From math.ohio- state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!info.ucla.edu!unixg.ubc.ca!rove r.ucs.ualberta.ca!news Wed Jul 31 10:08:53 1996 Article: 22103 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio- state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!info.ucla.edu!unixg.ubc.ca!rove r.ucs.ualberta.ca!news From: slyseng@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca (Susan) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW > Passing Acquaintance < 1/2 by Summer Date: Tue, 30 Jul 1996 22:43:50 GMT Organization: University of Alberta Lines: 505 Message-ID: <4tnmnr$f74@pulp.ucs.ualberta.ca> Reply-To: summer@camelot.bradley.edu NNTP-Posting-Host: async16-1.remote.ualberta.ca X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Status: RO please direct all feedback etc. to Summer at summer@camelot.bradley.edu--not to me :) ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and related concepts belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting, and other people who aren't me. Used without direct permission. No infringement of copyright intended. The rest is c.1996 Amanda Summers. Feedback craved. I'm summer@camelot.bradley.edu and i appreciate and answer all mail. A Passing Acquaintance An X-Files Story by Summer part one/two "Know any spooky stories?" asked his date. Jerry Rothfield grinned down at the blonde by his side. "You're not gonna want to sleep with the lights on if I tell this, are you?" She went up on her toes long enough to whisper in his ear, "I'm not gonna want to sleep..." He cleared his throat and salvaged the grin for the benefit of the agents around him. "Maybe later, Pam. I don't want to drag down the party." Agent Walters chuckled, "No chance, Jer. Look at this place! Have you ever seen a party more dead than this?" "Sort of appropriate," Hargrove chipped in, "for a Halloween party. Tell your story, Jer." "Yeah, we're listening." Walters called over his shoulder, "Hey, Carpenter, come away from the drinks table! Jerry's gonna tell a story!" Rothchild fidgeted uncomfortably as the agents looked at him expectantly. He let his eyes drift away from the group and fix on the banner overhead: FBI MASQUERADE BALL 1986. "Well, I think you all know I used to be a cop in Chicago," he began. "Saw some weird stuff there, that's for sure, but no stranger than the usual cop stuff anyone sees. So one night I'm staking out this guy we suspect of embezzlement, and he goes to meet his accomplice, right? And while we're waiting to see something incriminating, all of a sudden our guy whips out a piece and shoots the accomplice." "Scaaaaaary," Hargrove intoned, widening his dark eyes and making a grotesque face. Pam shushed him. "I want to hear this! Go on, Jerry." Rothchild's eyes dropped back to the blonde; he smiled, then glanced at his audience. A few other agents had drifted to listen along. "Right, so my partner and I jump out of the car, we're on the guy. It's a dark night in the middle of January, rain and sleet coming down, blue lights off the waterfront--" "Serious atmosphere," interjected Walters. "You better believe it," Jerry replied. "We call for backup and an ambulance double quick. Our suspect takes off the second we're out of the car, runs down the wet alley. My partner and I are neck- to-neck chasing the guy when we pass the body of the accomplice. He'd got it right in the head, the guy was dead." Rothchild paused. A tall young man had joined the accumulation of people; his date looked annoyed, but the man's interest appeared far more focussed and intense than the idle curiosity and amusement the others displayed. Jerry swallowed and went on, "So I'm going past the corpse and I think I see something moving. So I kind of stop, wondering if maybe the guy isn't dead after all. And my partner turns and he sees it too. "There's like this white light just sort of hanging there over the body. And I'm looking at this light, floating there, and it seems like it's reaching out. Like it's beckoning to me." Pam's arm tightened around Jerry's, and she shivered dramatically. "So I'm looking at this... thing, okay? But my partner shakes it off and turns, runs after the guy. I could swear this light, it looks like a face, and an arm kind of forms itself out of light and points down the alley after my partner like a warning. So I run after him and I tackle him-- and the shot our suspect fires whizzes right over us both. My partner gets off a shot, the suspect freaks and drops his gun, we grab him, cuff him, take