swallows. "Was Saturday a poetry reading?" "No." The girl relaxes slightly. "But she came here a lot. I remember she was here on Saturday because she sat at one of the back tables for over two hours, just writing. She ordered three mochas." Katie's large brown eyes meet his for a brief moment. "Did she do something wrong?" Tim sighs, a long release of pent-up of frustration. "No. She didn't do anything wrong." Except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. "She was murdered," Jack tells her. "Haven't you heard? It's all over the news. Good luck catching that sicko." He smiles at Bayliss. Tim stares at him. "Yeah. Thanks." The girl's face crumples. "Oh God. She was killed? Oh God." Jack pats the girl's arm. "Come on, it's all right." He frowns in concern. "You almost done here?" "Yeah. I just want to take a look around." He feels Jack's eyes on him as he walks down into the basement. Rows of shelving take up one of the freshly painted walls. The room is bright and moderately clean. A new furnace squats in the center of the room. He inspects the supplies on the shelves and stares at the furnace. Nothing. Back upstairs, he drops a white card on the counter. "Here's my card. If either of you remember anything else, please give me a call. I'll stop back tomorrow afternoon." Jack's voice stops him at the door. "Hey. Detective. You're gonna catch this guy, right?" Bayliss turns to look at him. "We'll find him," he says. It's a promise. *** In another part of the city Pembelton and the two uniforms, Scott Kramer and Jane Su drift up and down Richmond Street. They are met with the familiar blank stares, the same sighs of annoyance, and the same flat credo: "I didn't see anything!" that reaches the ears of homicide detectives everywhere. They investigate the burned out bar that's been sitting like so many bones since August. They shine their flashlights in the basement of closed restaurants, and in every corner of the South Street Parking Ramp. Nothing, nothing, nothing. If only the bodies had had some kind of trace evidence on them. Soot, tar, oil, grease-- anything to tell him where the women had been murdered. Frank can already see the media perched outside the station house steps. It makes no difference to them if the detectives find the killer or fail. Either way, they had a story. "Detective Pembelton! Come here!" Kramer is waving at him from across the street. He has an elderly black woman with him. Her wiry gray hair is bundled under a purple scarf. "Tell Detective Pembleton what you just told me, Mrs. Bernard." Mrs. Bernard blinks at Frank and repeats her story. "Well, now, I remember looking out my window the night of December 26 because I had heartburn from eating my daughter's stuffing at dinner. She uses too many spices for my liking. You ever heard of Turmeric? It upsets the balance of things, if you get my meaning. "Anyway, I was looking out the window and saw two people walking down the street. They came right around the corner there. A man and a woman. I figured the woman was drunk because the man had to support her. He had his arm around her shoulders. He put her on the stoop by that accounting place, said something to her, and then he motioned with his hands, like he was telling her to stay put." She shrugs. "And then he walked around the corner again and was gone." "What happened next, Mrs. Bernard?" "I saw that young man from the fast food restaurant come home. But nature called just then and by the time I got back to the window there were some policemen down there." Frank and Kramer look at each other. "Can you describe the man you saw?" "He had a black baseball cap on and a black leather jacket. I couldn't see his face. But he was white. I think he had brown hair. Is that helpful?" Frank looks at the ground, trying to hide his smile. "Oh yeah. That helps us a lot." He sighs. "How tall was he?" "I'm not sure. Not very tall." She beams, as if this information will provide a direct path to the killer. "Excuse me," Kramer mutters and walks over the black and white. Frank watches as the tall man yanks the door open and folds himself inside. "Was the man taller than Officer Kramer?" "Oh no. Shorter." "And you have no idea what he looked like?" "I couldn't see his face very well. I'm sorry." "Okay. Thank you for your help." He takes down the woman's full name and address. He is required to bring witnesses down for questioning, but he can barely call this woman a witness. He walks back to the car. "Good luck!" she calls after him. Kramer is still laughing when Frank leans down and looks through the window. The uniform lowers the window. "Hey Frank, did you hear? Our guy is white with brown hair! What are we waiting for? Let's go get him!" Frank chuckles. "Better put out an APB right away." Kramer takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. "Oh God." "Thanks for the help," Frank says. He walks back to his own car. On the drive back to the station, he goes over the case in his head. At least there's proof Jill Mahoney's body didn't just drop out of the sky. *** "You can wait here if you want," the blond detective tells her. "This is the aquarium. We let the suspects sweat out here for a while before we put them in the Box." He points to a small room with a square window. "Then we let them sweat some more." Scully gives him a strained smile. This detective is starting to bother her. He's spent the last five minutes trying to engage her in small talk. If his eyes drop below her neck one more time she's going to punch a hole in his head with the heal of her shoe. If she wanted sexist, oafish behavior she could have stayed back at headquarters and walked past most of her peers. Every time they saw her with Mulder, another set of eyebrows rose. She stares at him a moment, wondering how a man who uses logic and skill to solve crimes can be so obtuse. The lanky graying detective she recognizes as John Munch catches her eye. He stares at her a moment. She tilts her head slightly. If he were Mulder he would understand. She resigns herself to an eternity of Mike Kellerman's banter. Now, when she *really* needs Mulder, where is he? Munch saunters over to them. He taps Kellerman on the shoulder. "You've got a call on line two." Mikey stares at Munch. "I didn't hear the phone ring." "So what. Just because you didn't hear it, it didn't ring? Is that like the tree that falls in the forest? If no one's around it doesn't make any noise?" John smiles, smug. "I don't think you've been paying that much attention to the phones, Kellerman." Mike holds up a hand. "*Okay* John. Who is it?" "I'm not your personal answering service. Find out yourself." "Excuse me, Agent Scully." Mike walks toward the nearest desk. In his absence Munch leans forward. "You can thank me later." Scully gives the man a rare smile and slips back down the hallway. Munch stares after her, mouth open. Why did God have to put a woman of such ethereal beautiful on the earth? "Munch! You puss bag! There's nobody on line two!" Kellerman glares at him. John smiles contritely. "Oops. My mistake." As Scully walks down the steps to the station's glassed-in entranceway, her cellular phone rings. "Scully." "Hey Scully." Wearily: "Where are you, Mulder? I spent half the night trying to reach you." "I'm on my way back to the BP station. I didn't have much luck at either library, but I read a lot of good poetry." Pause. "Where are you?" Before she can answer a figure walks through the double doors. Mulder. "Ah, Scully, I have to go. I just bumped into a woman who looks like she could use a strong cup of a coffee and a nice lunch. I'll talk to you later." He hangs up and smiles at her. "I'm not hungry," she says, slipping the phone back into her pocket. "Okay." Mulder watches her. Her voice was pretty light, but now that he sees Scully, her body language is screaming at him. He bows his head. "I'm sorry I didn't call you last night Scully. I was working on the profile and I fell asleep." "You were here all night? Mulder, you shouldn't--" Mulder waves off her concern. "I'm fine, Scully." His headache is pounding out a steady bass beat inside his head, but he doesn't see the need to tell her that. "Do you have the list?" "Yes. Come on." She heads for the doors Mulder has just passed through. "What are you doing?" "We need to go back to the library. There's something I need to look up." Her mouth curves in the hint of a smile. "I met a woman this morning who may be able to help us find the killer." The look on Mulder's face is comical. "Well--what--why do you need to go to the library?" "To check her story." "I'll drive, you listen," Scully says. She walks out. Mulder waits a moment and follows her. She didn't see his smile. *********** Part 5/9 The newspaper article was brief. Woman Attacked Leaving Work After bidding her coworkers goodbye around 10:30 last night, Lisa Anne Nolan left the The Poet's Loft and began the short walk to her car at the Old Town North Parking Ramp. Somewhere between The Loft and the parking ramp, police surmise Nolan was forcibly taken to a stairwell between the second and third floor of the ramp. She was discovered when a patrolling officer got out of his car to investigate a noise. She suffered severe head trauma due to several blows from a blunt object. Her purse was next to her when she was found. No motive is known. There are no current suspects. Her coworkers described her as outgoing and very popular. "I don't know who could have done something like this to Lisa. It makes me sick," her employer, Thomas Gibbons stated. Nolan is listed in critical condition at Georgetown Hospital. "There have been cases of psychic ability after certain kinds of head trauma," Mulder says slowly. Bob Modell flashes through his mind. He looks at Scully. "Do you believe her story?" Scully nibbles her lower lip. "I don't know, Mulder. But I think we should go to that book store and see what we can find out." "I'd really like to talk to Lisa," Mulder says. "She said her parents are extremely protective of her since she was released from the hospital. And since they have no idea she came to see me, I think we should wait until she calls tonight." "She doesn't work at The Poet's Loft anymore?" "No. I get the feeling she may be somewhat agoraphobic." "And you're sure she's going to call tonight?" "I'm not *sure*, Mulder. But I think she will." Mulder nods reluctantly. "Okay then. How about we go to the bookstore and then back to my place to hash this out?" He looks at his watch. "It's almost 3:00. That gives me an hour before I have to submit my report card to Lieutenant Giardello." Mulder puts the correct change into the library copy machine and puts the poor quality copy in his bag. Within minutes they walk out of the library and into the bright afternoon. Mulder drives this time. Behind the wheel he wishes he'd eaten something for lunch after all. It's been more than 24 hours since he's eaten and his body is beginning to rebel. He turns to Scully when they are stopped at a red light. "Maybe she's the catalyst, Scully. Maybe Lisa Nolan is who set the killer off. I mean, she *was* hit by a baseball bat--" "Mulder, we don't know that it was a bat." "--and the timeframe makes sense. Last September. He tries to kill her and fails. It gnaws at him, the failure. He has to correct his mistake. So he moves from Alexandria to Baltimore and starts fresh. This time he'll do it right." Mulder's voice raises. "It was her eyes that did it. She was so terrified, because she saw the knife. She sees it. God, Scully." The car veers close to the lane divider and a passing bus honks angrily. "Mulder! Pull over!" His words frighten her more than his driving. "She sees that metallic glint and screams. He hits her again and she falls to the pavement." His words come in short bursts. "It's cold and damp against her skin. He hits her again and then--darkness. But her eyes are still open, Scully. He's afraid to kill her when she's watching him. 'Eyes I dare not meet in dreams in death's kingdom.'" Mulder's hands tremble against the steering wheel. Glancing over his shoulder, he crosses lanes and pulls over to the curb. "He hears the patrol car coming and runs. I thought he killed someone, but he didn't. He *tried* to kill her, but couldn't. So he waits. And plans. And the murders start in December. She worked at a bookstore *and* a coffee shop, Scully. It's called The Poet's Loft, for God's sake! He was there! This is it Scully!" He presses his fists to his eyes. "Ah. God. God." This headache is going to drive him insane. The pain in his head, in his sinuses. Behind his eyes. His eyes. Scully's voice floats past him, he can't quite understand her words. He takes his hands away and blinks at her. His vision is filled with black shifting spots. They dissolve gradually until he can see the concern on Scully's face. He tries to smile but the muscles in his face aren't working. "I'm okay, Scully. I just have a headache. Do you have any aspirin?" "Mulder, you have more than a headache. You're scaring me." "It's okay, Scully. It's just that...he's starting to come into focus. We need to get to the bookstore. But I need aspirin first." She digs through her purse with nervous hands. She doesn't know what to say. Could he really know what the killer had done? What he'd been thinking? She'd heard the stories about Mulder's profiling days, she'd seen him during the Mostow case. She had hated what happened to Mulder then. And she hates what she is seeing now. For the first time in their partnership she is seeing Spooky Mulder up close. The man across from her is not fine. His face is ashen, his eyes are twin bruises and his lips are gray. He looks deathly ill. And she is supposed to believe he's *fine*? She finds a travel size packet of aspirin, tears it open and drops the caplets into his palm. "Mulder, I think you should go home and get some sleep. I can check the bookstore out." He chokes the pills down. Makes a horrible face. "Not without me." "Then we can go tomorrow." Mulder leans over and puts his hand over hers. "Scully. Trust me. I'm all right. I need to go to The Poet's Loft. If you don't want to come, that's fine." "You're in no condition to drive, Mulder!" He sits quietly for a minute before turning the car off. He opens the door and carefully pulls himself out of the car. "Okay then, Scully. I guess you drive after all." He stares at her, chin slightly raised. Defiant. Scully exhales slowly. She slides into the driver's seat and waits for him to get back in. Maybe she should drive him home anyway. He'd be upset, but if he wasn't going to take care of himself, someone had to. Mulder looks at her, his dark eyes intense. "Don't take me home Scully. I'll just get out and walk, you know I will. Take me to The Loft. We'll ask our questions. We'll look around. And *then* you can take me home." His words are very soft, but she senses the restrained anger boiling beneath them. Eyes on the road, she pulls out into the traffic. *** By the time they reach the bookstore it is after 3:30. Mulder calls Gee on his cell phone. "Lieutenant Giardello is in a meeting with the Captain right now," the desk sergeant says. "But Detective Pembleton wants to talk to you." A moment later Mulder hears Frank's voice. "Hey Mulder. What do you have for me?" Mulder clenches his teeth. "I didn't have much luck at either library. But Agent Scully may have a lead on our man. There's a woman in Alexandria who was struck down with a baseball bat in a parking ramp. She worked at a bookstore. We're on our way to find out who she worked with." "What's her name?" "Lisa Nolan. She was attacked September 3 of last year." "I'll see if I can get a copy of the original police report. Get me a copy of the names from that bookstore as soon as you can. If I'm not here, give the list to Detective Bayliss." He hangs up and Mulder is left listening to dial tone. Mulder throws the phone into the back seat. "I can't stand him! He's arrogant, domineering, and has to control every damn aspect of the investigation." Scully can't resist the subtle dig. "I wonder who that sounds like." Mulder glares at her and gets out of the car. "Funny." The Poet's Loft is in an old-fashioned two-story