From: Glymax <Glymax@aol.com>
Date: Wed, 25 Mar 1998 20:47:44 EST
Subject: Perspectives VI: Alone On Loan (1/2) Glymax


PERSPECTIVES IV: ALONE ON LOAN (1/2)
by Glymax

glymax@aol.com

Rating: R (for language)
Category:  S
Spoilers: alluding to facts through Season IV
Summary: Mulder is "loaned out" to assist on an old case.

Author Notes:
A couple months ago, I wrote a story that chronicled "a day in the
life" of our heroes told from Scully's POV. Someone suggested that
try something similar told from Mulder's view.


Extra special thanks to Meredith - for going way above and beyond the
call of duty on this one.



The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files"
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission.
No copyright infringement is intended.


Please send any comments to glymax@aol.com



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PERSPECTIVES IV: ALONE ON LOAN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


      If I ever had any questions as to whether AD Skinner liked me
or not, they have all been answered today. And the answer is
unequivocally - no.

      Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh and maybe I'm taking this just a
little too personally. I have been a pain in the ass lately and I'm
sure he saw this as an opportunity to make the pain go away for
awhile. Literally.

      So when ASAC Phillips of the Phoenix office called crying and
whining to the AD, Skinner's temporary ticket to paradise was written
and cashed in.

      I wonder if he even thought about his answer before he told
Phillips that I was on my way.

      Of course, when he broke the news to me he was apologetic and
full of flattery. "I know you're no longer working with the ISU."
"Hate to take you away from your responsibilities on the X-Files."
"It will only be a few days." "You're the only one who knows this
guy's MO inside and out."

      As I sat across from him, separated by the vast expanse of his
desk, the only thought that popped into my head was: You stinkin' son
of a bitch.

      He was punishing me, reprimanding me, reminding me who was in
charge, and doing it all under the guise of intra-Bureau cooperation.

      I was handed a one-way ticket to Phoenix - gee, that was fast -
and a small case file. Phillips, he said, would brief me on the rest
when I arrived. Your mission, should you decided to accept..... Only
problem was, I wasn't given a choice.

      I looked in the ticket jacket, obliquely checking the flight
and time, but what I was really looking for was the number of tickets.
Just as I suspected - only one.

      "Sir? What about Agent Scully?" I know I sounded whiny and I
hated myself for it.

      Skinner cleared his throat. "Agent Scully will remain here. I
have a case that will require her expertise."

      "But if a pathologist is needed....." Now, I was begging. Great.

      "There is a pathologist already assigned to case."

      "I......."

      Skinner didn't even let me finish totally degrading myself. He
stood, his powerful build blocking out the light coming from the
window behind him. "That will be all, Agent Mulder."

      Game, set, and match. I was going to Phoenix alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      I try not to slam the office door, but it swings shut with a
resounding bang. Scully jumps in her seat.

      She eye-balls me as I stalk to my desk and throw myself into
the chair.

      "Problem?" she asks, her eyebrow arching in response to my
behavior.

      "This," I say, flinging the case file Skinner gave me onto her
desk.

      She leans over and picks up the file, settling back in her
seat to read. After a moment, she looks up. "I don't understand.
This isn't an X-File, is it?"

      "No," I shoot back. I am in full brooding mood now.

      "So why are we taking this case?"

      "*We* aren't. Skinner's sending me. He's got other plans for
you."

      Scully shakes her head, clearly confused. "Why?"

      My chair creaks and groans as I lean way back. One of these
days, this old chair is going to take revenge and dump my ass on the
floor. "According to what I was told, it's because I worked this case
the first time."

      Again, the eyebrow goes up. I wonder if it's a natural reaction
or if she sits in front of the mirror and practices? "The first time?"

      "I worked on the case under Reggie. VICAP called it Sandtrap.
Vic Dillman, the SandMan, killed and after-the-fact raped six young
women, then buried their remains in the sand. Didn't matter where:
beach, desert, golf course - just as long as it was sand. He was a
tough guy to catch because he was constantly on the move. But he
was always kind enough to leave us a clue."

      "Copycat?" Scully asks, skimming through the file again.

      I shake my head, even though she isn't looking my direction.
"Nope. Same guy."

      Her head snaps up. "He's not in prison?"

      I sigh. "He was up until about a month ago. Seven years and a
hundred appeals later, he was released on a technicality. He wasn't
properly Mirandized by the Long Beach PD. It took his lawyers this
long to finally convince a judge that his rights had been violated."

      "And the killing has started again?"

      "Apparently so."

      Suddenly, I am tired. My eyes itch and I can feel the
faint throbbing of an encroaching headache.

      Scully stands and gently places the folder on the desk in front
of me. "I could ask Skinner if I ...."

      I rudely cut her off. "Already tried that, Scully. The ASAC has
put together his *team*, including his own pathologist."