him to the car. The ambulance is just getting there. My partner and I, we stop just a second, look at the body of the accomplice, look at each other, and just-- shake our heads. Neither one of us ever said anything about it to anyone again." "Until now," Pam said in a hush. Hargrove hooted, "You don't expect us to believe that, do you, Jer?" Rothchild looked at the federal agents grinning knowingly around him. He smiled weakly and scuffed a hand through his tawny crew cut. "Of course not," he said. "It's just a story." The assembled people laughed, friendly and convivial. Walters clapped Jerry on the back. "Great story," he said. "You got a hell of an imagination, there." The tall young man who had listened with such interest closed his eyes, disappointed. His date shook back her strawberry blonde coif and tugged him towards the half-filled dance floor. As they left the knot of agents, Walters leaned in towards Jerry and said, "Hey, speaking of spooky, have you heard about that guy?" "What about him?" Rothchild inquired. Hargrove overheard and poked his head between Walters and Jerry. "Don't tell me you aren't privy to the legend of Fox Mulder?" Rothchild looked after the young man with renewed interest. "That's him? Reggie Pardue called me up a few months ago, said that guy was being assigned as his partner." "Nothing but the best for Spooky," Walters agreed. "You know those serial bank robberies we had going?" Jerry nodded and Walters shook his head, nodding with his chin towards the young man. "Came in on that case, right, and in two days he'd cracked it. Swear to God." "Patterson wants him for Behavioral, I heard," Hargrove contributed. Walters said, "Should be a hell of a fight. Pardue wants him on the VICAP fast track." "He's cute," Pam observed. Rothchild looked down at her, bemused. "Well, I guess some guys really do have it all." Pam smiled sunnily up at him, slipping her arm around his waist. "Do I get a dance?" "Anything you want," he promised. * * * "Do whatever you want, Pam. I'll go by what you think's best." Jerry Rothchild shouldered the phone against his ear and picked up another sheaf of printouts. "Sure, blue is okay with me. Yeah. Okay, purple's fine. Honey, look, you're the one with the taste. However you want to paint it will be wonderful, I'm sure." "Jerry?" Jim Sherman tapped on Rothchild's half-closed office door. "You busy?" "Come in," Rothchild gestured, frowning. "Pam, I gotta go. Come on, baby, I'm on company time. I'll see you tonight, sweetheart. G'bye." He dropped the receiver onto the hook with a resounding thunk. "Sherman, here's a little tip for you. If I'm on the phone, I'm usually busy." "Sorry," Sherman said unrepentantly. "Finished the report on the Brighton case, and you said get it to you right away." "Come up with anything?" Jerry stacked the printouts on the corner of his desk and reached out for the report. Sherman hefted it into his hand and shrugged. "I know you said it's connected to those other two deaths, but I couldn't find any common thread." Sherman looked around the office. "Damn. Place still smells new." "It used to be a closet," Rothchild answered dryly. "Well, I'm just a lowly ASAC, I don't rate a view." "Work hard, get promoted again," Sherman suggested. "That way I can move up into your spot." "Yeah, in about thirty years. Look, take this down to Behavioral with the files for the other two. I know the slashes on the victims' left arms are some kind of signature. If there's no connection between the victims we've probably got a serial killer." "Let me keep it, Jerry," Sherman perked up. "Man, I could coast on something like that all the way to the top. Those fucking shrinks down there never give us anything to work with." "You had your chance," Jerry replied. "But I gotta talk to Patterson anyway. Go ahead and give me the files, I'll take 'em down there. And when we put together the VICAP team for this case, I'll mention your name to Reggie. Okay?" Sherman handed over the other case folders reluctantly. "Thanks, Jer," he said, and shuffled out. Rothchild shook his head as he gathered papers and folders. "Kid's socks always sag," he muttered out loud, feeling crummy for judging Sherman by the state of his footwear. The Investigative Support Unit occupied a small suite of offices at FBI Headquarters; the atmosphere was palpably different from the rest of the Hoover building, more academic, more white-collar. Jerry always felt like a flatfoot when he paced those halls. Patterson welcomed him with a weary glare. "Suppose you're sending down more work," he growled. "Your own fault for putting together such a good unit down here, Bill," Rothchild told him. "I see why you got that promotion," Patterson commented. "Congratulations. You're Assistant Special Agent in Charge now, yes?" "Under Reggie Pardue, you got it. Look, Bill, that's kind of what I need to speak with you about. Word is, you're trying to recruit some people out from under me. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call before you approach anyone in my section." Patterson's eyes narrowed behind his wire- rimmed glasses. His grey eyes and grey hair matched the flat grey of his dry voice. "Whom of your fine men am I supposedly after?" "Caden Garfield said--" Rothchild halted; Patterson's disgusted snort told him everything. "I wouldn't have Garfield if you tied a pair of Fox Mulders to his legs and sent them all three staggering down. He's a limiting influence, Agent Rothchild. I don't have time for this kind of foolishness. I've got a lot of your work to do." Jerry stiffened, but kept his temper. "Okay, long as you mentioned him, you think Spooky's too busy to confirm something for me?" "We can't find enough work for Agent Mulder," Patterson informed him. A glimmer of pride got lost in the light reflecting from his glasses. "He's busy as hell, but I guarantee he'll find the time to take a look at it for you. And as long as we're talking complaints, Jerry-- you tell your boys to credit Mulder when they get something off him. I'm tired of these VICAP morons wandering down to steal a cup of brilliance from the ISU. I hear one of his profiles from one of your agents just one more time and I'm lodging a formal complaint. Unless you want to put every scrap of paper through channels..." "I'll tell them," Rothchild said. "Where's his spot now? I'll drop it on his desk." "Two left turns," Patterson instructed. "And Rothchild? ASAC or no, that warning about credit goes for you, too." "Don't worry. I'll put his name in all caps." Jerry ducked down the hall and turned twice to find a nook even smaller than his new office, tucked in the heart of the ISU. "Spooky? You around?" The room looked empty. Then a head appeared behind the desk. "I'm here," the man said, almost cheerfully. "Is that the Hebrew dictionary I asked for?" "No, you definitely didn't ask for this," Jerry answered, waving the files in the air. "I wondered if I could get your opinion on something." "'Dyou clear it with Patterson?" Fox Mulder picked himself up from the floor of his office and dusted off the knees of his slacks. "'Cause he already busted my ass about taking on work from Violent Crimes." "What're you doing back there?" Mulder stepped back and Jerry squeezed past his crowded desk to see the crime photos arranged on the floor. Each black and white square, a human death, lined up neatly like macabre grey tiles. "This one's tricky," Mulder commented. "Victims are all second-generation Russian Jews. Everyone thinks it's a hate crime, but I know it's a single killer." Rothchild blinked. "What makes you so so sure?" The younger man gave him a strange, wide smile. "Instinct," he said. "That, and good ol' behavioral indicators. You want to talk psychology, or do you want me to look at your case?" Rothchild eagerly surrendered the case files. "I just want to know if _my_ instincts are right," he explained. "Looks like a serial killer to me." Mulder flipped through the case file, pausing at photographs and scrutinizing the evidence. "Okay, you've got my vote," he said. "And I'll go straight ticket here and say he's escalating, he's smart, and catching him will probably take two more victims before he gets sloppy. If you want a working profile you'll have to give me some time." Jerry frowned, his brows folding up. "Christ, Spooky, how many of these things have you done?" "Today?" Mulder asked. Jerry stared at him, wondering if this was an example of the infamous Fox Mulder mouth he'd heard so much about. But the younger man had returned to the photo montage on the floor; he toed one picture out of line and furrowed his brow. "Oral fixation," Jerry heard him murmur. "Probably a smoker." "Okay," Rothchild said, "if you're willing to give me a profile I'll leave this stuff with you. Where's your In box?" "You're standing in it." Jerry sighed and scratched his greying crew cut with a scowl. "Put it this way-- where do you want me to leave these?" "Stack's over there," Mulder answered vaguely, his hand indicating half the small room. Jerry