brick building. The book section of the store is large and accented with several overstuffed chairs and couches. The furniture is hunter green and burgundy, it matches an intricate pattern on the tan carpeting. The store specializes in specialty and coffee table books, but there is also a large text book section on the lower level. The Poet's Cup takes up the back corner of the store. There are several wicker tables and matching chairs, a series of Monet posters adorn the walls. An employee wearing a dark green smock approaches the agents. "Can I help you?" "Is Thomas Gibbons here?" Scully displays her badge. "I'm Agent Scully with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Mulder. We'd like to ask your manager a few questions." The employee's eyes bulge. "Just a moment. I'll go get him." Mulder sinks into one of the chairs and leans his head back. He opens his eyes at the sound of a man's high pitched voice. "I'm the manager, may I help you?" A short, curly haired man stands before them. He wears round wire-rimmed glasses and a black beret. A few salt and pepper curls jut out from under the hat onto his forehead. "Thomas Gibbons?" Scully asks. Nervously: "Yes." Mulder stands. "I'm Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully. We're with the FBI and would like to ask you a few questions about Lisa Nolan." The little man pales. "Lisa? What about her?" "She was attacked after getting off work last September. Is that right?" Gibbons fidgets with a pen his is holding. "That's right. But...why don't we go back to my office. Is that okay?" They follow him to a small side room that is more of a glorified closet than an office. They squeeze past the desk to sit in the two wing-backed chairs. Gibbons sits on the corner of the worn oak desk. "Lisa was a wonderful employee. The customers liked her. Her coworkers liked her. She wasn't the kind of girl who sat on the phone all shift. She worked hard and did a good job." He clears his throat. "I liked Lisa very much. Whoever beat her like that is a monster." His Adam's apple bobs. "The police were never able to find who did it. Are you taking over the investigation? Is that why you're here?" "Something like that, Mr. Gibbons. The case we're working on now might tie in with Lisa's attack. Can you give us a list of who worked here at the same time Lisa did?" "Of course." "Did any of your employees quit after Lisa's death?" "Two of them did. Todd Palmer quit a few weeks after Lisa's attack. They were good friends. I think he had sort of a crush on her. He was very quiet after she was gone. He just walked in one day and handed me his resignation. I wasn't that surprised to tell you the truth. And Lana Cristus left to go back to school this past December. Everyone else is still here." "And there were no arguments between Lisa and another worker?" "No. Not to my knowledge. Like I said, she was very popular here." He smiles sadly. "She was always willing to work extra hours when somebody wanted off. In this kind of job, that makes you *very* popular. She was trying to save up money for college..." he trails off. "Do you have poetry readings at the cafe?" Mulder asks. "We used to, but I'm afraid Todd was the one who took care of that. It wasn't much, usually just a handful of high school and college students. But Todd was so talented, most of them came just to hear him. After he left...the meetings just fell apart. I'd like to get them going again, but I never seem to have the time." "Was Todd a good employee? Was he popular like Lisa?" Gibbons consider. "No...but he wasn't disliked. He was quiet. When the others goofed around in the cafe or had a smoke during their breaks, Todd wrote. Or mooned after Lisa. He was a good kid." "Was he a high school student too?" "No, no. Older I think. He was out of college I think. I asked him once why he wanted to work here when he had a degree in his pocket and he said it was because he loved books so much." Gibbons chuckles. "He said books made better friends than most people." Mulder casts a quick glance at Scully. Scully leans forward." You wouldn't happen to have a picture of him, would you? Something from a company picnic or Christmas party?" Gibbons slides off the desk. "As a matter of fact, I think there's something that might help you in the break room." The break room is through a set of swinging doors across from his office. It contains a worn, plaid couch, a bean-bag chair, two vending machines and a bulletin board. Gibbons walks up to the bulletin board. It is decorated with hand-written announcements, ads, photographs, poems, and a collection of James Dean post cards. Gibbons picks a dog-eared Polaroid off the board and hands it to Scully. "This is Todd." Todd looks to be 28 or so. He has a thick crop of wavy black hair. He is smiling shyly at the camera, looking up from beneath thick lashes. He is extremely handsome. There is something sad about his eyes, a darkness that comes across in the photo. He wears a white T-shirt with the logo "The Write Stuff". Gibbons points to the caption. "Todd gave seminars once in a while. Nothing too in-depth." He smiles. "They were pretty relaxed. More like a group of friends talking over espresso than serious writers. He always called them 'The Write Stuff.'" "Was he qualified to give seminars?" Mulder asks. Gibbons shrugs. "He never charged admittance. And he knew what he was talking about. He's been published in *New Yorker* several times. He won one of his scholarships out of a poetry contest. Todd had a way with words. I always had the feeling he'd be famous. Still do." The manager laughs. "Then I can tell everyone 'I knew him when.'" Mulder takes the photo from Scully. Those dark eyes look through him. He stares at the high cheekbones, the smooth complexion, the hint of smile. His heart begins to thud. His breath comes faster. His heart pounds harder, louder, he can hear it crashing in his ears, an ocean slamming inside his chest. Oh God, he can't breathe. This is *him*. The Poet. He's got another one. Right now. He's going to kill her. Mulder throws one hand out, reaching for the wall. The room dips and spins in shades of gray. Gibbon's voice skitters by, a hand on his arm--Scully? He is led to the couch and sinks into the frayed cushions. He feels her hand guide his head down, between his knees. *** "Homicide." Kay listens briefly and puts the caller on hold. "Bayliss! There's a Katie Deveroux on line one." Tim reaches for the phone without looking up from his report. Every name from both the Coffee Bean and Espressly Yours is clean. No priors. Nothing. "Tim Bayliss," he answers. "Detective Bayliss?" The voice is almost a sob. "This...this is Katie Deveroux f-from Espressly Yours? I...you were here today?" Tim shoves the report to a corner of his desk and reaches for his notepad. He remembers. The cheerleader girl in leggings. "Yes, Katie, I remember you. What's wrong?" "I...I have something to tell you. I found out that..." her voice breaks. "I, um, might know who killed that woman." "Okay, Katie. Why don't you sit tight and I'll send some uniforms to pick you up, all right? You can come talk to me here and--" "No!" Her voice is a hoarse shriek in his ear. "No! I-I can't...leave. My boss is really mad at me tonight. But I have a break in about fifteen minutes. Can you come back here? The person I, um, overheard went home. I can tell you what he said." Her words are nearly lost in tears. "Then you can find him." Tim lowers his voice. "I'll come there, Katie, but if what you tell me is important, I'll have to bring you in to get an official statement. Do you understand that?" "I...yes. Just come as soon as you can." "Can you just give me a name? That would really help me." He speaks slowly. You can tell me." "Um...um...Todd. That's all I can say right now. You'll come now? You'll come talk to me?" Tim lets out a sigh, slow and quiet so the girl doesn't hear him. "I'll come." "Detective Bayliss?" Her voice is a whisper. "Thank you." She breaks the connection. Tim turns the phone over idly. Shakes his head. It's almost 4:30. Looks like more overtime tonight. He spots Frank storming out of Gee's office. "Frank! Want to interview someone with me?" "Who?" "A girl from one of the coffee shops. She says she might know who our man is. Said his name is Todd." "*Todd*? There's no Todd on the list. Todd who? Who the hell is Todd?" Bayliss smiles. "That's what I'm going to find out, Frank." Frank grimaces. "I've got to talk to Cox. Some test results came back that Agent Scully ordered. Something about the kind of ink he used." "You got a lead?" "Maybe. You'll be the second to know." 4:30 p.m. Twilight. The sun is an orange smear against the bruised sky. He can already see a pale fingernail of moon. The white Cavalier winds its way through the congested traffic and it doesn't take him long to find a parking space. Streetlights blink on while he walks to the cafe. The air holds a crystalline sharpness. It's going to snow. "Hey. Detective." Jack, the cafe manager is lounging on the front steps. He takes a drag on his cigarette and nods at Tim. "Katie's out back." He sends a glare into the coffeehouse. "Jenny doesn't like us to smoke out front." He smiles slowly. "However, seeing as I'm on my way home, I'm just your average citizen, not an employee. So..." He takes another drag. "Kate's on break," he continues. "She's catching a smoke by the delivery entrance. She wanted me to keep an eye out for you." Jack offers Tim a two-fingered salute. "Mission accomplished. Come on." He drops the cigarette to the ground and grinds it under a worn sneaker. "She doesn't want the others to know she's talking to you." Espressly Yours is located on the corners of Washington and Roosevelt Streets. Washington is one of Greektown's main arteries, but Roosevelt is a quiet side street. They walk down Roosevelt's cracked sidewalk to the parking lot behind the cafe. Several employee cars are parked in the lot. A few battered signs designate spaces for the Greater National Bank next door, but the GNB has been closed for over a year. A fenced-in disposal and recycling area marks a far corner of the lot. The area by the receiving door is empty. Jack scans the lot. "What the hell--Oh. Over there. That car is hers. She's must be getting something." Sure enough, an old Ford Tempo rests among the parked cars, more rust-colored than gray. The passenger side door is open and the interior light is on. Jack calls his co-worker's name. Tim approaches the car. Jack hangs back. The detective's hand moves to his gun. There's something wrong here. His gut instinct screams at him to get the hell out. Why? but that feeling in his gut, there's no mistaking it, something's not right. Sometimes that feeling is the only thing that stands between life and death. He pauses, his hand tightening on the gun. The open door blocks his view, but it's obvious the car is empty. He opens his mouth to speak, to give his dread a voice, to vent his rage at Jack. Because in that split second before the bat connects with his head he *knows*. Bayliss is knocked forward, he trips over something and slams into the side of the Tempo. He can't see, can't hear anything but the shuddering pain inside his head. Behind him, Jack kicks the duffel bag out of the way and glances toward the coffee shop. No one comes out. Jacks smiles as the detective raises his gun. The bat swings again, there's a brief, sweet rush of wind--almost a song--and the aluminum smashes into Tim's arm. He can feel the bones grind and break. Tim's face contorts and he screams, not so much out of pain but from anger. Anger at himself, anger at his helplessness. Jack kneels to look into Tim's face. "Detective Bayliss? Do you want to talk to Katie now?" He pushes the car door and it swings shut. On the ground, mere feet away, is Katie Deveroux. She is blindfolded. Her neck is open and bleeding. The blacktop is slick and red beneath her body. Tim squints, trying to focus through the pain and horror. Her right hand twitches once, twice. His gun lays at his feet. He lunges for it with his good hand but the brilliant pain radiating through his body dulls his senses; his timing and aim are off. "Sorry, Detective. You lose." Jack's foot connects with Tim's head and there is nothing, no last thought, no chance to defend himself, to dwell on his stupidity, to save Katlain Deveroux. There is only sharp, metallic darkness. ********* part 6/9 "I'm fine," Mulder says for the third time. He shakes off Scully's restraining hand and goes back to the bulletin board. He should have eaten something, that's all. He takes the crumpled piece of notebook paper off the board. The sheet is an untitled, handwritten poem. What about these prying eyes that beat against my back like devil's wings? Hypocrisy-honed vision cuts deep, tight worm smile sewn in place. They pluck me up like a lost coin and thrust me into chosen places where I don't fit. My pegged legs break against the holes My mind struggles against the restraints. I dream of death and wait for the spiral down, my body slipping away like a shy lover. Inconsequential. They can hurt. They can kill. They can lie. They can breathe. But the words will never leave me. They hover, sweetly caressing the broken places of my soul. I'll wear your scars, I'll smile your smiles and wear this life if you want me to. But I'll work these words raw like God's clay and dream of the man I want to be. "When did Todd write this?" Mulder asks softly. Gibbons blinks at the agent. "I'm not sure. It's old. Something that was left behind from one of the seminars. When he quit...I posted it on the board. It's a good poem," the managers says. "Powerful imagery." "Can we take the photograph and poem with us, Mr. Gibbons? We'll return them when we're done with them." Gibbons's mouth works silently, he finally nods. "Go ahead. Do you--are you investigating Todd? Has he done something wrong?" The small man's face pales. "Surely you don't think he had anything to do with Lisa's attack!" Scully gives him a reassuring smile. "We're just trying to be thorough, Mr. Gibbons. Thank you very much for your time." Mulder is already moving toward the store entrance, Scully has to run to catch up to him. "*Mulder*. What's wrong?" "I hope we're not too late, Scully." He turns to her, his face a study of exhaustion. "He's got another girl." A tremor of fear moves through Scully's belly. She wants to ask how he knows, but isn't sure if she really wants to hear the answer. *** Something...touches his face. Soft movement. His eyes are open and the world is white. He is aware of the cold before the pain. The pain has receded to the background, physical static, while his body struggles with the temperature. How long was he unconscious? He is outside. Lying on the ground. It is snowing. He feels the flakes kiss his face, his forehead. Tentative movement sends a hard white bolt of pain simmering up and down his arm. He turns his head--another mistake--and tries to vomit up the pain, but nothing comes except an eternity of dry heaves. How could he have been so blind? His backassward behavior was that of a rookie, not a veteran detective. Her sobs still echo in his head. His voice sounds like it is coming from someone else's body, someone who sounds disturbingly pathetic. "Katie?" His ears strain but there is nothing, no traffic, no crying, no other sound. Only the snow falling. He squeezes his eyes shut, her bruised face burnt into his mind. The blindfold. The blood. That slight movement. Self-loathing flows through him, thick and black, an inner poison he is familiar with. He should have saved her. He had the Poet *right there*. And he let the kid beat him half to death while the girl dies an arm's length away. He tries again, remorse prodding him on. "Katie? It's okay. I'm here." Slowly, slowly, he rolls onto his side. He crawls slowly, clumsily forward, through the fresh snow. He has been moved. They are both inside the garbage enclosure. His body fights every movement, his arm and head scream rebellion. Every movement is agony. Every movement is penance. He sees her legs jutting out from behind the blue recycling dumpster. . This one is different. This body isn't in the