      God, you can't help but love her. She smiles sympathetically,
knowing how I hate being part of a 'team'. I'd managed to avert the
near-nauseous seminar in Florida, only to be thrown into a pit of
by-the-book, banner-waving, "go-team" yokels under the command of
Raymond Phillips.

      She reassuringly patted my hand. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      It's funny, in an ironic way. I'm on the road all the time with
Scully, so I'm used to the preparation. Sometimes we know in advance
that we will be out of town; at other times we leave on a moment's
notice. So why is it such a chore for me to get ready for this case?
Everything I have to do is a major ordeal.

      I've been standing in front of my closet for five minutes now,
trying to decide what and how much to pack. I mean, it's not like I'm
going into this case cold. Skinner was right, I know how this guy
thinks. It should simply be a matter of figuring out where he will
strike next. We need to pull the evidence together and lock this guy
away for good this time. Two... three days, tops.

      I sigh. It's not going to be that easy. It never is.

      Finally, frustrated with my own indecision, I grab three suits,
six shirts, and five of my most obnoxious ties. Let 'em talk about my
choice in neckwear; it adds to the "Spooky" mystique.

      The other thing I had to do today was clean the fish tank. I
don't know why I keep fish, they receive constant neglect. But I like
having them with me in this lonely apartment. The psychologist in me
thinks it's the fact that they are living creatures. I need to be
reminded that living is good. I need to remember that I can be
responsible for the life of another, that I can take care of
something small and fragile. Well, most of the time. Luckily, fish
are very resilient.

      The packing is done, the tank is clean, the files are in order
in my briefcase. I'm ready to go. So why do I feel like I'm being
exiled?

      It's been a long time since I have worked on a case without
Scully. Not since the closing of the X-Files. Not since she was taken
away and I thought I might never see her again. She'd vanished, just
like Samantha.

      Maybe that's why I'm in this funk? The situation is a constant
reminder of how things were, of how they might yet be. It's too soon
to be reminded. I just got her back and now it's me that's going away.

      I feel tears pricking at the corner of my eyes, my thoughts
already dwelling where they shouldn't. I need to get my mind on the
case. I need to get into this guy's head, figure out what he's got
planned before another innocent life is lost.

      But it is Scully who is still on my mind.

      Sometimes I still call her at night; it was a habit I developed
early in our partnership. When I would wake from a particularly bad
nightmare or when life in general was bringing me down, I could
always talk to Scully. Not about what was really bothering me; that
wasn't the important part. It was hearing her voice, her quiet
reassurance that everything would be okay that made the difference.

      I pick up the phone and dial her number.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      I managed to drag myself to the airport for the 8 am flight.
I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.

      That's not unusual before the beginning of a case. But usually
it's because I'm so wired, so wound up that sleep is impossible. Last
night felt different. Even my call to Scully didn't totally alleviate
my nervousness about this trip. Problem is, I can't figure out why.

      I didn't even look at the case file last night - shame on you,
Agent Mulder, the little man on my right shoulder reprimanded.

      The flight to Phoenix is packed, and of course, the nitwit at
the Bureau who made the travel arrangements booked me a window seat.
No one was going to make this easy for me. I had high hopes of
swapping to an aisle seat, but they were dashed when I saw the
elderly couple occupying seats B & C. Older people are smart - they
never give up the seat with easy access.

      So I sit, scrunched in the chair, my knees pinned painfully to
the seatback in front of me, and try to concentrate on the file. The
lady sitting next to me is rather curious and I caught her
attempting to sneak a look at the pictures that were included. I
discreetly turned them over. No need to give anybody heart failure.

      The MO on this new case reads like a textbook when compared to
the previous six. Young woman, strangled, signs of sexual trauma
after death, buried in a sand trap at the seventh hole on the most
prestigious golf course in Scottsdale. Ol' Vic sent out a message and
it was received loud and clear. Any rookie cop could have put two and
two together and came up with four on this one. Now, the hard part
was figuring out where he would go next.

      We hit a lot of turbulence over Oklahoma and the 727 is
bouncing around like a ship in rough seas. I pride myself in the fact
that I am a good flyer; a few dips never really bother me, but this
is borderline ridiculous. If Scully had been with me, I would have
had to pry her hands off the armrest at the end of the flight. As it
is, Gladys Kravitz in the seat next to me is starting to turn a
peculiar shade of green. After my head smacks against the window for
the third time, I give up and put the file away. I am starting to
feel a little unsettled myself.

      By the time we finally touched down in sunny Phoenix, my head
and stomach are dancing a nice marimba.

      I am met at the gate by one of the youngest, greenest agents I
have ever seen. He can't be more than two weeks out of the
academy. Obviously, there was no contest at the field office as to
who would come and get me. 'Your first assignment, whip over to the
airport and collect Spooky Mulder.' I bet the look on his face was
priceless.