cautiously approached a tower of file folders on a small rickety table beside the desk. His fingers rifled over the ridges of the manila sheaves until he lost count of the number; he flipped open a few of the top cases to find typed reports and scores of crime scene photographs. Considered his own caseload and counted himself lucky. "What's with this room, anyway? The way they sing your praises I'd think you'd have a better spot than this." "Patterson," the younger man answered at once. "It makes sense, though. I'm usually out on the road anyway, so there's no point in wasting space on me." Something seemed to occur to Mulder; his broad shoulders drew up and his lean frame angled toward Rothchild. "You hear why I'm stuck in DC?" he asked. "Not really," Jerry lied. "What'd you hear?" Mulder persisted. Rothchild grimaced. "They say you had a real hard time at John Burnett's trial, Spooky. Say it's got more to do with the case you were on than it did with Burnett." Mulder's jaw squared with tension as his throat worked. "It had fuck all to do with the case I was on," he said tightly. "Burnett killed two men, one of them one of our own. I had a clear shot." "I've heard all about this part from Reggie," Jerry interceded, "and everyone knows you couldn't take that shot. Any of us would have done the same thing. You don't shoot in a hostage situation." His eyes closed with disappointment as Mulder said, "Yeah. I know. I know." Rothchild cleared his throat. "So they're keeping you in DC for a while? Maybe they figure you need a break from travelling all the time." "Like hell," Mulder said. "They just want to squeeze as many profiles as they can out of me so they can say they gave it their best shot. But they won't let me try to _catch_ these guys." His foot drew back as though to kick the photos on the floor, but Mulder caught himself and flung himself into his desk chair instead. "What do you want me to do about it?" Jerry asked, sensing a request lurking somewhere in the younger man's frustration. Mulder leaned forward over the piles of paper composting on his desk. "I'm doing a lot of work for VICAP. If someone up there tapped me for an investigation, I could get out of here and do some _real_ work." "Spooky, you're the best analyst they've got down here!" Jerry blurted. "This?" He rolled a hand dismissively over the heaps of work before him. "This is color-by- numbers. Anyone can do this. But if I could get out on the cases, I know-- look at this." Mulder scooped a file folder from the tumble of paperwork and thrust it at Rothchild. "Hargrove sent this one down. Serial murders in Utah. The guy's killed three federal cartographers who were inspecting the grounds near what used to be atomic testing sites. Suspect's a white male, born disfigured in some manner, lives in Utah and blames his deformity on radiation from those tests. If I could get out there I could catch this guy, Jerry. I know it. But that's not gonna happen unless someone overrides Patterson." Rothchild's eyes dropped to avoid the younger man's hot, beseeching gaze. "Look, you may not place a lot of value on what you're doing here, Spooky, but this is important work." "I could do this bullshit anywhere. I'm just asking you to think about it, okay? Think it over." "Why didn't you ask Reggie?" Mulder's answer dragged itself out of him. "Reggie'd do it because we know each other. Because he wants me to come back to VICAP. I don't want to start playing that game." Jerry Rothchild heaved a breath and said, "I'll talk to Section Chief Blevins about putting you on one of our investigations. But don't hold your breath." The younger man nodded quickly and gave Jerry an earnest look. "Thank, Jer. That's all I'm asking." * * * end part one summer@camelot.bradley.edu From math.ohio- state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!howland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!info.ucla.edu!unixg.ub c.ca!rover.ucs.ualberta.ca!news Wed Jul 31 10:08:53 1996 Article: 22104 of alt.tv.x-files.creative Path: math.ohio- state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!howland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!info.ucla.edu!unixg.ub c.ca!rover.ucs.ualberta.ca!news From: slyseng@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca (Susan) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW > Passing Acquaintance < 2/2 by Summer Date: Tue, 30 Jul 1996 22:45:29 GMT Organization: University of Alberta Lines: 539 Message-ID: <4tnmr1$f74@pulp.ucs.ualberta.ca> Reply-To: summer@camelot.bradley.edu NNTP-Posting-Host: async16-1.remote.ualberta.ca X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Status: RO please direct all comments/feedback to Summer at summer@camelot.bradley.edu--not to me :) ------------------------------------------------------------------ The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and related concepts belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting, and other people who aren't me. Used without direct permission. No infringement of copyright intended. The rest is c.1996 Amanda Summers. Feedback craved. I'm summer@camelot.bradley.edu and i appreciate and answer all mail. Eternal thanks to Saint Susan, who posts my stories for me. A Passing Acquaintance An X-Files Story by Summer part two/two "All I'm asking is just a little more time," Mulder said. Rothchild groaned inwardly and reached for the roll of Tums in his top desk drawer. "I don't have any more time to give you, Spooky," he replied. "ISU is already breathing down my neck because you've let up on your Behavioral caseload. I know you think you've got a corner on this case, but I can't figure out why you dug it out of the unsolved files in the first place. I can't authorize any more of your time for this investigation." "Why do _you_ have to authorize _my_ time?" "Because your time is one of my resources. One of the Bureau's resources. A valuable resource that I can't afford to squander on a case as vague and unsubstantiated as this one." "Three missing, two dead-- vague and unsubstantiated?" Jerry stood up. "I've read your report and I've made my decision, Agent Mulder. Your request is denied. That's how we have to handle things in VICAP. If you don't want to deal with it, you can always go back to the ISU." "I never left the ISU!" Mulder leaned forward, spread his hands parallel over Jerry's desk like a faith healer summoning the spirit to the fore. "Jer, I've been doing profiles and taking on your cases, I've been driving myself into the ground to keep it all going. I want to work with these files here in VC but my cases keep getting struck down. Is Patterson putting you up to this?" Rothchild snorted. "Patterson wouldn't care if you decided to solve the Jack the Ripper murders, Spooky, long as you kept up your profiles. This is down from the Section Chief, hell, he may even have gone to the Assistant Director. You got a lot of people pulling for you, but you're pissing it all away on these X-File cases. What's the deal? The guys call you Spooky so you decided to take it to heart?" Mulder's expression contorted, almost a snarl; he shook his head and lifted his chin, started to walk out. Suddenly he drew up short and confronted Jerry again. "You remember the story you told at the Masquerade Ball, back in '86?" Taken aback, Jerry said, "Sure." "It was true. Wasn't it?" "Yes." The answer escaped him before he had a chance to think about it, expanding in the open air. It could not be called back and packed up and hidden away again. Agent Mulder's disappointment lit his dark eyes. "Why did you lie?" Jerry could only shrug. "I don't know." "I can't, Jer." Mulder's brow buckled with the force of his intensity. "I can't let it go. I can't turn it into a story and say it's not true." Rothchild closed his eyes. "Is that all, Agent Mulder?" "Am I dismissed?" Sarcasm welled up in his voice like blood from a wound. "Yeah, get outta here." Jerry waited til Mulder was out of the office, popped a Tums into his mouth and began to chew ruminatively. The chalky tablet disintegrated into paste; he swallowed, mildly disgusted, and picked up the phone. Just listening to it ring did wonders for his overtaxed blood pressure. "Hello, Megan. Hello, sweetie. Is mommy there? Can I talk to mommy, angel? Thank you. You're such a good girl. Thank you. Hi, Pam... tired? I was thinking about trying to get out of here early and doing something together tonight. Think Megan's old enough for a movie? Well, I hate screaming kids when I go to movies. Of course I think you can control her. Sure, she behaves at home, but do you think-- okay, then. Oh, I don't know. You can pick, I don't even know what's out. I don't know, hon, I've never heard of that. I gotta go, Pam. I'll call you when I'm about to head home, okay? Love you." Rothchild replaced the receiver and aimed his eyes with effort towards the cubicles beyond his office window. "Dammit," he muttered, sighting a congregation of agents starting to form. "Hey, Jerry, join the party," Sherman half- smirked as