open. This time the killing is a private performance. Personal. Tim recalls the exchange inside Espressly Yours: Jack, curious: You're gonna catch this guy, right? Tim, certain: We'll find him. Tim inches forward, his limbs heavy and numb. He is no longer shivering. Just tired. Blood stings his eyes and he wipes the offending liquid away. A sudden coughing spell tears through him and he cries out. Both the movement and noise shatter his head. He stops, taking shallow breaths until the darkness recedes. Resting on his good shoulder he reaches out and pulls Katie toward him. The heavy snowfall partially covers her body. The blood trail is hidden. He fumbles for her arm and slides desperate fingers to her wrist. Her skin is cold. He knows there will be no pulse, but he feels for it anyway. He looks at her throat, a deep wet mess and knows she is dead. Her life drained away while he walked into a trap. Her life drained away while he ignored years of training. She was only 18. A child! He bows his head, wanting to scream out his rage but he can only cry. He cries for Katie, he cries for her parents. He cries for himself. *** "We've got a name," Mulder yells into the phone. "Todd Palmer. He worked at a bookstore in Alexandria until this past fall. One of his coworkers just happened to be assaulted with a baseball bat a few weeks before he left, but she never got a look at her attacker." "Bayliss had a call from one of the employees at that idiotic coffee shop. Said the girl told him the name 'Todd'." Frank licks his lips. "Tim went there to meet her." Mulder swears under his breath. "How long ago?" "At least an hour." "Can you get in touch with him?" "Sorry *Agent* Mulder, the BP doesn't have the budget for cell phones." Frank pulls on his coat. "I'll go out there. Todd Palmer, you said?" He runs his finger down a list of names. "Here's a Jack Palmer. That must be our man. Damn. Where are you?" "On my way. Call for backup, we don't know what to expect." "Just come to the station. We'll bring Palmer in for questioning if he's there. If not, we'll pay him a visit. You can fill me in before we get him in the Box." He hangs up before Mulder can argue. *** "What did he say?" Scully asks, maneuvering the car into the exit lane. Mulder stares out the window, willing the car to go faster. His lip curls slightly. "He said we should meet him in Greektown." The poetry reading schedule rests on the dashboard. They speed toward one of the addresses scrawled across the top of the page. *** Detective Frank Pembleton and Sergeant Kay Howard blast through the double doors of Espressly Yours. Several heads turn to watch the pair cross to the order counter. A black man, about 19 or 20 with cornrows and a gold nose ring looks up from the book he is reading. His eyes take in their grim demeanor and their badges. He shuts the book. Frank spreads a pleasant smile across his face. "Excuse me. We're looking for Todd Palmer. He works here. Is that right?" "Yeah, he does. But he's off tonight." "I see. Is that what you told Detective Bayliss when he was here earlier?" The man looks from the imposing black man to the fiery-haired woman, uncomprehending. "I heard a detective came here this afternoon, but I didn't get here until 4:00." "Is Katie Deveroux here?" Kay asks. The man's mouth pinches into a sullen pout. "She ditched out early tonight. Took her break and split. Didn't make me very happy, let me tell you." "She split," Frank repeats. The man nods. "She took her break and never came back. I looked outside after about twenty minutes and her car was gone." "Thanks for your help..." "Andre." Frank scans the notebook in his hand. "Andre Wallace?" "Yeah." "Well, Andre Wallace, Sergeant Howard and I are going to take a look around. While we're doing that, you find us Todd Palmer's home address." Andre starts to speak and Frank wags a finger at him. "Uh uh, Andre. Don't tell me you don't know where it is, or you can't find it." Frank smiles again, a hungry smile. "You have five minutes." Kay points to the doorway next to the restrooms. They cross the length of the café and follow the narrow hall to the back door. "The Cavalier is still on the street," Kay mutters. Frank doesn't bother to respond. They go outside. The lot is uniformly covered except for light tire tracks that lead to the driveway. Kay's voice is low. "Back there." Their feet leave perfect imprints in the white carpet. They approach slowly, guns drawn. Kay keeps her breathing even, the gun steady in her hands. She puts the sound of gunfire, the image of herself sliding down a dingy wall in a pool of her own blood out of her mind. She counts to three on her fingers and pulls the gate open, gun raised. Frank bursts into the enclosure. His voice holds a thread of panic. "Oh God! Damn! Kay, call for an ambulance!" Kay immediately starts back for the coffeehouse. "For Katie? Is she-" Frank's voice is deadly. "For Tim. Hurry up." Kay stares back at Frank, her eyes wide and questioning. Later. Now is not the time for questions, only for speed. She sprints across the lot. Back inside she nearly collides with Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Mulder asks her something, but there is no time. "Out back," she points. Andre hands her the store phone and she starts making calls. Mulder had not missed the look on the Sergeant's face. His stomach writhes. "We're too late." "You don't know that, Mulder. Come on." They follow the footsteps to the fenced enclosure. Frank turns on them, thankful for someone to blame. "I don't want you here!" he bellows. Mulder stares down at Tim Bayliss, shocked. "I don't give a damn what you want," he says, "it looks like you could use some help." Bayliss sits upright, his back against the green recycling bin. One hand cradles his head, one arm rests carefully in his lap. The snow reflects enough light to see an ugly gash along his right temple. Blood mats his hair and stains his face. His bottom lip is split and his nose is bloody. His eyes are closed. Frank's coat is drawn over the younger detective's shoulders. Frank glares at the intruding agents. "I let her die," Tim's voice is soft, not much louder than the snow. "Tim--" But Tim turns his head away and Frank feels a new coldness, something that has little to do with the winter night. Frank stares and his lips pull into a grimace. He doesn't need ESP to pick up on Tim's message. Scully kneels down. "I'm a medical doctor, Detective Bayliss. Can I take a look at you?" He offers no response. Cool fingers gently probe his head. Beyond Tim is the body of another girl. Swallowing his horror Mulder steps around Scully and Tim for a better look. The blindfold tells him all he needs to know. So does her slit throat. There is no writing on her forehead, but a slip of white flutters in one clenches fist. A note. "Scully. Look at this," he calls. There is movement behind him, but it's not his partner. Pembleton squats down and stares at the girl's fist. "Brodie and Gee are on their way. So's an ambo. Couple of uniforms are already inside." Kay leans against the chain link fence, her face stark and pale beneath her windblown hair. "Geez Tim, why do you have to try so hard to get some time off? Can't you just take vacation like the rest of us?" Tim opens his eyes and looks at Kay for a moment. He takes a deep breath, as if he wants to say something, but lets the moment slip away. He watches his breath puff out in small misty swirls. "What about the techs?" Frank asks. "She's got something in her hand." "On their way." Slipping on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, Mulder gently plucks the note from the dead girl's hand. "No sense letting them have all the fun." Pembleton's eyes bore into Mulder's skull like a jackhammer. "I'll thank you not to disturb my evidence." Mulder stands and glares back at Frank. "And I'll thank you to pry that two-ton chip off your shoulder. Must be awfully hard to walk sometimes. We were one hour too late to save this girl. *One* hour. So I'm not going to sit here and arm-wrestle you for this note. I'm going to see what crumb Palmer left us." The two men stare at each other, their noses inches apart, eyes flaring. Mulder finally tears his gaze from the furious black man's and carefully opens the note. I am the undertow Washing tides of power Battering the pillars Under your things of high law. Mulder reads it again. He sighs. Under your things of high law. Nice."Carl Sandburg," he says. "From a poem called 'Under'." Pembleton stares at Mulder, this time without the hostility. "How do you know that?" Mulder shrugs. There's no need to explain about his memory. He turns to Tim. "What happened?" Tim gives an answer, but not to Mulder's question. "His name is Jack Palmer. Blond, mid to late twenties." "We've got his address. Kellerman is working on the affidavit and search warrant. I'm meeting him at Judge Aandahl's house. We'll get that warrant tonight. "Palmer reportedly got out of work at 4:00 this afternoon. Katie took her break at about 4:40 to smoke a cigarette out back. After twenty minutes Andre Wallace went to check on her, that is, he opened the door, looked out into the dark and didn't see her car. No one heard anything. Apparently, that back door is only used for deliveries and for smoking. Katie Deveroux and Jack Palmer are the only employees who smoke. One employee," Kay squints at her notebook, "Renee Lee, left through that door around 5:00. I'll be talking with her to find out if she saw anything." Frank studies the top of Tim's bloodied head. He glances up, his face hard. "Kay, can you handle things here? I want to make the arrest and serve the warrant. It's my red-ball." Kay rolls her eyes. "You know Frank, it's funny, but I could have sworn I was the Sergeant here." Frank purses his lips and Kay sighs. Her voice is low. "Okay, Frank. I want this bastard nailed too." Her eyes flick to Tim and Pembleton understands her perfectly. "I'm going too." Frank laughs an angry, dangerous sound. "You sure as hell aren't riding with me." He stalks off without waiting for a reply. Mulder wears a crestfallen look. He calls out: "You just broke my heart, Detective Pembleton." He leans down to Scully. "You coming?" She shakes her head. "I'll stay here, Mulder. I'll see you back at the station." Her hand reaches out to touch his arm. "Be careful." Mulder nods, grateful. "You can ride with me," Kay says to Scully. She shrugs out of her heavy jacket and lays it over Tim. "I'm going back inside to ask a few more questions. I'll direct the EMT's back to you. Are you okay, Agent Scully?" "Yes, thanks. And you can call me Dana." Kay flashes a weary smile. Scully watches the sergeant trudge back to the building. Tim's head is still bleeding, a slow red ooze that dribbles down the side of his face. She can see a narrow strip of white where the skin is broken. He is drowsy, but Scully isn't sure if that is due to the onset of hypothermia or possible skull fracture. From his brief, staccatoed answers Scully gathers his memories of the attack are intact. His arm is clearly broken above and below the elbow. She sees physical therapy in his future. Within the next ten minutes the mobile lab techs arrive and begin gathering as much evidence as possible from Katie's body. Howard returns to them with Gee and Brodie in tow. The video camera records Katie's still features and Tim's wounds amidst falling snow. When the medics arrive Scully turns Tim over to their care and begins her own examination of Katie. Men comb the parking lot, tamping the snow into gray slush in their search for clues. From the back of the ambulance Tim lets the young man examine his head. His arm is a blinding stab of pain. Someone--Jack Palmer--has inserted a white hot needle into his bones and is still twisting gleefully. They speak softly and gently, as if he is brain damaged. They feel his skin and wrap him in blankets. They shine light into his eyes and ask him questions. Tim answers occasionally, his voice flat as paper. He is too busy trying to figure out what he should have done differently, at what point exactly, he should have known what was going down. "Okay, Detective, come on, we're going to go to the hospital now." Tim doesn't hear them. He's watching Dana Scully and another woman zip the body bag over Katie Deveroux's pale face. *** His apartment door is unlocked and cracked open. Welcome Friends! it seems to say. John Munch kicks the open door and it slams into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. "Todd Palmer!" he shouts. "Palmer! You're under arrest!" Two uniforms and Fox Mulder brush past him. A quick visual search confirms what Mulder suspected. The apartment is empty. There is a note waiting on the kitchen table: Who am I? My head knocks against the stars. My feet are on the hilltops. My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of universal life. Down in the sounding foam of primal things I reach my hands and Play with the pebbles of destiny. I have been to hell and back many times. I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God. I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible. I know the passionate seizure of beauty And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off." My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive in the universe. Mulder sags against the wall. The uniforms begin a door to door search. Munch goes to radio Frank. Time drags and it's another forty minutes before he arrives with the search warrant. Frank reads the poem and his face twists into a scowl. He speaks to Palmer's empty apartment. "And I am your most enduring pursuer. Hide behind all the words you want. I'll dig you out." Mulder stares at the carefully printed note. It is signed with a flourish: Todd Jackson Palmer. That explains the name discrepancy. Todd Jackson Palmer is a mystery. He is one part sensitive poet and scholar, one part Virgil Incanto and one part John Barnett. He is an aspiring serial killer, happy to have finally found something he excels at. His eyes catalog and store the kitchen's contents: square oak table, small refrigerator, ancient looking stove and a small college dorm style microwave. Very neat and tidy. It's a tossup whether Palmer eats off the floor or the table. While Mulder's eyes monitor the progress around him, his mind is busy replaying the afternoon's events. He wasted too much time at The Poet's Loft. Fifteen minutes, a half hour less and maybe he could have saved Katie Deveroux. One more girl who would never go to college. Who would never marry or have a child. Who would never be able to tell her parents she loved them one last time. Who would never be able to look at her brother and- Mulder clenches his fists and forces his thoughts into another direction. None of that. He can eat, sleep, and drink the guilt later. *Now* he has an investigation to contend with. The apartment is on the second floor. The studio apartment is sparsely furnished with more books than furniture. Shakespeare. Conan-Doyle. James. Orwell. Several volumes of T.S. Eliot and Rilke. There is a permeating sadness about the place that Mulder can't put his finger on. Something deeper than the loss of innocence...the loss of self. Todd Jackson Palmer is gone. The smiling boy in the Polaroid picture was the Poet's first victim. Frank sticks the search warrant to refrigerator. They search the apartment methodically for evidence that links Palmer to the murders. Namely: silk scarves, serrated hunting knife, baseball bat, black duffel bag, blond hair fibers, Tim's gun, his cuffs, and any handwritten poetry or journals. But Frank Pembleton does not need evidence to *know*. He can feel Jackson's guilt in his bones. He can smell it. Bayliss named him and that's all. Fini. The end. The name of the game is Justice with a capital J. That elusive, intangible whisper that all cops hear when they close their eyes at night. Justice. For Jill and Bethany. For Sara and Katie. And Bayliss. Frank rubs his hands together, cracks his knuckles. Justice. "Hey Pembleton!" Mulder's voice comes from the bedroom. "Look at this." The FBI agent appears in the doorway. He holds a black silk scarf in a gloved hand. Frank smiles. "What do you