      He introduces himself and shakes my hand with his clammy one.
The kid is probably scared shitless.

      The ride back to the office is quiet. The Kid, as I have
decided to call him, pretends to be concentrating on the road,
despite the light traffic. But I catch him, more than once, glancing
at me out of the corner of his eye. I'd yell "Boo" or do
something totally unexpected if I thought we wouldn't end up wrapped
around a pole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      The scene at the office was one I have seen repeated a hundred
times. I'm used to it now, so it doesn't bother me as much. Raucous
noise and a general sense of pandemonium until I set foot inside the
door, then dead silence.

      Phillips comes over and grabs my hand, shaking it with more
enthusiasm than the situation warrants.

      "Glad you could make it, Agent Mulder." "Tough case, Agent
Mulder." "Can we get the profile today, Agent Mulder?"

      Sure, no problem, I'll whip it right out. I haven't even got my
coat off for God's sake.

      After I explain that it would be really helpful if I could
have just an iota more information on the case first, the police
files are shoved into my hands.

      Police reports, M.E. examination, all fairly straight forward.
No witnesses, the closest thing we have is the poor greenskeeper who
found the body. Imagine his surprise when he was raking the ruffled
sand in the trap and ended up with a body.

      I've been studying the evidence for about an hour. Phillips has
been hovering over my shoulder like a vulture waiting for its meal to
die. Finally, he can't take it any more.

      "Any insights, Agent Mulder?"

      I shake my head. I want to ask how he possibly thought I
could concentrate with him hanging around, but I bite my tongue. I can
almost hear Scully, my voice of conscience, telling me to play nice.

      "Nothing definite," I tell him. "I'm pretty sure this is the
same guy, though."

      Phillips cocks his head in surprise. "Pretty sure?"

      "Well, until we get an eye-witness or a confession, nothing is
concrete. There's still the chance that this is the work of a copycat
or someone who wants to get back at Vic by making it look like he's
our man."

      "But the MO..." Phillips stammers.

      "Is well known. Let's not jump to conclusions."

      God. Is that me saying those things? I'm sounding more like
Scully all the time. Proof, Mulder. Where's the proof?

      Phillips isn't particularly impressed with me right now, I can
see it written on his face. I think he was expecting more. Expecting
that I would walk into the office and immediately be able to give him
a complete rundown on the UNSUB - be totally spooky. I almost tell
him to cut me some slack. <Dammit Jim, I'm a psychologist, not a
psychic.>

      I try not to smile at my memory of the old Star Trek series,
but it's impossible.

      "Something funny?" Phillips asks, already completely annoyed
with me.

      I glance at my watch. One hour, nine minutes - it's a new world
record, ladies and gentlemen. Agent Mulder is still the reigning
champion of "Piss off your Supervisor".

      I swipe a hand over my face and scrub the smile away. "No, sir.
I'm just a little tired. I need some time to look over the files more
carefully."

      Phillips scratches his balding head, his face twisting in an
uncertain grimace. He taps his foot, looks around the room, snorts a
couple of times - he's trying not to get impatient with me. Finally,
he sighs and looks me straight in the eye. "Okay. But we need this
profile ASAP. You know the MO, this guy's not going to sit tight. If
he moves it may take us days or weeks to track him down. There's a
lot riding on this, Mulder. This is high profile and the big boys want
this mess cleaned up pronto. I don't need the extra stress."

      I nod my head in understanding. He's right, he doesn't need the
added pressure, he's strung so tight right now that if I touch him
he'd sing like a tuning fork. "I'll do my best, sir."

      Good placation, Agent Mulder. See, Scully, I'm playing nice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      It's getting late and my stomach grumbles its complaint of lack
of food. I guess coffee doesn't count as a nutritional substitute.

      The Kid quietly slides up to the desk I've commandeered in the
back of the office. I can see him out of the corner of my eye,
fidgeting, waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. I decide to
wait him out. C'mon Kid, get some balls.

      Finally he makes his move. "Uh..... Agent Mulder?" he hisses in
a hushed whisper.

      I snap my head up and give him a glare. He jumps, but stands
his ground. Attaboy.

      He shuffles his feet and I can see him swallow reflexively,
trying to get the words out. "Um.... I'm going for food. Tex-Mex.
Down the street. Poco's. Real good."

      Sure. Fine. Whatever. "Great, how about a chicken and veggie
Fajita, easy on the hot sauce." I'm not big on Tex-Mex, it tends to
irritate my stomach, but beggars can't be choosers and I'm famished.

      The Kid dutifully writes down my order, carefully underlining
the 'light on the hot sauce' part. He wants to make sure it's right.
I wonder what the hell his fellow agents have been telling him about
me.