Rothchild emerged from his office like a lowering storm cloud. "Yeah, what gives with Spooky?" Walters squinted at Jerry. "I see some residue there, been hitting the Tums again?" Caden Garfield leaned back in his desk chair. "Don't blame him. Spooky's enough to make anyone sick." Rothchild wiped his mouth swiftly and glared at the agents under his command. "Don't you gentlemen have crimes to solve?" "We're doing paperwork," Walters and Sherman chorused, each brandishing a fan of half-filled forms. Hargrove passed by, backpedaled, shoved into the group and exchanged mirthful glances with Walters. Jerry sighed. This was his downfall; he could never manage to crack down on his men. Every time they accreted around a desk and started in with scuttlebutt, he'd try to dispell them, but then he'd think about all the overtime they put in, all the weekends and all the work. And let them talk. He could, at least, try to change the subject. "Is Carpenter back yet?" Hargrove grimaced. "Still at the dry cleaners." "How many chances is that guy gonna get?" Sherman asked belligerently. "I mean, he's flunked out of AA how many times now?" "How many chances are they going to give wonder boy?" countered Garfield, lips thinning. "This is the sixth or seventh case he's pulled up out of the basement and wouldn't back off from. Jerry had to beat him off this one with a stick, didn't you, Jerry?" "Mulder does good work," Rothchild defended wearily. "Great work. I'm just trying to get him to focus on his stuff for the ISU." Walters snorted, "If I was Spooky I'd try anything to stay out of the ISU, too. They won't ever let him transfer, though." "Hell no! You see the stuff he did for the Carrie killer? Fucking psychic," Hargrove declared. "Patterson's gonna turn the unit over to Spooky when he retires. That's what I heard." "Like Patterson'd ever retire," Garfield grumbled. "Carrie killer?" Sherman asked. "Before your time, Jim," Walters told him. "Everything was before Jim's time. You're what, fifteen now, Jim?" Hargrove chuckled. "Fuck you," Sherman said good-naturedly, "I was here, I just never heard much about it." Rothchild said, "Sick case. All the victims had been-- it was like in that movie _Carrie_, the killer poured their blood back over them." "Surprised Spooky didn't think it was a vampire," Garfield inserted. "What'd you all hear about that so-called case of pneumonia he took off for, last fall?" Jerry, shocked, darted anxious glances around the circle of men. None of them seemed surprised. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. So much for keeping that a secret. "The guy hasn't taken a vacation since-- since Jerry's hair was still yellow," Walters grinned. "He's entitled." Garfield snorted, "Entitled to go totally apeshit? He needed time, he should have taken time. Nobody's irreplaceable." The remark, casually made, fell into the conversation and lay there like a dead thing. Rothchild interceded. "Look, Mulder got overworked, he got the flu, and it turned into pneumonia. It's not that unusual. Sure, he should have taken off as soon as he got sick, but he was deep into the case. Anyway, he was fine after he got back from leave." "Except that he keeps making these detours into the basement," Hargrove observed. "Spooky went crazy," Garfield said flatly. "All I want to know is, how could they tell? It couldn't've been much of a difference." Jerry cast a disapproving glance at Caden Garfield, taking in the sharp creases of his suit and the waves of his flawlessly styled hair. This guy had never laid crime scene photos on the floor to study them, had never gotten down on his knees to examine the evidence. Spooky always looked like he'd stepped out of a recruiting film in the morning, and he always went home looking like he'd been hit by a Mack truck. "You bunch may not agree with the way Mulder thinks," he inflected carefully, "but he's the best analyst around." "That doesn't mean he rates the kind of coddling he gets down in ISU," Garfield bounced back. "Coddling?" Walters choked. "Have you ever seen Patterson lay into him? Man, I felt like scattering sawdust last time I heard those two get into it." "Spooky gives everybody lip," Hargrove contributed. "Patterson doesn't put up with that bullshit." "Spooky didn't say a damn thing to him but yessir, nossir," Walters argued. "Look, I worked with the guy when he partnered with Reggie. He's fucking strange, no denying, and he got treated like God's gift to the FBI right from the start-- but he solves the damn cases. That's