think?" Mulder asks. "Is it a good look for me?" *********** Part 6/9 "Jack Palmer is your *brother*?" Kay Howard stares at Jennifer DeNagrio. DeNagrio appears to be about forty, she wears faded black denim jeans and a heavy plaid work shirt. Her short thick hair is a deep burgundy color. Black wire rimmed glasses hang from a neon pink shoelace around her neck. "His whole name is Todd Jackson Palmer, but last year he decided he liked Jack better than Todd. Whatever. We aren't very close, but he's a good kid." Jen shakes her head. "I don't know what you're sniffing around here for, but whatever you think he did, he didn't. Believe me." Kay taps her pen against the notebook. "Do you know where he might be?" "At home." She shrugs. "I don't know." She chuckles. "I'm not my brother's keeper." Her eyes narrow slightly. "You called me down here and I came. I answered your questions. Can I go now?" "When was the last time you saw your brother?" "He worked with me last night." "And he's the manager?" "Yes." "For how long?" "Since...I don't know. End of September I think." Kay checks Tim's notes. "I thought he worked here for over a year." "He did. But only part time. Kind of a pinch hitter. He worked here mostly as a favor; he already had a full time job in Alexandria. Some book store I think." "And he quit there?" "Yes. Said he was tired of working there. He wanted a change of scenery. So he moved to Bawlmer and came here full time. End of story." "Can you tell me a little about your brother, Ms. DeNagrio?" "Call me Jen. Tell you what?" "What kinds of things he does in his spare time. What he was like growing up." "I can't tell you what he was like growing up. I was seventeen when he was born. My dad left my mom the year before. She remarried Don Palmer." A strange look passes over her face. "I never liked Don. He never stood up to my mom the way Dad did. He's very...passive, I guess is the word. Your basic wuss. Anyway, Mom got pregnant-don't ask me how--and was very upset. Didn't want to keep the baby, but Don did. I heard most of this through my bedroom walls while they argued every night. I went away to college and Todd was born. Once I was at college, I never really went back. "I saw Todd every Christmas and on birthdays. We aren't close, but we get along. He's smart, smarter than I'll ever be. He's a talented writer." Her forehead wrinkles. "My mom always used to make fun of him. Called him a fag boy. She wouldn't know talent if it stood up and bit her on the ass. Anyway, I'm the lesbian and Todd's hetero so go figure." "Does Todd confide in you about who's he dating? Has he talked about anyone recently?" "No. We don't talk personal lives much." She winks at Kay. "He gets a little uncomfortable with my lifestyle." "Was he seeing Katie Deveroux?" "Katie has--had a boyfriend. Some football type." Kay produces the photos of Jill, Beth, and Sara. Do you recognize any of these women?" "No...but since you're with Homicide it's a good bet they were murdered. Are they the women killed by the Poet?" She studies Kay's face for a long moment. "Are you saying that you think my brother is the Poet?" Her tone is incredulous. Kay's face is grim. "Your brother assaulted a homicide detective earlier tonight. He is a suspect in the Poet murders. We have a warrant out for his arrest." "I'm sorry, *Sergeant* Howard. I can't help you." Arms folded, Jen DeNagrio turns her back on Kay and walks through the Employees Only swinging door. *** Scully speaks into the tape recorder. "Katie Deveroux, white female, eighteen years old. The body is 62 inches long and weighs 115 pounds. Estimated time of death is between five and six p.m., approximately four or five hours ago. At this time rigor is evident in the small muscles and most large groups as well. There is no fixed lividity at this time. "There is a large contusion on the back of her head. A deep lateral cut across zone two of her neck compromised her trachea and caused massive blood loss. From the size and angle of the wound I would say the cause of death-some kind of serrated hunting knife-is consistent with the cause of death for Jill Mahoney, Bethany Carr, and Sara Trenton. "The contusion and slight indentation to the skull indicate Katie was struck from the left and slightly behind. The blow caused loss of consciousness. Angle of knife entry indicates that Katie's body was supported by either a wall or a car while the killer braced her chin with one hand slashed with the other. The depth of the cut indicates extreme force; however, the cut is not clean which suggests the killer was in a hurry. According to Detective Bayliss's statement, the body was dragged approximately 150 yards, from a section of the northwest parking lot to the garbage disposal area. "Due to the sudden and hurried nature of this attack there is no evidence of sexual assault. There were no useful scrapings beneath the victim's fingernails. Two black silk threads were found in her hair. There were no signs of a struggle. It is my opinion that Katie Deveroux was taken completely by surprise. "Mechanism of death was massive blood loss due to the severed artery." Scully pauses to push her safety glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose. "Manner of death was homicide." Scully turns off the tape recorder. The autopsy had taken about an hour. Photographs were taken. She examined Katie's body, both clothed and naked before doing a thorough search for any dirt, blood, or other particles that might provide clues. Earlier X-rays proved that the blow to her head did not result in her death. Her internal organs were removed, weighed, examined, and sectioned. The girl on the metal table was now a shell, housing a set of recently inventoried organs that had once pumped life throughout her body. Emptied of a thousand hopes and dreams that kept her awake at night. The Y incision was closed. Once she was dressed and laid out for her funeral, no one would know she had been cut open and dissected. No one would know an angry set of train tracks split her body in half. Once the turtleneck or high-necked blouse was in place and her long hair was fanned out behind her, no one would know Katie Deveroux had been brutally murdered. Scully returns the body to the refrigerated drawer. She spends another hour finishing the paper work. The looks of sheer loss, of stunned devastation on Adam and Barbara Deveroux's faces haunt her. In the relative obscurity of the X-Files, she has little interaction with the families of the victims she autopsies. She is suddenly thankful. *** "Hey knucklehead! What were you thinking?" Lewis stands in the doorway. He recalls another hospital room and for one instant he's staring at Beau Felton instead of Tim Bayliss. "What's the matter? You can't just say you don't want to tend bar tonight?" Even with the amalgam of drugs in his system, pain beats against Tim's skull like a hammer. "This is just my way of saying I want a free drink, Meldrick." "Hell, Tim, I see you. You're *always* getting free drinks." Tim makes a noise of disagreement and the two men lapse into silence. "Did Frank catch him?" Tim asks. "He wasn't home. I hear he left a nice little thank you note though." Tim stares at the ceiling. "I let that girl die. She called me for help and I let her die." "Come on Tim. You didn't know." "I should have known." "How were you supposed to know?" "I should have. She bled to death two feet away while that s.o.b. used my head for a baseball." Tim's arm is held in traction by an intricate series of pullies. He pushes himself upright, as far as his arm will allow. "He did it just for me. He wanted me to watch her die. Damn it Meldrick, her arm *moved*," he shuts his eyes, "and I couldn't do anything." Tim's voice wavers and he wishes vehemently that Palmer had hit him just *that* much harder. Lewis sets the bouquet of helium balloons he brought on the bedside table. One of the balloons twists to reveal a group of cartoon characters looking over their shoulders, pants lowered to reveal pink behinds. The caption reads: We're sending you a 21 bun salute! He sinks into an uncomfortable chair. "You did your best," he offers. "You should probably get back to the bar." "No big thing. Munch is there." Tim tries to smile. "Like I said, get back to the Waterfront." "What are you doing? Trying to push me out the door? Don't rush me, man." More silence. Then: "So they don't know where he is?" "Not yet." Softly: "We'll find him, Timmy. I guran-God-damn-tee it." An ugly laugh bubbles in Tim's throat. His own words thrown back at him. *** The vultures are out. They hover outside the police station and circle the coffee shop, hungry for fact, or at the very least, believable fiction. A front-page article in the Baltimore Sun states the police are pursuing a suspect in the Poet murders, an employee at Espressly Yours. He allegedly assaulted a homicide detective and killed a coworker. The good news was the article did not state how Katie Deveroux died, the bad news was Todd Jackson Palmer was now probably three states away. Frank, Mulder and Lewis spend the day asking more questions of customers and employees at Espressly Yours. They search the basement in greater detail, but there is nothing more incriminating than dust. As the day progresses, Jen DeNagrio grows more and more uncooperative. Dana returns to The Poet's Loft with Kay and interviews Tom Gibbons a second time. He is clearly distressed at the news another girl has been murdered. He gives them the address Todd was staying at in Alexandria, a mere fifteen-minute drive from Mulder's apartment. An elderly couple and their three cats occupy the apartment. By noon they are both exhausted. Between the late autopsy and a futile wait for Lisa Nolan's call, Scully didn't get much sleep. After an intense meeting with Gee, Gaffney, and Barnfather, neither did Kay. They step out of the store. The sidewalk has been shoveled. What little snow is left on the cement doesn't stand much chance against the afternoon sun. Kay hands Scully her cell phone. "Thanks." She takes a large purple barrette out of her coat pocket and clips her hair back, away from her face. "Looks like Palmer abandoned Katie's car along 695. His car is still at his apartment. No reports of stolen cars-yet. We've got uniforms watching the café, the apartment, and his sister's place. No sign of him so far." While Scully considers Kay's report the phone rings in her hand. "Scully." Lisa's voice is so soft Scully has to put a hand to her free ear to hear. "I'm sorry I didn't call last night. I-I get headaches sometimes...since the attack. I can't think very well. I have trouble speaking. I c-can't..." she stutters and trails off. Scully hears the sound of soft sobbing. Or is it a sigh? "I read in the paper that another girl died. It was him, wasn't it? The same person who tried to kill me." "It looks possible, Lisa. Does the name Todd Palmer sound familiar to you?" Silence. "Lisa? Are you there?" "Y-yes. Todd? It's *Todd*?" There's no mistaking the sound of crying now. "He was my friend." There is another silence, even longer. Scully begins to wonder if the girl hung up. "He used to have a motorcycle. He kept it in a storage unit over on Carson Drive. I don't remember the name of the place. Maybe you should check into that." Scully studies the gilt lettering etched into the front door of The Poet's Loft. The P is ornate and full of cursive loops. "Why do you say that, Lisa?" "I-I don't know. It's just something I thought of. Something I-I almost remember." Lisa draws a ragged breath. "I have to go now Agent Scully. Good luck." And the connection is broken. Kay slides behind the steering wheel. "What was that all about?" Scully pulls the photocopied article from her purse and hands it to Kay. "Lisa Nolan may have been Palmer's first victim. She was assaulted with a baseball bat last September. When a patrol car drove by her attacker ran. She has no memory of the incident. After reading about the recent murders, she contacted me yesterday and suggested we check out her former place of employment." "Why? She suspected somebody?" "Maybe subconsciously." "Didn't the cops interview the coworkers when she was attacked?" "I'm sure they did." Kay's face tightens. "This Palmer must be one hell of an actor." *** Tim stares out the window. He is lucid enough to understand the verdict: Fracture of the midhumerus. Bone fragments to the radial nerve. The doctor hemmed and hawed for a good five minutes before admitting the damaged radial could end his days as a homicide detective. The words still ring in his ears: *varying degrees of paralysis.* He leans back and shuts his eyes. A thick coil of fear unwinds in his belly. The list is longer: One open skull fracture, one closed. Thank God for small favors--no compressed brain tissue. The X-rays do not show a brain clot. And last but not least, a broken nose. Kay and Gee came to see him early this morning. Three of his fellow detectives have made the sojourn to Sinai. But not Frank. Not Detective Pembleton. Tim thinks back to a car ride two years ago. When Tim wanted to check on Stan and Kay's condition after they had been shot. Frank did not. He remembers Frank's statement: "Either way, there isn't anything I can do. So I'm not going to call in. I'm gonna do the only thing I can do right now, which is bring down the shooter." Tim supposes that is why Frank has not come. Frank is out there right now, hunting Palmer down. What Tim should be doing. And can't. *** Scully and Mulder sit in the same conference room Mulder slept in a few nights earlier. It seems like months ago. Pembleton and Howard are interviewing Palmer's high school and college professors. Trying to track down friends and acquaintances. Trying to wade through the lies, the apathy, and the jangling nerves for whatever grains of truth they can salvage. For the second day running, journalists are camped out on the front steps of the station. Reporter A smiles into the television camera and trips over herself trying to rearrange the same nothing Reporter B said five minutes ago. They hound the detectives coming in and out of the building, shouting questions, questions, more questions. Less than an hour ago Mulder and Scully walked fast through the onslaught, eyes down, "no comment" falling from their lips like a mantra. Safe inside the squad room they update each other. "Kay and I checked out all seven storage companies in and around Alexandria." "And?" "And number seven was the charm. U-Store-It is the name of the place where Todd kept his motorcycle." Scully shakes her head at Mulder's hopeful look. "Nothing there. As a matter of fact, the manager, Mr. Demotto, said Todd sold him the bike the end of September." "Seems like Palmer was a busy boy this past September." "The unit has since been leased to someone else, but Demotto helped us remove the contents so we could look around. What we found were three wooden pallets, some rat poison and one dead rat. No blood. Not silk scarf. No knife." Mulder leans forward and rests his head on the table. "What else did Lisa say?" "I told you verbatim, Mulder. There is nothing else." Head still down, Mulder moves his hand to his bag, feels around in the side pocket and removes his copy of the Polaroid from Gibbons. He finally looks up to meet Todd's gaze. "Where do you take them?" he asks softly. "Did you go home last night?" He ignores Scully's question. "The black fibers found in Katie Deveroux's hair match the scarf found in Palmer's closet." Scully nods. "I heard." Slight pause. "But you didn't answer my question." "Yes, Scully, I went home. I slept. I ate. I showered. I changed my clothes. Does that meet your approval?" He doesn't bother to mention that he only managed two hours of sleep before the nightmares came. Or the fact he couldn't choke down more than two pieces of toast and black coffee for breakfast. And the way his stomach is feeling, he isn't sure it's going to handle that after all. She frowns a slight reproof. Mulder holds a hand up. "Yes, I *am* a jerk this morning." He sighs. "Sorry. I did sleep...just not much." He taps the photo. "The answer is here, Scully. I'm just missing it. The poetry, the storage unit, the silk