      As he turns away from the desk, obviously relieved at getting
that task out of the way, I call him back. He stops, tenses, and
slowly pivots. The look on his face is pitiful.

      "Yes, sir?"

      "While you're out, would you mind picking me up a packet of
seeds?" I reach for my wallet, it's easier to pay for it myself than
to explain it on an expense report.

      When I look up, The Kid is staring at me like I'm speaking in
tongues. "Sorry, sir. What do you want?"

      I roll my eyes. "Seeds."

      "Seeds?" he asks slowly as if sounding out the word for the
first time.

      I nod. "Sunflower seeds."

      "Sunflower seeds?"

      I'm starting to get a little irritated.  "Yeah, you know,
sunflower seeds. Small. Black. Kinda triangle shaped."

      "I know what they are," The Kid mutters under his breath.

      "Good. Then would you mind getting me some?" I hold out a five
dollar bill and he snatches it from my hand, turns and makes a
beeline for the door.

      I know I'm being rough on The Kid. I really kind of like him,
he seems decent enough, and I've been in his shoes - new kid on the
block. But he's going to have to start standing up for himself if
he's going to make it in this world. If he doesn't, he'll end up
somebody's flunky for the rest of his career.

      About half an hour later he's back, carrying a large paper bag,
the bottom of which is sporting some heavy-duty grease stains. But I
have to admit, it smells pretty damn good. Better than the slice of
roadkill masquerading as beef that the airline attendant tried to
give me on the way here.

      The Kid walks up to my desk and lays the fajita gently on the
corner. He pulls a small sack out of his pocket and tosses it next to
my dinner. I flash him a smile as I fish out the contents of the
little bag.

      Gourmet Pistachio nuts.

      I can feel the huge question mark forming on my forehead.

      The Kid swallows hard. "No sunflower seeds," he states simply.
"So I thought maybe this would be okay."

      I alternate my stare between him and the bag in my hands. I
finally pin him with a look that dares him to lie to me. He doesn't
flinch.

      Resignation settles in as I realize he is telling the truth and
is not the messenger of a collaborated office joke.

      "These are fine. Thanks," I tell him, although it's a lie. I
hate pistachios.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      It's after eleven and I can barely keep my eyes open. Even the
strong coffee is failing to do its job.

      The profile is almost done, only a few little wrinkles that I
just can't seem to iron out. But my gray matter has turned to mush,
so I know I'm no longer being productive.

      I get the attention of The Kid and wave him to my desk. He
saunters over somewhat reluctantly, but the fight has gone out of him.
He's worn out and he no longer seems to care who I am.

      "I'm beat," I tell him, "and you look like you've had it too.
Why don't you run me past a hotel and we'll call it a night?"

      He nods wearily and shuffles off to tell Phillips where he's
going. Five minutes later, we're pulling out of the field office
parking lot.

      He drives for a little while before pulling up in front of a
Hampton Inn. Scully would have been ecstatic; we rarely seem to find
nice places to stay when we are on the road.

      The Kid reaches in the pocket of his coat and pulls out a key
card. "We already got you a room."

      I'm taken back by the gesture and thank him before I get out.
"Somebody will see that you get to the office in the morning, Agent
Mulder," he says before he pulls off into the night.

      I wearily pick up my bags from the curb, waving off the bellhop,
and attempt to find room 457.

      It's really quiet in the hotel this time of the night. I guess
everyone is already in bed or still out enjoying the night life. I'm
all for option number one.

      The elevator bings softly as the door opens on the fourth floor
and miraculously my room is only a short distance away. I slide the
key card into the slot and am rewarded with a satisfying snap as the
lock releases. It's a small miracle, since these things are usually a
pain in the ass. It's one of the main reasons why I always try to
look for older hotels with big, metal keys. Scully would kill me if
she knew that.

      I push open the door and scrabble for the light switch,
flicking it up with my finger.

      "Waz'sa deal!" someone shouts as soon as the room is lit.

      I drop my bags and scramble for my gun; the adrenaline making
my heart pound furiously. I'm tired and I'm getting careless. Jeez,
oh God.

      Just as I get the gun from its holster, a voice calls out.
"Mulder? That you?"

      I almost make myself dizzy by looking up so quickly. I stare at
the figure lying in the bed and almost faint. Special Agent Bart
"The Fart" Winslow, forensic pathologist from Atlanta.

      It's a weird custom among FBI agents to give each other
nicknames. Usually, it's something cool, like "Trigger" or "Ace."
Sometimes, it reflects a special event in the agent's career: Agent
Graceson of the Memphis office is called "Hammer" because he managed
to capture a suspect with one. Sometimes the name is given purely
out of spite - "Spooky", for example. And still others are given just
because it fits.

      Unfortunately, Bart Winslow falls into that last category.