what we're here for, right?" Rothchild smiled like a shark. "That's right. So get back to solving those cases, gentlemen. That's what you're here for. G'won, scatter." He waited, watching, until the bunch of them dispersed. Garfield rolled his chair back to his cubicle and muttered, just within Jerry's range of hearing, "Up the efficiency ratings, and you can get away with murder." Jerry froze, anger chilling his spine, but chose not to hear Garfield's comment. He returned to his small office, shut the door, and scuffed a tired hand through his grey crew cut. Picked up the phone without examining his motions too closely and dialled. "Spooky? Rothchild. Look, I... just found a little time laying around the office. Spare day or two. Think you can bring your case in, if I gave it to you? I thought so." * * * "I thought this meeting was about my efficiency ratings?" Section Shief Blevins raised his bearlike head a fraction of an inch, pinioning Jerry with a grizzly glare. "Do you have a problem with this line of inquiry, Rothchild?" Jerry squirmed despite himself. "No, sir." "Do you care to answer the question?" He saw that trap waiting for his foot and circumvented it. "The answer," he said carefully, "is that Agent Scully has provided extremely helpful forensic evidence as a result of her examinations. She has discovered details that have aided in the solution of several cases. So I've taken to requesting her involvement in forensic examinations when it appears that the evidence from such an examination would be of paramount importance." Blevins nodded gravely. Jerry's churning gut relaxed. He'd finally mastered the language, it seemed. Not bad for a street cop from Chi-town, recruited raw and barely able to hold his own at the Academy. "Can you explain why you find Agent Scully to be so incredibly helpful?" Blevins persisted. Jerry moaned to himself. He'd need a gallon of Mylanta and a tall stack of Tums after this meeting. "Well, sir, I've never met Agent Scully, just talked with her on the phone. But I believe her work speaks for itself." What a dodge. He felt like cheering. Blevins' heavy glasses shadowed his lined and patient face. "Agent Scully's work is not in question. However, your repeated requests for her opinion on forensic examinations have begun to infringe upon her primary duty, teaching at Quantico." Translation: his requests for Agent Scully's expertise had been noticed by other pathologists, who didn't like what that implied about their own abilities. Jerry wondered how he'd manage to choke down enough Tums to recover from this. "I believe that Agent Scully's background in medicine and science give her an added advantage in pursuing evidence for many investigations," he said finally. "Particularly Agent Mulder's cases," Blevins noted calmly. Bring on the stomach pump. To hell with it. Jerry gave up and reverted to plain cop talk. "A lot of pathologists tend to gloss over anything out of the ordinary," he reported. "Agent Scully never takes anything for granted. That's particularly important on Agent Mulder's cases..." "Which are most definitely out of the ordinary," Blevins commented. Jerry just inclined his head in acknowledge- ment. He'd long since been taken to task for signing off on Mulder's X-File investigations. And long since resigned himself to a career as an ASAC, with no further chance of promotion. "Agent Scully's examinations are the most rigorous I have ever seen," he said honestly. "If she says something isn't there, it's not there." Blevins nodded again, his expression never deviating from a constant mask of mild interest. "Thank you, Agent Rothchild. That'll be all." "Thankyousir." Jerry bustled from Blevins' office and hurried to the safety of his own former closet. Relaxed and picked up the phone. "Hi, Megan. How are you today? Well, I miss you too, angel. No, that's okay. I don't need to talk to mommy. I just wanted to call and see how you're doing. Are your cartoons back on? Oh, that's good. I like Captain Planet too. Yeah, sweetie, the FBI recycles. Okay, I'm going to go back to work now. I love you too, Megan. I love you so much. I'll see you tonight." The receiver barely touched the hook when the phone shrilled a ring. Jerry lifted it again. "Jerry Rothchild, Esquire." He heard a dry laugh on the other end. Just as he'd suspected. Mulder. "Fingernail marks on your ankles, Jer?" "And tooth marks on my ass. Anyone ever tell you what a sadistic bastard you are, Mulder?" "Let me count the ways." Mulder's voice dropped. "Seriously. You