scarf. So many clues, Scully and I still can't connect the dots. I don't know where he is." He rubs his forehead, willing his brain to formulate the answer he's looking for. The headache is there, but quieter this morning. The throbbing has been reduced to background noise. "What about Palmer's mother?" "Dead." "Both of them?" "Arlene DeNagrio Palmer died of a heart attack in 1995. Don Palmer died of pancreatic cancer in 1992." "And his sister says what?" "Half sister," Scully corrects. "Not much except to reiterate to anyone with ears what a boyscout Todd is." "Most boyscouts don't commit murders." Mulder exhales slowly. He rummages in his bag and takes out piece of paper. Scully sees that it's the poem from the bulletin board at the Poet's Loft. He reads it over for several minutes. "I don't know, Scully. This poem, I'm no expert, but it's good. I like the imagery. Gibbons thought he was God's gift to the written word. He had scholarships. He had talent. So why throw it away? "This kid doesn't like killing. I don't think he's in the same league as Boggs or Roche. He just feels it's...necessary." "What's the difference? What about last night? His killing Katie Deveroux was a pretty blatant message to the Baltimore police, don't you think? Mulder, don't let him fool you. His pretty words can't couch the fact that he murders with impunity. He's not a sensitive poet having a breakdown. He's a cold-blooded killer." Mulder almost brings up Jerry Schnauz, but doesn't. He stands up instead. "We have to check out the storage warehouses here in Baltimore." "Why? He sold his motorcycle, he-" she stops and stares at him, comprehension spreading across her face. *** Munch was canvassing the neighborhood around Espressly Yours. Again. No one had seen anything. The whole neighborhood was deaf, blind, and certainly dumb. How could somebody not see a mental case slash a girl's throat or bash a homicide detective in the parking lot between Espressly Yours and the defunct bank? In this nice tourist area, not one single person had seen or heard anything useful? Yeah, right. Liars. Their lying breath stunk up the whole City. Either that or the restaurants around here served one hell of a nightly special. A special that kept faces in their plates instead of staring out the windows and into somebody else's business like usual. It was unbelievable. Bayliss had been close enough to Palmer to give him the secret handshake and he hadn't even realized Palmer was the killer. Munch takes his glasses off and rubs the lenses clean on the hem of his coat. Then again, hindsight always gave a better perspective. It was still bad news. Bad for Bayliss, bad for the squad. Bad for Gee. Sure enough, Munch can almost hear the gallows the Chief had mentioned. Clack-clack-clack. The boards are going up. They know the guy's name and there's a tidy stack of circumstantial evidence piling up, not to mention Tim can ID him. The only problem is, they can't *find* him. *** Words have taught him many things. Words have a power and complexity like nothing else. Words cause war. Words cause tears. Words kill. Words can shred a soul and make a razor blade look inviting. Todd Palmer has the scars to prove it. But even as his mother's words screamed inside his head, even as he memorized the litany, words were also his salvation. Books. Other lives. Friends. Line after line of typed characters that pulled him into a different world. A world where he was safe. He began to keep books in his closet. When she locked him inside, he had his flashlight and a safe place to go. She tried to take his books away, but that made him more determined. He began writing his own stories. He remembers a ten year old boy hunched over his desk during recess, filling page after page with words. The other kids played their stupid games of dodge ball and tag but not Todd Palmer. He was the quiet one. The shy one. His teachers never knew his mother beat him. Her fists were words and his bruises were on the inside. She never broke his bones, only his spirit. He worked hard in high school. It was his way out of hell. Teachers read his papers to the rest of the class, their mouths making pleased sounds, as if he had done well. Girls looked at him with new eyes. The drama club pursued him, the forensics team asked him to join. He liked acting, after all, it was just playing with more words. You took someone else's words and made them yours. It was like reading a book, except now you could be the character in the book. But his deepest passion remained writing his own words. Letting the pain out. He had filled thousands of lead smeared, tear stained pages through the years. The pain was locked away now, he rarely let it out, after all, she was dead. Now there was a new pain, a new fear. Something bad had happened-was happening-and the police were close. He had tried to help Lisa and failed. But the words wouldn't fail him now. They buzzed in his head, warm and safe and would tell him what to do. They always told him what to do. Sometimes when he was working on a poem, strange words appeared in his handwriting. A few sentences here, a few sentences there, just enough to make the message clear. Sometimes when he looked at a sign or a billboard the letters reassembled themselves into a message meant just for him. He would be okay. He learned well. He knew by now the best place to hide was always in plain site. ********** Part 7/9 Rebecca Seyer flips through her notebook and makes a notation. She writes: Pick up Chinese on the way home. The man next to her notices the movement. "Do you know something I don't?" he asks with a smile. They stand amidst a small army of journalists and reporters outside the station. She glances at him. "Yeah. I have to pick up dinner on my way home." The man smiles again. "For a minute I thought somebody actually knew something." Rebecca rolls her eyes. "Getting information out of this place is like trying to swim one handed across the English Channel. Possible. But not probable." He chuckles. "Did you see the interview on channel five last night?" "Yeah. Sounded like the big runaround to me." "Must be taking lessons from us." She smiles, surreptitiously studying the man beside her. Sandy brown buzz cut, tortoise shell glasses and eyes with the warmth and color of café mocha. He wears a pale gray suit and a long black coat. He holds a briefcase in one hand, tape recorder in the other. "Where are you from?" she asks. He names the newspaper and asks her the same question. "The Sun." He extends a hand. "Paul Jackson." She takes it. "Rebecca Seyer." "I don't think we're going to get that Pulitzer Prize winning quote today," he says, staring wearily at the station. A few journalists have already drifted away. "You hungry?" she finally asks. Paul eyes her. "Depends." "On what?" "Will you be eating with me?" She smiles. *** They take a seat in a corner booth. It's not much of a restaurant, a glorified bar really, but the burgers are amazing. The television is playing above the polished bar. A brunette reporter gives the morning news, but the sound is off. Paul stares at the screen. A camera zooms in on a group of people entering the station. A pale, beautiful redhead and a tall dark haired man wearing sunglasses are among the group. "Those aren't detectives," he says. "No. They're FBI." "Whoa. I must have missed that. The BP called in the fibbies?" "Not hardly. Pretty small potatoes from what I hear. He's just a profiler. I don't think they've got a SWAT team waiting in the bushes. I don't think they know where the Poet is, frankly." "Who's the woman? His partner?" "Yes. I don't know what she does. Aside from looking damn good in that suit, that is." "Do you know their names?" "The woman is Dana Scully. The only name I have for the profiler is Mulder." An image of Katie Deveroux's high school picture flashes onscreen, and then an outside shot of Sanai. The broadcast breaks for a commercial. "How's that cop doing? The one who got bonked on the head?" "He got more than bonked." "That's not what the paper said." Becca frowned. "Yeah, well, you know the game. It's not always print what you know. It's print what the DA tells you." Paul nods. "Ah." "Anyway, he's still in the hospital. I guess it'll be a while before he's examining chalk outlines again." Paul laughs. He finishes his hamburger and wipes his mouth with the napkin. "What do you think, Rebecca? Will they find this guy?" "I don't know. But if they do, I hope to God I get the scoop first." "And how do you plan to pull off that hat trick? You got an inside?" Rebecca eyes him coolly. "Maybe." Paul spears a French fry with a fork. He dips it in ketchup, pops it into his mouth. "Can your source tell you what the notes said that were pinned to the bodies?" he asks. Her green eyes widen. "Notes? What notes?" Paul leans forward and pushes his plate aside. "My source says the killer left a T.S. Eliot poem with Jill Mahoney's body." "What about the others?" Paul shakes his head, frustrated. "I don't know. My source discovered the body. But isn't it likely that if the Poet left one, he left others?" "You'd think so." She takes a sip of her diet soda, crunches an ice cube. "I don't know. He's probably long gone." Paul shrugs. "You never know." *** There are twenty-seven storage facilities in the greater Baltimore area. A-1 Storage. EZ Move It Storage, Four Seasons Storage Systems, Inc., A to Z Mini Storage, U Got We Storit. The list fills two pages. "You take A through L, I'll take M through Z. We're looking for any name with a Palmer, Jack, Jackson, or Todd. Happy dialing." They spend the next hour calling the storage units. After several busy signals, call backs, and endless waits on hold, they regroup in the conference room. Mulder pushes his chair back and props his feet up on the table. "Well?" "There's a Michael Jackson who's been renting monthly since October at A-1." "Think he keeps his gloves there?" Scully doesn't even give him the satisfaction of a look. "There's a Todd Johnson who's been renting monthly at Northern Space Center. Both units are 11 x 22." "I've got Jack Thomas, Mike Palmer, and Paul Jackson." They look at each other. "Hope you wore comfortable shoes, Scully." "I'll take my car, you can take the Taurus. And Mulder?" "Yes?" "Turn your cell phone on." She leaves him in the conference room. Kay intercepts her on her way down the stairs. "Dana! You got something?" "Mulder and I are checking the Baltimore storage units. He doesn't have a motor cycle, but he still has something to store. Namely, bodies." Kay scowls. "Why the hell didn't I think of that? Let me know what you find out." "Did you and Frank have any luck?" "Not much. We tracked down an ex-roommate named Tricia Woods. She lives in Frederick. Frank went out to talk to her." "How's Detective Bayliss doing?" Kay runs a hand through her mussed hair. "He's doing." Dana nods. "Good." She takes her keys out of her purse and hurries down the steps, heels clacking against worn marble. She braces herself for the reporters, but there are few left. She buttons her coat and walks toward the parking lot. "Excuse me!" She turns at the voice. A man wearing oval glasses and a long black coat approaches. He holds a notebook in one hand, the other hand is in his pocket. "Are you one of the FBI agents on the Poet case?" Scully sighs and continues walking. "I'm sorry sir, I can't comment on that investigation." "I don't want a comment. I just want you to confirm something for me. I, uh have a source who told me something." Scully stops. "It'll only take a moment." She waits for him to catch up. "I heard that the killer leaves notes on the bodies. T.S. Eliot." Scully's lips pinch into an angry line. "You can't print that sir." "I know. But is that true? Is this the poem?" He extends the notebook. Impatient, Scully glances down and reads: I HAVE THE DETECTIVE'S GUN IN MY POCKET. I DON'T WANT TO KILL YOU. I WANT TO TALK TO YOU. Scully stares at the words, struggling for control. How to get her gun? How can she reach it without-the distinctive click shatters her thoughts. The safety mechanism is off. He smiles at her, an obscenely shy smile. "It's okay, Agent...is it Scully? I won't hurt you." His right hand comes out of his coat pocket and pushes the gun gently into her side. "Unless you make me." She keeps her voice very steady. She will not show fear. "What do you want?" "Only a few moments of your time, Agent Scully." She walks ramrod straight, the gun at her side. The walk to his car takes an eternity. But she does not falter. Images of Donnie Phaster and Jerry Shnauz flash through her mind. But short of getting a bullet through her side, Scully can't think what to do. She keeps walking. *** "Do you recognize this man?" Mulder asks. He stands in the small, cluttered office of Four Seasons Storage. The muscular black man behind the counter looks at the picture of Todd Jackson Palmer. "No. But I'm just part time. The owner could have been here when Mr. Jackson picked up the key and made his deposit." "Well, can you open the unit for me?" "I'm sorry, sir, but we're not allowed to..." his protest dies away when Mulder waves his FBI badge in front of J.J.'s face. "This is official business. I'm sure you wouldn't want to impede a federal investigation regarding a wanted serial killer." J.J. blanches. "Uh, I guess I wouldn't." He opens a drawer and reaches for a numbered set of keys. "I just hope I don't get in trouble for this." Mulder follows the man outside. They walk past several rows of units before J.J. turns down one of the driveways. He stops in front of the second unit on the left side. A red number is stenciled on a background of flaking gray paint. Number 1013A. J.J. inserts the rectangular key, turns it clockwise and pulls the heavy door open with a faint grunt. He gestures Mulder inside. Mulder steps into the 10 x 10 room. His eyes adjust to the darkness and he pulls the string hanging from the ceiling. A single hundred watt bulb flares overhead and he stares at the contents of the unit. Three bags of a chemically treated gravel and sawdust mixture line the far wall. As he walks closer to investigate, gravel crunches beneath his feet. The label reads "Oil Out." According to the label, the gravel is used to soak up oil spills from cement. "What the hell is that?" J.J. asks, peering inside. "What a mess. He better clean up the floor in here." In the corner is a large black duffel bag. Heart thudding, Mulder bends down. He ignores the sick feeling rumbling in his gut and pulls on a pair of gloves. He unzips the bag and shines a pencil flashlight inside. Three black silk scarves. A baseball bat with distinctive rusty smears. Several plastic disposable rain ponchos, still in their wrappers. And a dangerous looking knife tucked into a leather sheath. He swallows mechanically, bile rising in his throat. This is it. This is the where three women spent the last minutes of their lives. He stands slowly, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. Crossing the unit, he notices large patches of discolored gravel. Scraping the floor with his shoe, he sees the faint brown patches on the cement. Dried blood. And lots of it. *** He forces her in through the driver's side door. "Slide over, please." Palmer motions with the gun. Scully slides across the seat and pushes herself against the passenger door. She puts one hand on the handle but Todd shakes his head. "Don't do that, Agent Scully. I'd be forced to shoot you." He gets inside the car and inserts a key into the ignition. When he starts the car she will make her move. She watches him, barely daring to breathe, and waits. She will launch herself at him, her fist extended like the Ninjitsu instructor demonstrated and thrust two knuckles deep into Palmer's throat. With her other hand she'll go for her gun. But Palmer doesn't start the car. In one swift move he grabs her shining red hair and propels her head into the window. Pain sparks in Scully's head and she gasps, trying to pull a breath into her lungs. "I'm sorry Agent Scully. I just didn't want you to try anything you might regret." Palmer's brown eyes study her dazed face. "I've read a lot of books, you know." He reaches beneath