      Winslow is sitting up in bed now, staring at me with huge eyes.
I follow his line of sight and discover that I still have my gun
trained on him.

      "Sorry," I mumble as I put the gun away. "I must have the wrong
room. Somebody at the office gave me this key by mistake."

      Winslow pushes back the covers and sits on the edge of the bed,
a huge grin sliding across his face. "Nope. No mistake. We're
roomies."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

continued in part 2




PERSPECTIVES IV: ALONE ON LOAN (2/2)
by Glymax


glymax@aol.com


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      Now, with rare exception, it's been fairly close to ten years
since I've had a roommate and I don't particularly want to change
that precedent.  I look at the key in my hand, then back to Winslow,
my face twisting in a way that makes people wonder what I'm up to.

      Winslow is no exception. "What's the matter, Mulder? Shut the
door, it's getting late."

      I sigh heavily, knowing that I will have wait until morning to
straighten out this mess. I hang my suit bag in the closet and throw
my small carryon in the bathroom.

      "When did you get in?" Winslow asks from around the corner.

      I close my eyes and silently count to ten. I'm really not in
the mood for chit-chat. "I got in sometime this afternoon. Uh....
look Winslow, I'm going to grab a quick shower then get some sleep.
Okay? I'm sorry I woke you when I came in."

      I hear the sheets rustle as Winslow crawls back in bed. "Sure
thing. See you in the morning, Mulder."

      As soon as I get into the tiny bathroom, I turn on the shower
and the vents. A quick dig through my carryon and I find my phone. I
dial her number.

      It rings three times before she answers with a muffled hello.

      "Hey, Scully. It's me." Like someone else would call this time
of the night.

      "Mulder, it's after two."

      I grimace, having forgotten the time difference. "Sorry, Scully.
I just thought I'd let you know I got here in one piece."

      "Good. How's the case going?" she asks around a yawn.

      "Pretty much like I expected. So how about you?"

      Another yawn. "Skinner has me digging through a mountain of
autopsy reports from the TWA crash. I guess someone within the Bureau
has proposed a new........ Mulder, where are you?"

      I cock my head, perplexed by her sudden change in subject.
"Phoenix."

      "No. I'm mean right now. It sounds like it's raining."

      I'm a little embarrassed by this whole situation and I can feel
a slight blush creeping into my cheeks. I'd confirm that, but the
mirror as fogged up. "Um... I'm in the bathroom."

      There is nothing but silence on the other end of the line.
Finally, she asks, "Why?"

      "Long story. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what's
going on."

      She seems hesitant, but accepts my explanation. "Okay.
Goodnight, Mulder."

      I hit the end button and heave another sigh. Tomorrow is going
to be a long day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      I'm dreaming. Winslow and I are trapped in an underground
cavern where the air supply is running out. It's dark and hot and I
keep wondering where the hell Scully is and why she is taking her
sweet time rescuing me. Finally, I decide I can't wait for Scully any
longer, Winslow is driving me crazy, asking questions and
contaminating what little air remains. I pull the jacket I'm wearing
over my head in an attempt at self-suffocation. It's working; I can
feel myself slipping into oblivion. Then suddenly Winslow is at my
side, shaking me. "C'mon Mulder. Wake up." I try to turn away, but
he's persistent. He's pulling the jacket away from my face.......

      "Wakey, wakey."

      I open my eyes to a slit and see Winslow leaning over me, his
face mere inches from mine. A huge grin comes to his lips when I sees
that I'm awake.

      "Man, you sure are a tough guy to wake up. Let's get moving.
We've got a team breakfast at seven."

      I finger the blanket in my hands and consider my dream. Is
self-suffocation possible? I'm a little saddened when I realize it's
probably not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      There are twelve of us gathered together for this 'team
breakfast'. The Bureau has reserved a large table in the corner of
Mel's Diner - I kid you not.

      Mel's serves the traditional array of breakfast offerings,
including some with that "special southwestern flair". After the
dream I had this morning, I'm staying away from anything spicy. I
wish Winslow would do the same.

      The waitress comes back to take our orders and I'm disappointed
her name's not Alice or Flo. It's Rita.

      Rita goes around the table, writing down what we want on her
small pad, smacking her gum the entire time. When she gets to me she
stops and smiles. "Whadda ya have?" she asks in an accent that I
can't quite place.

      I hold the menu out to her. "Just coffee, please."

      "You sure?" Everyone else had ordered enough food to feed a
small army.

      I nod. "I'm sure."

      She grabs the menu and resumes her gum smacking. "Okay honey,
but if you change your mind, you let me know. Okay?"

      I nod for the second time and will her to go away. The rest of
the guys at the table are staring at me with a look of disdain.

      "You better eat something, Mulder," Winslow says. "We don't
want to have to stop for you passing out."