know I don't mean to get the heat put on you. I'm trying to make other arrangements, but it's slow, you know?" "Other arrangements? Don't tell me. I don't want to know." Jerry drew a roll of Tums from his desk and tore the wrapper in a slow, continuous spiral as the tablets fell out one by one. "Nah, you weren't even the big reason I got chewed out this time. Don't sweat it, Spooky." Jerry was one of the few who could still occasionally invoke the old nickname without triggering Mulder's ire. "In that case," Mulder said cannily, in a plying tone that made Jerry sigh and plunge into the desk for more Tums, "do you have any more time you can spare me? I think I'm onto something..." * * * "Spare me, Pam. I don't have time for this right now." Jerry covered his open ear with one hand and kicked his office door shut. "What does that mean, find yourself? What about yourself do you need to find? Don't even start. Pam, if I hear the words `inner child' cross your lips I'll hang up. I can't-- fine. You know what, that's just fine. Sue away. No. No. No. Listen to me closely, Pamela. If you can't even find your goddamn self, how are you going to look after a little girl? Like hell. No. Then I'll see you in court." The phone slammed and Jerry, unable to suppress one moment of rage, shouted "BITCH!" at the world. "Hey, Jer!" Sherman popped his head in the door. "C'mon, history's in the making. You don't want to miss this." Rothchild flinched, but Sherman had already withdrawn back into VICAP proper. Jerry gave himself a minute crouched at his desk, then reminded himself how long he'd seen this coming and forced himself to stand up and emerge from his closet. "What's the deal?" he demanded. Sherman merely pointed excitedly down the hall towards the elevators. Rothchild scrutinized Jim Sherman for a moment; he still had the rookie sheen on his face. His socks still sagged. Jerry turned his attention down the hall. A short, red-haired woman in a trim power suit was taking a stand just in front of the elevators, her chin thrust stubbornly forward. Rolling his eyes, Jerry said, "I thought I told you boys not to ogle your colleagues--" "C'mon, Scully, you've got to admit it's within the realm of possibility." Spooky Mulder's voice. Jerry blinked. That was Mulder's voice, but with a note of conciliation threaded through his tone that Jerry had never heard, would never have expected from him. The redhead replied, "Extreme possibility, yes, Mulder, I'll grant you. But I'm not interested in investigating extreme possibilities. I'm interested in solving this case." "And I'm telling you that to solve these cases you're going to have to be a little more open to extreme possibilities." Mulder inched into Jerry's view, his height emphasizing the woman's petite stature. "That's your opinion," the woman answered, her tone clearly implying that it was a view she did not share. Jerry exchanged amazed looks with Sherman, only then noticing that Walters and Hargrove were also lined up for the show. "That's right," Mulder told her. "What's yours?" He lifted a case file between them. "What do you think, Scully?" Genuine solicitude in his voice, real interest in his posture. Jerry rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The elevator dinged; Agent Scully let her head fall back, pursing her mouth as she met Mulder's eyes. She plucked the file from his hands. "Let me review the evidence," she said, and disappeared into the elevator. Jerry watched as Mulder smiled broadly and put his hand over his heart as though he had been struck, or as though making a pledge. And then Agent Mulder vanished into the elevator as well. Sherman whistled low. "I can't believe it. She lived." "He asked for her opinion!" Walters prodded Jerry. "He never does that! Spooky never cares what anyone else thinks!" Despite everything, Jerry grinned. "Spooky doesn't," he agreed. "But maybe Mulder does." Rothchild shook his head. "Show's over, gentlemen. Back to work." Jerry hooked his office door shut and picked up the phone. "Megan? Hello, angel. How are you doing? Is everything okay? Do you like it at Grandma's? That's good. You did? Wow! That's great. Oh. I miss you too, honey. I miss you most. More than that. More than chocolate, even." Jerry Rothchild let tears rise in his eyes, careful to keep them out of his voice. "I love you, too. Do I-- hm? Do I know any spooky stories? I suppose I do, Megan. Yeah, I guess I do." * * * the end -------Summer-Daze--summer@rhf.bradley.edu-OR-@camelot.bradley.edu-------