her suit jacket and pulls the gun from her holster and slips it into his coat pocket. Training Tim's gun on her head he awkwardly snaps a pair of handcuffs on one wrist. "Lean forward, please." His breath is hot against her ear and Scully bites back a retort. Pulling her other hand behind her back he attaches the second cuff. Lastly, he reaches for the seat belt and buckles her in. "I hope that's not to uncomfortable, but I don't want you trying to get away." He starts the car. "Don't worry. It won't be too much longer." *** Frank Pembleton and a handful of technicians scour the storage unit. Frank watches them dust the Oil Out bags, knife, and baseball bat for fingerprints. Samples are taken of the dried blood and stained gravel. They catalog, tag, and bag each item. Scully does not answer her phone and Mulder feels a niggle of unease. Maybe her battery is dead. An hour later results come back from the lab: the fingerprints on the murder weapons match fingerprints taken from Palmer's apartment. Frank watches Brodie sweep the video camera around the unit. His pleasure at finding the crime scene is surprisingly short lived. A growing rage quickens his breathing and he paces the stony driveway between the long rows of units, fists clenched. The same question reels through his mind in an endless loop: Where is Palmer? *** She's trying to talk to him. He has no time for her lies. That's what ninety percent of most spoken words are--lies. She works for the government, her job involves lying on a daily basis. She lies so that he will trust her. So that he gives her the gun. So that he does exactly what she says, ad nauseum. No thank you. No more lies. Still, she is hard to ignore. For one thing, she is beautiful. And her eyes-there is no word on earth adequate to describe the luminous beauty of those eyes. He pulls her car into the parking lot. He has come full circle. He was here, what, three days ago? The bitter taste of fear fills his mouth, a taste he remembers well. Gooseflesh prickles his skin. "Todd. Let me go. I can help you," Scully tells him. Todd sighs. "Do you like poetry?" Scully's wrists chaffe against the handcuffs. She weighs her answer. She has little knowledge of poetry. It's always seemed somehow frivolous, something for other people to be interested in. But if she tells him no, how will he react? "I like some poetry," she admits carefully. "I like Maya Angelou. When I was in high school, we studied T.S. Eliot." Her answer is acceptable. "T.S. Eliot," he repeats. "He was brilliant. The images he wove together with a handful of words. "'These wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.'" Todd presses the button that releases the safety belt. "I no longer care." Scully licks her lips. "What do you mean, you no longer care?" He inserts the key and removes the handcuffs. "It's time to sit still," he says, referring to the poem. He takes the gun and gestures her out of the car. Massaging her wrists, she slides herself past the steering wheel. "What are we doing here, Todd?" "We have an appointment. Come on, Agent Scully." Her eyes sweep the parking lot and side street. No police cars. No Cavaliers. Todd puts his left arm around Scully as if they are old friends and holds his right arm across his stomach, the gun buried deep in the folds of Scully's coat. "Walk, please." They cross the parking lot side by side and enter Espressly Yours via the back door. Scully is relieved to see the coffeehouse is surprisingly empty for a weekday afternoon. An elderly man sits at the stools in front of the window. Three teenage girls huddle at one of the tables whispering and laughing. A handsome young man wearing a beret sits on the sofa, engrossed in a novel. Andre Wallace leans against the counter, his back to the customers. He chats with Jennifer DeNagrio. Todd steers Scully toward a nearby table. He sits next to her, the gun still against her side. "What are you doing Todd?" She whispers frantically. "Exactly what I'm supposed to." "Give yourself up, Todd. Don't hurt these people." Todd looks at Scully, his eyes troubled. "I won't hurt anyone, Agent Scully. Unless they do something they shouldn't. Unless they're meant to die." He leans closer to Scully. "Put your hands on top of the table please." Scully complies. Her palms are sweating and leave faint marks on the tabletop. "What do you mean, 'meant to die'." Todd cocks an eyebrow. "We're all meant to die, Agent Scully." "Yes, but-" "But some of us are meant to leave earlier than others." "How do you know who those people are?" He looks uncomfortable. "I just do. I don't want to talk about it right now." "Is that why you killed Katie Deveroux?" Todd bows his head. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it." When he looks up he does not meet her eyes . He removes the non-prescription glasses and lays them on the table. With his short brown hair, suit, and smooth complexion, he bears little resemblance to the Jack Palmer who worked year a few days ago. "Take out your cell phone. Turn it on. Good. Now call your partner." Scully blinks at him. "I don't-why?" He smiles that same friendly smile. "Because I asked you to. And I have the gun." He pushes his chair closer to hers and rests the gun on her knee. "Please call your partner and ask him to meet you here." "And then what?" "And then you may leave." A new kind of terror touches her heart. "Why do you want Mulder?" "I want to talk to him. He's a profiler, right? He wrote a profile about me. I want to know what he wrote." Scully holds the cell phone with a trembling hand. The gun presses against her leg. Below the noise of the cappuccino maker and the teenage laughter she hears the safety go off again. She dials. *** The techs are nearly finished with the storage unit. Mulder watches them a few more minutes before heading back to the Taurus. There's nothing more he can do here. Let Pembleton enjoy his ego trip. There are five notebooks full of poetry back at the station. Maybe one of the poems holds a clue to Palmer's whereabouts. Unlocking the door, Mulder gets behind the wheel. His cellular phone rings before he can start the car. He smirks. Scully. She probably just realized her phone had been off. "Mulder." "Hi Mulder. Can you meet me at Espressly Yours as soon as possible? There's something I need to tell you-privately. So don't bring George Hale, all right?" Mulder's good humor evaporates at the sound of her voice. He recognizes that tone. Something is wrong. He grips the phone tighter at the mention of his alias. "Scully? What are you--are you all right?" She ignores his question and continues smoothly: "That's great, Mulder. Okay then. I'll see you soon." She breaks the connection and Mulder stares blindly through the windshield. A couple of kids ride by on skateboards. A Con Ed truck rounds the corner. His jaw works silently, a muscle twitches below his right eye. A heavy despair crushes him, pins him to the car seat. He has her. The Poet has her. Goddamn it, the Poet HAS HER! He sits in the car, frozen. His hand rests on the ignition key clenching and unclenching. This empty feeling, this blinding numbness is too familiar. The other times...when she was kidnapped by a deranged suspect. He knows this feeling. And the three months without her. He depends on her. He needs her. And right now she needs him. The Poet wants to talk to him. Okay. Just start the car and drive over there. Get Scully out. But if it goes bad... But if it *does*...then what? If the Poet kills her and kills him and manages to escape, then what? Palmer leaves Baltimore and keeps on killing. Mulder covers his face with his hands. The victims will be on *his* head, not Palmer's. Mulder pulls the keys from the ignition and reaches for the door handle. He digs deep, past the despair and focuses on Palmer. Why did he take Scully? And how? His recalls the cluster of reporters and swears under his breath. Of course! How could he have been so blind? Palmer had already changed his appearance once, why not again? They have no idea what he might look like now. He walks back to the storage unit quickly, feet brushing the stones and ice-almost running now. Why does Palmer want him to come to Espressly Yours? The answer is immediate. Somehow-on television, the radio, whatever-Palmer learned Mulder was an FBI agent. More to the point, a profiler. Does he want to read the profile? A man as obsessed with words as Palmer...? It's a possibility. "Pembleton!" Frank is still prowling the scene, dictating into his hand-held tape recorder, asking questions. He looks up at the sound of his voice. "Palmer has Scully. I'm on my way to-" "Whoa. What do you mean Palmer *has* Scully? How the hell did that happen?" Frank's nostrils flare with barely controlled anger. "What did she do?" Mulder seethes with anger. "What did *she* do? Agent Scully is an unequivocal professional, Detective Pemebleton. She would never knowingly do anything to put herself or others in danger." His eyes narrow and he goes for the jugular. "Can you say the same for your partner?" Frank's lips compress. "Explain that statement." "Come on Detective Pembleton, you're so much smarter than the rest of us, what exactly don't you understand?" Frank spits each word at the agent. "Tim Bayliss did nothing wrong." Mulder backs down. "I *know* that, Pembleton. Now maybe you can give my partner the same benefit of the doubt." Frank stares at Mulder. He breathes loudly through his nose for several seconds, silent. "Tell me what happened." "I believe Palmer was disguised as one of the journalists outside the station. Scully left a few minutes before me. He must have forced her into her car-" his voice wavers slightly-"and taken her to Espressly Yours." Frank blinks, dumbfounded. "In front of the station...Damn." Then: "Why did he take her there?" "Scully called me, less than two minutes ago on my cell phone. She asked me to meet her there. Her tone of voice was very controlled--don't look at me like that Detective Pembleton. I've been her partner for over four years, I think I'm capable of reading her voice. She referred to a code name that I used to use. There's no reason she would have used that name unless there was trouble. She was warning me. "Palmer wants to talk to me." "Why would he want to talk to *you*? To surrender?" Frank is incredulous. Mulder runs a hand through his hair. They're wasting too much time. "I don't know. I think he might be interested in the profile I wrote. There's only one way to find out." He turns to leave. "Wait a minute. What do you think you're doing?" "I just told you." "Hold on. You've got to get wired up. We have to call in a S.W.A.T. team." "I know. Come on." He runs back to the Taurus. "COME ON!" he shouts, nameless dread propelling him forward, pushing him to move, faster, faster. Frank feels a tendril of that same fear. He follows Mulder, his coat flapping behind him. *********** Part 8/9 They work fast. Grim-faced, Gee barks into the telephone. Sergeant Al Jardin of the Special Investigations squad finishes securing the listening device around Fox Mulder's chest. Mulder pulls his shirt back on and buttons it with shaking fingers. The battery is the size of a small calculator and twice as thick. It rests securely in his pants pocket. All wires are hidden from view. He's ready. "You've got the steps?" Jardin prods. "Yes!" Honesty. Conciliation. Containment. Resolution. He remembers the process vividly, from another hostage negotiation more than two years ago. Gaining Duane Barry's trust...believing him...losing Scully. Mulder takes a deep breath. Not this time. "I'm not happy with this situation, Agent Mulder. There are too many variables. We don't-" "Look," Mulder snaps, "I'm a psychologist. I worked in Violent Crimes for years crawling into the mind of killers and psychopaths. I understand how this works. I *know* Palmer. I understand him." Feeling the eyes of several detectives on him, Mulder lowers his voice. "He has my partner, Sergeant Jardin. And I'm going to get her out." He turns to Pembleton. "I'll talk to him. Just give me some time and you'll have your arrest." A member of the tactical team motions to Mulder. Excusing himself, Mulder crosses to the other side of the room. A city map is spread open across Frank's desk and Frank, Kay and Jardin refer to it repeatedly. They will work out of Copy This, a print shop directly across from Espressly Yours. The tactical team will be stationed on the balcony outside Mama Mia's and The Greecian Urn; three sharpshooters at each site. Roadblocks go there and there. Mulder prowls the perimeter of the room, half-listening to the babble of voices, eyes on the clock. Exactly thirty-seven minutes since Scully called him. "I'm going," Mulder finally announces. Frank looks up from the map, his finger marking a street. "Just a minute." Mulder moves toward the squad room exit. He concentrates on his upcoming task, running a practice dialog with Palmer inside his head. Frank's voice booms after him. "Special Agent Fox Mulder! I said wait a minute!" Mulder keeps walking, his back to Frank. "I don't have a minute." "Agent Mulder, it would be better if we went together. Let me get my team set up first. Just in case. We're almost ready." Al Jardin speaks in a placating tone. After a long moment of silent struggle Mulder acquiesces. He leans against the doorjamb, rapping his knuckles against the wood impatiently. Jardin speaks to a six-man team of black-jacketed men. Luitenant Giardello, Sergeant Howard and Detectives Pembleton and Munch also listen intently. Gee and Jardin speak low and fast, finalizing last minute details of an already hurried plan. Finally, the group breaks up and each member moves away with a sense of urgency. Frank and Kay approach Mulder. "When I ask you to wait, I would appreciate it if you would wait," Frank says softly. His smile is pleasant, but his eyes are cold. Mulder returns the smile. "And I would appreciate it if you would go to hell," he hisses, turning away. Frank holds an arm out. "By all means, after you." "Come on, you guys," Kay crosses her arms, disgusted. "We've got a situation here and *I'd* appreciate it if we could have a little cooperation. You boys both miss recess or something? Would you grow up, please?" She sweeps past both of them in the corridor. *** His head throbs. Tim stares dully at the television while bad actors recite worse lines. Doctor Ramos finally brought good news: he will be discharged tomorrow. His release comes at a price, no work for a minimum of two weeks. Partial paralysis is still a concern. A new cast in four weeks. No driving for six weeks. Tim lays in bed, watching the days stretch out in front of him, one long nothing after another. He thinks again His mind discards the notion. "Detective Bayliss?" A hesitant voice speaks from the doorway. A tall, balding man in his late forties stands nervously in the hall. "My name is Adam Deveroux." He stumbles over the next sentence. "Katie is...was my daughter." Tim pushes himself higher in the bed. "Oh. Hey. Come in." He searches for the right words and comes up short. "I'm very sorry about your daughter, Mr. Deveroux. I'm sorry about what happened." He rubs his stubbled jaw. The words are out before he can stop them. "I wish I could have...done more." Adam manages a small smile. "No Detective. You did your best. Detectives Howard and Pembleton explained what happened. I just wanted to stop by and thank you. Thank you for trying." Tim nods and picks at the worn blanket that covers him. "Katie was a good girl, Detective. Her whole life, she was a good girl. Didn't get into trouble, she was respectful, got good grades." Adam swats at his eyes, wiping sudden tears away. "I guess none of it was enough." Tim looks up. "Enough to save her, I mean. What good is it, then? To be those things? What's the point?" Tim stares at deep lines around Adam Deveroux's eyes, the fresh grief. "I don't know." It's all he can say. Adam continues, merciless. "Do you think she suffered?" Tim struggles to answer. He sees her arm twitching, fingers outstretched, begging for help. Begging to live. Too much blood. A black silk blindfold hides pleading eyes. Adam's eyes plead too. "The medical