      The agent next to him snorts. "Probably not used to this kinda
food. I hear the food at Hoover is catered in from some fancy
restaurant."

      The agent on the other side of him adds his two cents. "I heard
he can't eat while he's on a case. Barfs it right back up and it's
green spew like in 'The Exorcist'."

      They all laugh at the stupid jibe.

      I just sit back and let them go. Assholes.

      Finally, the topic turns away from me and back to the case.
Apparently, we are all going to the crime scene - like that will be
remotely productive. We'll be stepping on each other just to get a
look and with all the extra footprints and people meandering about,
any hope of finding trace evidence will be nil.

      Phillips is at the other end of the table, spouting facts about
the suspect off the top of his head. He has appointed himself the
expert on The SandMan, even though he was not part of the original
investigation. He says he has read everything that was ever written
about this guy, official or otherwise.

      After an eternity of listening to Phillips' psychobabble, Rita
returns to the table carrying a tray laden with cardiac arrest
inducing platters and starts passing them out. I wasn't paying
attention when Winslow put in his order, so I was curious.

      A large plate of breakfast burritos with an extra side dish of
refried beans. Terrific. I'm *definitely* getting my own room tonight.

      She sets an extra large mug of coffee in front of me. It smells
heavenly and I'm able to forget about the sight in front of me;
eleven grown men eating like it's their last meal.

      The clock on the wall, an art-deco cat with a tail and eyes
that swing back and forth, reads seven-thirty. It's nine-thirty in DC
and I wonder what Scully is up to.

      We have a little ritual that we evoke when we are confined to
the office, buried neck deep in paper work. Nine-thirty is "break
time". Okay, so it's not that original, lots of people take a fifteen
minute break sometime during the morning - it's a  rule and
regulation of the government. But for us, it's a special luxury that
we used to take for granted. We'd think nothing of working through
breaks, lunch, dinner, bedtime.

      Until the cancer came. That changed a lot of things.

      At nine-thirty, we stop what we're doing - no matter what - and
just, well... take a break. It sounds banal and mundane, but it's
important to us. It gives us a chance to find out things about each
other that we would otherwise take for granted.

      For instance, I found out that Scully has a passion for the
cinnamon rolls from Cinnabon, the little ones that melt in your mouth.
I'd never seen her eat them before, in fact, she tends to shy away
from most sweets. But one day she came into the office with a package
tucked under her arm. She placed it on her desk without a word. At
nine-thirty, she refilled my coffee cup, then hers. I watched,
fascinated and curious. She picked up the package and left the office,
returning a minute later with half a dozen warm rolls on a paper
plate, which she put on my desk. She pulled her chair over to my desk
and we drank coffee, ate our snack, and talked. Nothing serious or
earth-shattering. Just the talk of bonded companionship.

      "......profile, Mulder?"

      I must have mentally wandered off. Everyone at the table is
looking expectantly at me and I don't even know why.

      Busted. "Excuse me?"

      "I asked when you would have our profile," Phillips said
impatiently.

      I lick my lips and try to buy some time to gather my thoughts.
"The majority of the profile is finished, it remains basically the
same as before," I tell Phillips, "but with only one incident, it's
difficult to nail down a truly defining signature, if his signature
has changed."

      The agent next to Phillips perks up. "Only one incident? What
are you waiting for Mulder, the guy to write you a note outlining his
plan? You're supposed to be this hotshot profiler. Or have the death
rays from all those little green men clouded your judgment?"

      Another round of chuckles and Phillips raises his hand to calm
them down.

      "Are you saying you don't have anything new to contribute?"
Phillips admonishes.

      I shake my head. "No, sir. Not at this time."

      The table snickers and whisper quietly among themselves. Again,
Phillips has to gain control.

      "Okay then. Let's load up and head out to the site."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      The trip to the golf course sand trap will be completely useless.
For one thing, it had rained in a deluge the afternoon after the body
had been discovered. That plus the hundreds of people who had
trampled the sight make it a waste of time. We all gather around
the pit at the seventh hole, just looking. From a distance, I'm sure
it is a hysterical sight. Up close, it is pitiful.

      Several of the agents are offering up their speculative
comments: "Look at the way it slopes downhill over there. He must
have dragged the body in this way." "I'm sure he killed her down in
the trap." "I think we should check for semen samples."

      Yeah. Right.

      When I can't stand it any longer, I go in search of the
unfortunate groundskeeper. I find him standing at the door of the
maintenance shed, smoking a pipe and watching the escapades of this
latest group of investigators. He is a little man, probably no
taller than Scully, with a shock of red hair that peaked out from
under the tam on his head. There is a hint of a Scottish brogue in
his voice as he tells me about his gruesome discovery.

      "I didna see her there at first, the poor lass, so I went about
my job. But, oh, as I was raking in the sand, I saw her foot." He
shakes his head as if he still doesn't believe the picture in his
mind's eye.