examiner, Doctor Scully, she said...she said Katie was unconscious when that-that monster killed her. I need to know, Detective Bayliss. Was she?" Her arm twitches. Her arm twitches. Again and again in his mind, and he can't help her. He can't reach her. The baseball bat silences him every time. Tim looks into Deveroux's eyes. "I don't think she suffered." He lies with relative ease. "I don't think she knew what happened. I think that's why he hit her first...so she wouldn't know." Adam's eyes squeeze shut and he breathes a sigh of relief. It's the answer he wants to hear. He doesn't think to question if it's the truth. "Thank you. Thank you so much," he says again. Tim manages a nod. "She was angel," Deveroux smiles, moving to the door. "Maybe she's looking down on you right now. Maybe she's looking down on all of us." Tim's face is frozen. "Maybe." "It was nice to meet you, Detective. When do you get out of here?" "Tomorrow." "Good luck to you, then." Deveroux gives a self-conscious wave and leaves. Tim stares after him. He sinks back against the pillow. *** "You're closed." "What?" Jennifer glances at the man in the gray suit, annoyed at the interruption. He looks familiar. "Lock the doors, Jen. Please." He holds the gun discreetly. "Oh God!" Jen takes a step backwards and collides with the espresso machine. Recognition dawns in her frightened eyes. "Todd? What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?" "Don't worry about it, Jen. Just lock the doors. I won't hurt you." "Why do you have a gun?" "I need it. Now lock the doors." His voice holds a tone Jennifer doesn't recognize. A wave of nausea rolls her stomach in a slow circle. She moves with leaden feet to the double doors and turns the lock. She turns to look at her brother. He nods toward the orange sign in the window and she turns it to read CLOSED. She moves to the back and locks that door as well. She whispers, fighting tears, "You didn't...you didn't really kill those women did you, Todd?" Todd smiles gently and touches his older sister's arm. He quotes: "I cannot tell you now; When the wind's drive and whirl Blow me along no longer, And the wind's a whisper at last- Maybe I'll tell you then- Some other time." Jennifer pales and collapses against the counter for support. "Todd..." He smiles again. "Don't worry, Jen. Everything will be okay." "What are you going to do?" Palmer seats himself on top of the counter, legs swinging like a schoolboy. He rests the gun in his lap. "Wait." Scully watches from across the room. She is handcuffed to the table leg. The look in Palmer's eyes makes her sweat, it reminds her of Jerry Shnauz and his Howlers. She curses herself for the hundredth time. How could she have prevented this situation? The rational part of her brain answers: It's too late for the what if's. She must focus on the Now. Mulder will be here soon. She prays he understood her message. The teenagers a few tables over are suddenly quite. They focus on the gun, wide-eyed. The old man on the stool eyes the closed sign nervously. He looks around the room and spots Scully. She gives him a brief smile and nods once. she pleads. The man stares at her a minute longer and turns back to his newspaper, no longer reading. The man on the couch is still engrossed in his book, unaware of the scene unfolding around him. The Employees Only door swings open and Andre emerges, carrying an armload of paper napkins. "We're almost out so I ordered another box of..." The sight of a stranger holding a gun abruptly ends his comment. His eyes flick from Jenny's pale face to the stranger. Maybe not a stranger-there's something familiar about the eyes, the nose. A faint gasp escapes Andre's lips. "Jack? Is that you? What are you doing, man?" Palmer doesn't bother to look at Andre. His eyes are on the pretty FBI agent. The napkins drop to the floor. His voice is a harsh whisper. "The police are looking for you, man!" This gets Palmer's attention. He shrugs. Smiles absently. "I know." His attention shifts to the large chalkboard that lists the daily menu. "They're coming." The shrill cry of the telephone makes Jennifer cringe. She looks to her brother. He nods. "Answer it. But I'm not here." She snatches the receiver, almost drops it. "Espressly Yours. May I help you?" "This is Detective Kay Howard. Is Jennifer DeNagrio there please." A beat. "This is." "Hi Jennifer. I was just wondering if you've heard anything from your brother yet." Jennifer's breath catches in her throat. Her lungs are collapsing. Todd looks at her curiously. "Ah...no. I'm sorry Detective Howard, he's not here." "You'll let us know when you hear from him?" "*If* I hear from him." "Right. Okay. Thanks." *** Kay hangs up the phone. "He's there." Jardin speaks into his headset. "Leader One, do you see him?" A voice crackles back at him through static. "Affirmative on a gunman, but I cannot identify him as Palmer at this time. He may be disguised." Pembleton peers through the blinds with a pair of binoculars. His chin raises slightly, his jaw sets. He speaks through clenched teeth. "There he is. On the counter." He hands the binoculars to Munch. "So where's the Lone Ranger?" Jardin holds up a hand to silence the black detective. He leans toward the machine in the center of the table. The copy shop owner and his wife hover in the background, impressed by the commotion. Pembleton glares at the tape player. There's nothing. Only- Muffled voices. Jardin adjusts the volume and Mulder's voice fills the room. *** Andre watches the tall man wait outside the back door. Mulder holds his hands up, palms out. He hears muffled words through the door. "I'm unarmed." Palmer sits next to Scully, the gun against her head. "Let him in." Andre unlocks the door and Mulder steps inside. Five customers are huddled together on the sofa. An old man, three teenage girls, and a college student. He recognizes Andre Wallace from the night Katie Deveroux died. A thin woman wearing with spiked burgundy hair and an oversized man's shirt stands behind the counter. A second employee, then. And there, only a few feet away is Scully. Palmer's gun is pressed to her right temple. Mulder almost falters, but he catches the look in Scully's eye. Even now, she is his strength. He searches her ghostly face for some reassurance that she's unharmed before addressing Palmer. "I'm Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI, Todd. I think you've been waiting for me." Palmer takes the gun from Scully's head. "Fox. That's a strange name." He smiles. "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. Tell me, *Fox*, are you quick?" Mulder is silent. Palmer unlocks the handcuff around Scully's wrist. "Why don't you let these people go, Todd. You really don't need them in here." Todd shakes his head. "No. But I'll let you go. Just like I promised." Scully looks at Mulder, uncertain. She tries again. "Let me take those girls with me, your sister-" He points the gun in her face. "I said, GET OUT!" She steps backwards, away from the gun. Mulder nods at her. "Go ahead, Agent Scully." Reluctantly she moves toward the door. Mulder fights the urge to push her. "I'm a medical doctor, Todd. Maybe I could help-" Todd levels the gun at one of the teenage girls sitting on the sofa. She buries her face in her friend's shoulder. "Do you think we need a medical doctor, Agent Scully? Do you want to put your skills to use?" "No, I-" He moves the gun back to her. "Are you volunteering?" Scully's face is pinched and waxen but she stands firm. "I don't want anyone to get hurt Todd. I'm only trying to help." "You've already helped me. You brought Mr. Profile here. So thank you." He waves the gun at he door. "Now you're free to leave. Goodbye." Mulder touches Scully's arm. "Scully..." She whispers, "Mulder, I don't want to leave you." "And I don't want you in here." "He's not going to kill me." "You don't know that." He puts a strong hand on her arm and forcibly pushes her toward the door. "I'm sorry I got you in this mess, Scully." Jardin, the S.W.A.T. team and half the Homicide squad are listening to the whispered conversation, but Mulder doesn't care. He has to apologize. He has to tell her-just in case. "It'll be okay. You can go." He touches her hand briefly. "I'll be careful. I can't have you with another partner, can I?" His eyes are very bright and the look on his face tells her he is struggling with his emotions. "Mulder, you aren't responsible for me. You're only responsible for yourself." "Are you having a conference over there?" Palmer asks angrily. "Shut up!" He crosses the distance between them in two strides, one hand around Scully's throat, the other holds the gun to her head. He forces her forward, kicks the door open, and shoves her out into the parking lot. Palmer relocks the door and stares at Scully through the glass She stares back, stunned. Palmer senses Mulder's approach and whirls. "What? You want my gun? Is that it?" Mulder arranges his face into a look of calm. His heart is still pounding from watching Scully forced outside. But at least she's safe. He knows members of the S.W.A.T. team were waiting to escort her away from the building. "Actually, I would like the gun, Todd. You don't need a gun to make me listen to you." Red-faced, Todd shakes his head. "You're lying!" Mulder eases himself into a chair. "No I'm not." "The minute I give you this gun about a hundred storm troopers are going to come in here and arrest me. Or kill me." "No one's going to kill you, Todd." Another head shake. "You don't know that. Somebody's *always* trying to kill me." "Who?" No answer. "Is that why you killed those girls, Todd? Did you think they wanted to hurt you?" Todd laughs scornfully. "Please! What kind of idiot do you think I am? Those girls wanted to die! I was doing them a favor!" His voice sinks, pained. "Do you know how hard it was to do what I did?" He closes his eyes, sweat stands out on his forehead, above his lip. "It was terrible! But I had to do it." "Because they asked you to?" His anger flares again. "That's what I said!" Gently: "How did they ask you?" One of the girls begins to cry. Todd glances at the couch sharply. "Shut up." He looks back at Mulder. He shrugs, helpless. "They just told me. Their poems were...they told the truth. I could tell. I could just tell," he repeats. "But it was so *hard*. They were so beautiful. But poetry doesn't lie. I can tell when people are lying. I can smell a lie a mile away, so don't think you can pull one over on me, because you can't." Palmer glares. "I'll know." He swallows thickly and licks his lips. His throat is dry. "I didn't want to hurt them. Just put them...to sleep. That's all I did." *** "He's a squirrel," Munch says softly. "A nutcase." Jardin silences the detective with a glare. He looks to Scully for input. "What do you think, Agent Scully? What's he going to do if I send a team through that door?" Scully's mouth works silently for a moment. "I-I don't know, Sergeant. But he does seem to be growing more...agitated." She has a sudden vision of Palmer pointing the gun in Mulder's face and pulling the trigger. "I don't think it's wise to move in just yet." Pembleton is still by the window. He wonders how long it will take to talk Palmer down. How long before they can arrest him? How long until the paper work is done and he can go home and get some sleep? Maybe he should call Mary and let her know what's going on. "Hey. Frank." Kay gives him a lopsided smile. "See anything out there?" "Nothing I want to see. I don't see Palmer coming out with his hands up." They stand together in silence for a moment while Palmer's voice plays in the background. "Seen Tim yet?" Frank lowers his eyes to Kay's face. "I've seen Tim many times." "You know what I mean, Frank." "Nope." "Why not? Would it really kill you to go say hi to your partner?" She slips her hands into her pockets. "He could use some company." "We could all use some company from time to time. But I think Tim is a big boy. He's a grown man, Kay. He doesn't need me to come and hold his hand. He doesn't need me to tell him everything's going to be all right." He moves his face close to hers. "Because maybe it won't be all right. Who am I to tell him it is? You want me to lie?" Kay sighs. "Frank-" "Oh no, no, NO. You asked me a question, I'm giving you an answer. Would it kill me to say hello to my partner? No, it wouldn't kill me. But it wouldn't help Tim. And it won't make me feel all fuzzy in side to sit in a plastic chair next to his bed and watch him stare at the ceiling. No." He backs out of her personal space and returns to the window. "What *will* make me feel fuzzy inside is nailing Palmer. When I can go tell Tim, 'hey man, guess what we did today', then-THEN--I'll go say hi." Kay stares wordlessly at Frank. "DON'T MOVE!" Palmer's panicked voice draws everyone's attention. They stand frozen, ears strained, listening. Palmer: "What do you think you're doing? You're some kind of hero? Let me tell you-you're dead. You're nothing! You hear me? Nothing!" Mulder's voice: "Alex. Just sit down, okay?" An angry male voice: "It's not okay. Why should I sit here? What good is all your *talking*? What kind of b.s. is this? You gonna talk that gun out of his hand, Mr. FBI?" Jardin puts a hand to his face. Oh God. Nervous tension ripples through his neck. He has a very bad feeling about this. Mulder again: "Palmer-Todd. Look at me. Yeah. He's just a kid. Don't worry about him. Remember the poem you wrote? 'I'll work these words raw like God's clay and dream of the man I want to be.' Is this the man you want to be?" Palmer: "I-I don't, I can't-" Mulder: "NO!" And the sound of gunshot fills the room. Jardin clutches at his headset. "What the hell just happened in there?" Team Leader One's voice: "I can't tell yet. A shot was fired...it doesn't look like there's a man down." Team Leader Two breaks in. "One shot fired. It's...it's a miss. Affirmative." Jardin discovers he has been holding his breath. "Thank God." ************ Part 9/9 Alex jerks backwards, eyes round with sudden terror. Ed, the elderly man flinches and two of the girls scream. The bullet lodges in the wall no more than two feet above Alex's head. A faint dusting of plaster whitens the young man's hair. Palmer's eyes blaze. "See what you made me do? You and your taunting words." His face registers disgust. "You think you're so smart. You know more than the FBI agent. You know more than me. You take your words and you throw them all around the room like a spoiled boy with his blocks." Todd's voice is eerily low. He walks toward Alex, gun down. "You think I missed you by accident?" Mulder approaches slowly. Holds a hand out, inviting, trusting. "Come on Todd. Don't let him get to you." All bravado gone, Alex cringes. Palmer raises the gun and brings the butt down hard against the side of Alex's head. He slumps sideways against one of the girls. She makes a small noise and inches away from him. Todd's eyes flick from Ed to the girl. Neither says a word. Mulder's voice holds a gentle reproach. "You didn't have to hit him." "Yes I did. You heard what he said. You saw the way he looked at me." Todd suppresses a shudder. "I didn't like the way he looked at me." "Todd...we're all looking at you." "Not like him. His eyes are...different." "Different, how?" Mulder inches closer. "Accusing? Like your mother's?" Todd drifts away from the group of customers over to the window. He pulls the blinds, but they tangle. "Jen. Close these. I don't want Big Brother staring in at me." He shoots a pointed look at Mulder. "It's bad enough they're listening." Mulder lowers himself into another chair. "What makes you think they're listening?" Jennifer goes to the windows and lowers the blinds. Palmer laughs. "I watch television, Agent Mulder. Are you telling me you aren't wired or bugged or whatever the hell they do? The phone isn't exactly ringing off the hook to find out what I want. That means they don't need to call. Because they can hear me. Or do you want to lie and tell me you aren't wired?" "I don't want to lie. I want you to trust me, Todd. I came here of my own free will to talk to you." Another chuckle. "But it didn't hurt that I had your partner." "What do you want, Todd? Maybe I can help you." Bitterly: "No one can help me." He closes his eyes and recites: "And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices." Mulder bites at his lower lip, searching his memory for the rest of the verse. He answers: "And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And the smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth." Todd's eyes snap open. He blinks at Mulder, visibly surprised. A smile lights his face. "You know T.S. Eliot?" Mulder nods. "And I know about the kind of damage words can do." Todd doesn't respond. "You know what I wrote in your profile, Todd? I wrote that your mother abused you. That she said terrible things to you. She hit you with words, didn't she? She called you names. Stupid. Idiot. Dumb. Am I right?" Todd's eyes cloud over. He is no longer in the café, but somewhere fifteen or twenty years into the past. "She called me stupid. She said...I was a freak." He blinks and he's back in the present. His eyes meet Mulder's. He tries to smile again but fails. "Let me also wear such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field. "That's me. Alone. Scaring everyone else away." "No. She was wrong." "She never understood that I would rather read than play outside. That I would rather be in a play than play football. She made fun of me. She told me she never wanted me." His eyes sought out Jennifer. "She had you." "She didn't want me either!" Jennifer says, perilously close to tears. She speaks to Mulder. "Our mother only had room for one person in her life: herself. She was a cold, mean, selfish bitch. I am not being harsh. I am not being unreasonable. I'm telling the truth." "That's no reason to kill someone," Andre says. Jennifer turns on him. "He's sick!" "I'm not sick!" Palmer says angrily, wiping at his eyes. "I'm not crazy. I was their friend, that's all. They came to me for advice on their poetry and I understood what they meant. I saw through their fear. I saw through their pain. I was trying to help them." Mulder shakes his head. "You didn't help them, Todd. They didn't want to die. You only thought they did. You misunderstood." "No!" Firmly: "Yes." Todd sinks into a chair and bows his head. Dully: "You're lying." "You told me you could sense lies, Todd. You know I'm not lying." Mulder watches him. He holds the gun loosely. Another few seconds and maybe- Palmer looks up, his eyes red and weary. "My mother didn't drive me crazy." "I know that Todd." Mulder holds out a hand. "Can you give me the gun? We can keep talking. Just give me the gun." Todd rests his head in one hand. "You don't know what it was like..." Stomach churning, Mulder gets to his feet. "Yes I do. My father was-he was a lot like your mom. He blamed me for something I did when I was young. He never forgave me." He struggles to keep his voice level. "And he let me know that. Often. He called me stupid. And a fool. He told me that he wished I had never been born." Slowly, slowly Mulder reaches out to touch Palmer's shoulder. He understands Palmer's pain better than he is willing-or able--to admit. "I know exactly what it's like, Todd. People have laughed at me my whole life. Not just my father, but my coworkers. Strangers." His voice hardens. "They're *still* laughing at me. But I'm not going to let them stop me. I have a life to live. So do you." *** Scully studies the floor. She does not want the others to see the tears that glisten in her eyes. Mulder's words tear at her heart. She forgets sometimes the things he has gone through. His father's blame, the guilt. It's a burden he still shoulders. Munch laughs nervously. "What is this, a soap opera?" Pembleton leans against the window, his forehead to cool glass. He stares at the ivory blinds across the street. Scully feels Jardin's eyes on her and looks up. She nods. "Soon." *** Palmer's face twists bitterly. "No I don't." He lays the gun on the table and puts his hand over it. "If...if I believe you I have prison to look forward to. The death sentence. Because I killed those women...and Katie." Mulder rests his hand on Palmer's shoulder and the man flinches as if burned. He wheels around and slaps Mulder's hand away. He raises the gun, livid. "Don't touch me!" Mulder steps away. "Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just want to help you." "It's too late for help." Insistent. Desperate. "No it's not. Just give me the gun." "I don't understand this." Palmer paces back and forth. "I couldn't have been wrong. I don't understand..." he speaks more to himself than Mulder. "Todd? Can you tell me something? Can you answer a question?" Palmer turns slowly. "Why did you kill Katie? Did she ask to die too?" Palmer resumes pacing. "Why did I...?" He taps his forehead with the gun, as if trying to think. "I didn't want to kill Katie either. But this time, *he* made me." His eyes narrow with hatred. "That smug detective. Thinks he knows everything, so sure, so confident. As if he's ever had a bad day in his life. As if he understands *anything*!" His voice spirals up, up into a half sob. "'We'll find him,' he said. Not a speck of doubt in his voice. He was judge and jury rolled into one." He stares at Mulder, eyes wide, spittle flying, "I knew what he was thinking! The way he looked at me-he knew I killed Jill, Beth, and Sara. He was just playing with me, letting me sweat. No thanks! I don't need that! I wasn't going to let him take me so easily!" Palmer draws a deep, shaking breath. Alex stirs on the couch. His head lolls forward. Mulder pushes damp hair out of his face. Sweat rolls off him. He knows he is running out of time. Palmer is slipping deeper into madness. Every second counts. "I'm not judging you. I understand you. Please, Todd. Give me the gun. I'll stay with you. I'll help you. Just give me the gun." Todd looks down at the gun, then to Mulder. Back and forth. He extends his hand slowly. "The gun...this is what you want?" *** Scully breathes a silent prayer of relief. Mulder has the gun! Pembleton glances at Jardin. "So do we have the green light? Can we go over there now?" "Team Leader One, can you confirm-" The reel on the tape player winds, around and around. Palmer's voice comes again, sly: "But Agent Mulder, you forgot I still have your partner's gun." Scully's heart plunges. Mulder: "Drop it, Todd. Just put it on the table and step away." "You can shoot me, but can you kill me with the first shot? Can you guarantee that I won't kill or at least wound these people?" Pause. "That I won't kill you?" Mulder's voice is a warning. "Put it down. NOW." Palmer: "Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying Bless me father, though I do not wish to wish these things." A distinct *click*. Mulder's voice, loud, shrill: "Todd! Come on! Think about your poem. Think about the man you want to be!" "Team Leader Two, get in there. Now." Jardin reaches for Scully's cell phone. "Are the EMT's on stand-by?" Kay nods, grim. Palmer whispers: "This is the way the world ends-" *** "NO!" Mulder and Jennifer scream in tandem. He lunges for Todd. They stumble, off balance, but it's too late, the gun goes off. A small hole appears at the base of Todd's jaw. Blood splatters. There's a horrid, gaping wound where the left side of Todd's head used to be. Mulder eases Todd's body to the floor. Jennifer joins him and takes her brother's limp hand, silent tears running down her face. There's no pulse. "Help me," Mulder orders, and begins CPR. Jen tilts her brother's chin while Mulder blows a breath of air into Todd's mouth. He is dimly aware of movement. The sound of breaking glass as S.W.A.T. team members pour into the café. Scully's soft voice at his elbow. Somewhere farther off, Pembleton's angry one. There's a hand on his arm, but he shrugs it off-No! No time for talking, no time for thinking, only one, two, three, four, five, breathe. Again. One, two, three, four, five, breathe. The hand on his arm again, firmer this time and he is pulled away. EMT's take over. He listens to their assessment, detached. Head wound, through and through. Faint pulse, thready. Prognosis: poor. Mulder follows the gurney to the ambulance and watches as Todd is lifted inside. He is buried beneath a myriad of wires and tubes. Sergeant Jardin shakes Mulder's hand and offers muted congratulations. The reporters arrive. Through all the commotion Mulder sees Todd pull the trigger. He senses Scully's nearness and turns to her. His eyes communicate everything he cannot say and she reaches for his hand. Pembleton escapes out the back door, through the parking lot. He walks to the Cavalier, stiff with anger. Once inside, he leans his head back against the headrest. He covers his face with his hands. An hour later word comes to Lietenant Giardello. Todd Jackson Palmer stopped breathing on the way to the hospital. He could not be revived. He was pronounced dead at five-thirty three. *** Adam Deveroux sits on his daughter's bed. The room is unchanged. The bed, half-made, earrings scattered across the dresser, shoes jumbled in front of the closet. He likes sitting in here. He imagines he can feel her presence. He does not dwell on the events of the past week. Not her death. Not the funeral. Instead, he remembers the night she got her acceptance letter to UW-Madison. She had been so happy...the look in her eyes. Katie had danced around the kitchen with him, singing. Ordering him to put his coat on, she had taken him out for pizza. It meant a lot to Adam Deveroux that Katie had celebrated with him that night. Not with her boyfriend, not with her friends, but with a balding old man sporting an extra fifteen pounds. A dot of red light catches his attention. He struggles to his feet. Her stereo is on. A fresh wave of grief pulls at Adam, but he blinks back the tears. His daughter had stood here, listening to music while she dressed for school. Before she went to work. She would never stand here again. He puts a hand to his head. His finger pauses over the power button. Changing his mind, he presses play instead and returns to the bed. Hands folded, eyes closed, he listens as music fills the room. "Empty Something has left my life And I don't know where it went to Somebody cause me strife And it's not what I was seeking." The woman stares silently at Scully for several minutes. "I'm very sorry to intrude," Scully finally says, as the moment stretches into awkwardness. "I just wanted to thank her. All I ask is one minute. Please." Pam Nolan leads her up a flight of stairs and opens a door at the end of the hallway. She motions Scully inside. The girl on the bed is curled into a fetal position. Her hands are balled into useless claws, blond hair lays around her face, unkempt. Her eyes are half-open. She stares, not seeing. Pam brushes the hair from her daughter's forehead. "Lisa hasn't spoken in more than five months. She's never fully regained consciousness since the attack. She opens her eyes sometimes, but she can't talk. She can't walk by herself. She can't feed herself." She turns to Agent Scully, eyes hard. "And she certainly can't use a phone by herself." The room seems to spin in a slow circle around her. Scully stares at Lisa Nolan, a thousand questions locked in her throat. For one brief second, she is sure Lisa looked at her, is sure there was a spark of recognition, but then it is gone. The moment is past and Scully can't be sure of what she saw. Standing in the small room that smells of sweat and sickness, Scully isn't sure of anything. "Didn't you see me, didn't you hear me Didn't you see me standing there? Why did you turn out the lights Did you know that I was sleeping?" Mulder watches from a respectful distance. The funeral is very small. He recognizes Tim Gibbons from The Poet's Loft. Jennifer DeNagrio and another woman are there as well. All three listen to the minister's words with downcast eyes. Mulder wonders why he has come. Why go to the killer's funeral and not the victim's? His mind whispers again and again: What fragile ties hold the mind together? Why do they break so easily for some, and withstand so much in others? Nights spent listening to his father's drunken screams-accusations-outside his bedroom door come to him. Years of night terrors, nightmares, the insomnia that plagues him still. Why did words undo Todd Palmer and not himself? And most important: He can't help thinking it should be raining. The February sunshine seems somehow disrespectful. The brief service ends. Gibbons leaves first, pulling his jacket close around his body. He still wears the black beret. He sees Mulder and gives him a slight nod of recognition. He keeps walking. Jennifer and her friend leave next. The friend eyes Mulder with faint curiosity but says nothing. Jennifer feels Mulder's gaze and looks up. He opens his mouth to say something. Anything. But Jennifer turns her head away. She has nothing to say. Mulder watches them go. "Say a prayer for me Help me to feel the strength I did My identity has it been taken Is my heart breaking on me?" He stands over another body. A domestic dispute turned deadly. Lewis takes a statement from the neighbor while Brodie zooms in for several closeups: the rifle, the body, spent shell casings. The wife still clings to life at Johns Hopkins. Pembleton pulls his hat lower on his head. He feels tired. Another gutless coward who preferred a bullet to prison. He drifts away from Lewis, annoyed to be paired with him, annoyed to be staring at this gutless body, just plain annoyed. The television is still on. The fire in the fireplace burns low. A cat mews plaintively from under the dining room table. Getting down on one knee, Frank reaches out to scratch the cat under its soft chin. "All my plans fell through my hands They fell through my hands oh me All my dreams it suddenly seems Empty...empty." The bus lets him out three blocks away from his destination. He walks slowly, one arm of his coat hanging loose. There is no peace. Not in his sleep. Not in the television. Not in the hovering presence of his visiting mother. Not in the mystery of a fresh murder. Gee and his doctor have conspired to keep him at home for two more weeks. When he does go back he'll be looking at the top of his desk. The damage to his radial nerve is minimal. Full recovery is expected. Walking along the dark street, Tim wonders exactly, what 'full' means. Does that mean someday, when he closes his eyes he won't see Katie Deveroux's face? He crosses the street, turns a corner. He sees the building. The glass has been cleaned up, boards are nailed over the front doors. A pink sign informs anyone interested that Espressly Yours is closed for the next week. Tim sighs. In mourning for a murderer? Go figure. He walks past the brick building and into the parking lot. There are no cars here today. He reminds himself there's no one here, but his heart still pounds. The snow has long melted. He crosses the blacktop looking for her blood, but it is dark and he can't find it. Even in daylight, nature has probably scrubbed the lot clean. The chain link fence is locked. An unexpected sob catches in Tim's throat. He lashes out at the fence, both embarrassed and frustrated. And angry. The anger fills him, *is* him. He kicks at the metal, again, again, again. The fence gives a few inches, but that's all. The lock holds. His kicks become ineffectual, more an outlet for his rage and guilt than an attempt to open the gate. Finally he turns and slides to the ground, his back against one of the iron fence poles. He expects the tears to come now, but they don't. He waits a while, trying to catch his breath, hoping the sharp pounding in his head will recede. Gradually, it does. He unzips his jacket and takes out the single yellow rose. The layer of tissue has protected the flower from the brunt of Tim's outburst. He wads the tissue into a ball and stuffs it into his pocket. He smells the rose. He tries to memorize the fragrance, this moment. He lays the rose at the foot of the gate. Tim pulls himself to his feet, one-handed. He walks away, keeps walking for a long time. He doesn't look back. The End Congratulations to anyone who actually finished this! Give yourself a pat on the back right now! Hope you were at least mildly entertained.