      I press him for more information. "So there was nothing
unusual about the sand trap? No footprints, no marks from digging
tools, blood, bits of clothing, signs of a struggle?"

      He stares at me for a moment, apparently trying to decipher my
rapid-fire questions. He shakes is head. "No sir. Just the usual
trampings from the players."

      I digest this for a moment, scratching my head as I think.
"So you do...." I pause trying to think of the proper term,
"maintenance... on the traps every day?"

      He puffs on his pipe. "Oh aye. Maybe not me, but someone
always does."

      "Is it possible that the body had been there for a couple of
days before you found it?"

      He looks horrified at my suggestion. "Oh, no sir. That's not
possible."

      I cock my head, curious as to his certainty. "Why not?"

      "No. No. Not possible. We always are very careful with the
grounds, to be sure all is in order. It's my job to keep the place
tidy."

      "Tidy?" I ask, looking out to the course, wondering what
could possibly require constant cleaning. The grounds are situated
in the wealthiest section of town and it is unlikely that vagrants
would be wandering around making a mess.

      "Aye, branches from the trees, drinking cups, towels, balls. As
a matter of fact, I found a ball in the sand trap that morning. Which
was a wee bit peculiar, now that I think about it."

      He must have read the expectant look on my face, so he
elaborates. "The golfers sometimes lose their balls and if they don't
find them after a brief hunt, they give up. We find them and, if
they're in good condition, we send them over to the driving range. But
I was surprised to find one in the trap, it's easy to spot there, not
like in the rough. So I picked it up, planning to send it to the
range, but it was no good, all scuffed up."

      "Do you still have it?"

      He nods. "It's in my jacket pocket. I meant to throw it out,
but I forgot with all the commotion." He fished into the pocket and
handed it to me.

      It was an ordinary looking golf ball. I turn it over in my
hand, inspecting the tiny writing on one side. "What does this say?"
I ask.

      The groundskeeper pulls on his reading glasses. "Hmmm.
Superstition. That must be the name of the company that made it,
although I've never heard of it. The bit below it is hard to make
out, since that's where it's scuffed, but it looks like it once said
fiber core."

      I take the ball back from him and squint to see the letters. It
did say Superstition, but the only letters left from fiber core were
FIB.

      I thank the man and put the ball in my pocket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      Apparently the other agents must have gleaned more insight from
the trip to the golf course than I did. When we reached the Bureau
office, we were instructed to have a roundtable discussion to share
our findings.

      "We think we found something significant," exclaims one of the
agents. All eyes were focused in his direction. "A fiber from what
looks like a red nylon jacket. We are sending it to the lab to be
analyzed."

      Phillips nods his head in approval.

      "We found a set of shoe prints that are the same size as our
suspect," say another agent. "Size..." he quickly checks his notes,
"eleven."

      "Good," Phillips says, "we can match the casting against the
shoes that Vic Dillman was wearing at the time of his release from
prison."

      I sit back in my chair, shaking my head in disbelief. These
were trained agents, for God's sake. If they had bothered to read the
profile, they should have realized that their concentration should be
on where the killer would strike next, not sorting through bits and
pieces from the previous crime scene. Vic, if indeed he was our man,
would have left a clue.

      Winslow sat up straighter in his chair, waving to get
Phillips' attention. "I'm going to re-examine the body for trace
evidence."

      Again, the ASAC nods. We are then broken into smaller groups
to devise a plan of action. My main focus, I am told, is to
"finish the damn profile".

      My head is pounding with a mammoth size headache. This case
had ground to a screeching halt and no one seemed to notice. After
begging a couple Tylenol from the office secretary and swallowing
them with the dregs of the coffee pot, I sit down in my group's
designated area, close my eyes, and lean my head against the cool
concrete wall.

      A couple of the other agents in my group, oblivious to my
presence, sit down and wait for the fourth member of our team to
return from the bathroom.

      "This psycho is out of control," one of them say. "I told my
daughter to make sure she locks her dorm room at night."

      "I know what you mean," replies the other. "My daughter's Girl
Scout troop had planned a camping trip to the Superstition Mountains
this weekend, but I told her she couldn't go."

      I was languidly listening to the conversation, but suddenly my
attention was peaked. "Excuse me, what did you say?"

      The second agent glared at me for eavesdropping in on the
conversation. "None of your business, Mulder."

      I sit up in the chair and lean forward. "No, where did you
say they were going camping?"

      "Superstition Mountains. Just outside Phoenix."

      I must have made a scene, I really don't remember, but I felt
the golf ball burning a hole in my pocket. It all came together like
a picture on a jigsaw puzzle, suddenly the pieces fit. The golf ball
was the clue. Vic *had* left a clue and I'd almost missed it.
Superstition and FBI.

      "Shit Mulder, what's the matter with you?" Phillips was saying
when I came back to myself.

      "I know where he's going. We've got to send a team to the
mountains. The Superstition Mountains."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      Sometimes I hate being right.

      It was mid afternoon before a report came in from the Phoenix
State Police; park police had found a fresh grave site just north of
the tiny mountain range.

      Once again we all loaded into our vehicles for a group field
trip.

      The trip through the desert and into the foothills would prove
to be quite a trek, the terrain was so rough and rocky that we had to
switch to Jeeps to actually reach our final destination. I ended up
being sandwiched in the backseat between Winslow and The Kid. I
should have pulled rank and demanded a seat on the outside, but at
that point, I just wanted to get this over with.

      Paloverde trees and huge Suguaro cactus flashed by the window
as we wound around on the bumpy trail at breakneck speed. I don't
know if it was the ride or a case of nerves, but I started to feel a
little queasy. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat,
hoping that this feeling would soon pass before I did something
embarrassing.

      Unfortunately, my predicament did not go unnoticed.

      The Kid nudged me gently to get my attention. "You alright,
Agent Mulder? You don't look so good."

      I assured him that I would be fine.

      Half an hour later, we arrived at the scene of the crime.

      I am shocked by what I see. Everything is wrong.

      Although we are in the desert, it was not the kind that
supports a lot of sand. It's rocky and gravely and not at all the
usual choice of our suspect. The body in the shallow grave is that
of a older woman, probably in her mid-fifties, and it has been buried
under rocks - not sand, rocks.

      My stomach lurches as I try to digest this new information.

      The other agents are scurrying about, taking pictures and
measurements, thoroughly documenting the scene before moving anything.
I just stand to the side, too dumbstruck to do anything else. I am
at a total loss.

      I am so confused. This doesn't make any sense at all. Why would
the suspect change his plans this late in the game? He had left us a
clue, an enormous clue in retrospect, taunting us, letting us know
that he knew the mighty FBI were once again hot on his trail. Then...
this.

      I sit on a nearby rock, running the facts through my head.
Obviously I have lost my talent for profiling somewhere along the way.
Maybe that smartassed agent was right. Had I spent so much time with
the X-Files that my judgment and perception about things, which had
always come so naturally, were now skewed? Had I faltered in my
abilities enough times that things that should have been blazingly
apparent had gone unnoticed? Had I closed my eyes to the obvious? Had
there been clues, warnings? About Scully? About my father? About
Samantha?

      I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push these thoughts from
my head. Now is not the time. There is a case to solve.

      But in the end, it doesn't matter. Everything had felt wrong,
because it is wrong. When the agents move the body of the woman, they
make another gruesome discovery. This is a grave for two and the
body underneath is that of Vic Dillman. The SandMan is dead.
At least this part of the investigation is over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      I'm fidgeting in my seat, waiting for Scully's arrival. She
isn't expecting me to be back yet and part of me is thrilled at the
prospect of surprising her.

      I hear her footsteps in the hall and try to keep the smile
off my face. She opens the door and stops, shocked to see me
sitting at my desk.

      "Mulder?"

      "Hi, honey, I'm home."

      She rolls her eyes slightly and bites her bottom lip to keep her
expression neutral. "I didn't expect to see you for a while." She
purses her lips in a sympathetic smile and her voice becomes softer.
"I heard what happened in Phoenix."

      I lean back in my chair, nodding. She knows how I hated it
when a case goes sour.

      "Phillips didn't need me anymore. It's a whole new
investigation, but I have the feeling that trying to track down
Dillman's killer isn't going to be high on his priority list. He's
too busy basking in the glory of finally getting this guy off the
street for good."

      Scully sits in her chair and turns toward me, curious about the
outcome. "So did Dillman kill the girl in Phoenix?"

      I shrug. "I don't know. I don't think we'll ever know."

      I don't really want to talk about the case. If I talk about
it, I would think about it, and thinking about it would eventually
lead me back to my thoughts on the rock.

      I turn instead to the stack of unsolved X-Files on my desk,
my heart racing at the thought of what awaits us.

      Scully comes over to my desk and refills my coffee cup from the
pot in her hand. "There's one in there about a giant blood-sucking
mosquito in Florida. It's apparently large enough to cart off grown
men."

      "Really?" I ask with badly over-acted enthusiasm when I
noticed her teasing expression.

      "Uh huh. And there's also one about a portrait of King Henry
the Eighth that causes people to lose their minds if they look too
deeply into his eyes." She splits her bagel into two parts and places
half in front of me.

      "No kidding?"

      She cocks her head and smiles. "No kidding."

      I bite into the bagel loaded with cream cheese and smile.
Although the trip had been short, it feels good to be back where I
belong.




End