Date: Mon, 06 APR 1998 20:36:26 GMT From: Vampyres Incorporeal Subject: NEW: Forward Slash II: Signature (C/SRA)(Rated R) (1/8) Title: Forward Slash II: Signature (1/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net Archive: Yes Category: S/CRA (Mulder/Other) Rating: R (Adult situations, language) Summary: Mulder and Scully are called in to help "The Prince Charming Killer" task force solve a series of unusual murders spanning from Baltimore to Indianapolis; bringing them in contact with Detectives Tim Bayliss and Frank Pembleton once again. Spoilers: Homicide: "Closet Cases" X-Files: "Travelers" Original Posting: alt.tv.x-files.creative, X-Files Fanfic List Do NOT post to alt.tv.x-files.creative Archive: Yes Keywords: Serial murder, Scully, Mulder, Bayliss, Pembleton, Baltimore, Indianapolis, romance Disclaimer: Scully, Mulder and "The X-Files" are copyrighted by 1013 Productions. The cast of "Homicide: Life on the Street" including Bayliss, Pembleton, et al, are copyrighted by Baltimore Pictures. "Forward Slash" and "Signature" are copyright 1998, Saundra Mitchell. All rights reserved by the respective companies and author. >From the Indianapolis Star April 13, 1998 HAS EAST COAST'S 'PRINCE CHARMING' KILLER MOVED IN? Fourth Body Found Near Downtown Landmark Late Sunday Night By Belinda Atkinson, Staff Writer The body of 25 year old Jenna Becker was found on Monument Circle last night, bringing the total number of victims believed to have been murdered by the "Prince Charming" killer to 14. Becker, a paralegal for Conseco, was last seen alive on Saturday evening by co-workers dropping her at her Castleton home after spending the evening dancing at downtown night spots. Her body, discovered in the early hours of Sunday morning by patrol officers, was wrapped in a white sheet and left in plain view. Despite the heavy foot and motor traffic through the monument area, no witnesses have come forward to indicate that they might have any information on when or how Becker's body was placed at the landmark. Becker is the fourth woman to be killed in Indianapolis under such circumstances. Marianne Hodgett's body was found by security guards in the Pan-Am Plaza garden last Saturday after disappearing from Circle Centre Mall; Tracey Payne's body was discovered by a grounds keeper on the front walk of the Children's Museum on February 15th, and Azarine Clevenger's body was found January 18th on the steps of the Scottish Rite Cathedral. As in Becker's case, all were found wrapped in white sheets, and left near local landmarks. Police have refused to disclose details regarding the cases, including the specific cause of death. Preliminary reports indicate that they may have been poisoned. IPD continues to deny that Becker's death, and the three others bear striking similarities to crimes committed by a serial killer in Ohio, Pennsylvania and Maryland. However, an anonymous source has revealed that a Task Force made up of detectives from each state has been formed and will be meeting in Indianapolis in the next few days. Spokesman for IPD, Lt. Tim Horty, is saying as little as possible. His official comment on the secrecy surrounding these murders was an understated plea for maintained silence. "These are very unusual crimes, and we haven't ruled out any possibility. We'd like to keep a low profile and investigate the deaths of these women to our utmost ability before releasing pertinent details to the public," he said in an interview last week. Indianapolis Police Department Homicide Unit Tim Bayliss sat on the edge of a cluttered desk, looking askance at his surroundings. Unfamiliar territory was hostile territory, and this poorly lit room on the 6th floor of the City-County building was a lot of both. His mind jangled with an excess of information and a great sense of purpose. An idle comment to Giardello about a Task Force had turned into a reality, bringing him and four other detectives together in Indianapolis to put the "Prince Charming Killer" in handcuffs. He winced at the name Pittsburgh reporters had given the case- it made the crimes seem almost flippant, but there was nothing amusing to him about 14 dead women. "Don't sit on my desk." Stalking into the unit, Indianapolis Detective Khrystyne Taylor mock slapped Bayliss' knee as she tossed several case folders down. Bayliss slid to his feet, and stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. She pushed him back with her shoulder, then reached into her drawer, retrieving a ragged pack of cigarettes. "Want one?" He was tempted, but shook his head. "I'll enjoy it by proxy. What's in the folders?" "More crime scene photos," she replied. Lighting her cigarette, she took a long drag as she flipped a lock of hair out of her eyes. On a very superficial level, she reminded him of Howard; unruly hair, a clean, unpainted face, pantsuits instead of power skirts. Personality-wise, they were miles apart. Taylor seemed to have a chip on her shoulder; she definitely had a mouth like a longshoreman, and a distinct lack of tact for anything and everything. Despite it all, her intensely negative traits smoothed together into a polished and strangely likeable individual. Satisfied that her cigarette was going to stay lit, she promptly laid it in the ashtray next to the immolated remains of the last four she'd fired up and never finished. She pulled the 8X10 black and white photos out of the folder, fanning them out on her desk. "I don't envy you one bit, Bayliss," she said, watching him finger through the photographs one by one. "How's that," he asked, only half paying attention. Turning one of the pictures over, he stared at the Monument Circle crime scene. "The ME is having a fucking fit. He's arguing with Columbus' ME over body core temperatures, Columbus is arguing with Pittsburgh over something I can't even pronounce, and Baltimore is arguing with all of them over god knows what. The labs aren't back yet, the CSU results aren't back yet, and that damned Belinda Atkinson can't go five minutes without a call to see if I still have no comment. Oh, and if I hear that blonde twit on Channel 13 call me 'Prince Charming's Detective Sleeping Beauty' one more time, I'm gonna blow her damned head off. The only thing keeping me relatively sane is the fact that I'm not in charge." "I have a couple of things in mind to calm some of those problems, but I wanted to get everyone together and discuss the options first." Bayliss sounded more authoritative than he felt. He'd been in Indianapolis for less than 24 hours, and the task force already had problems. Michael Whitney, the detective from Columbus, seethed with quiet resentment. Bayliss could empathize with the man; by virtue of the fact that he was in Indianapolis instead of Columbus, he was admitting that he hadn't been able to solve the murders that fell in his town. It was hard to get along in a group where your introduction was your failure. Conversely, the detective from Pittsburgh, Eric Sands, was a complete enigma. He generally stood silently a few feet away from any discussion, watching everything with sharp alert eyes. If he had something to add, it was contributed with a quiet interjection before falling silent again. Bayliss couldn't decide whether he was just that quiet, or if he was passively resisting the entire process. Frank, fortunately, was still Frank, and Taylor was as voluble as she was volatile. Bayliss took some small comfort from the fact that he understood three fifths of the team, even if he was including himself in that percentage. "I think we just need to find some common ground, outside the fact that we're all working the same case," Bayliss added, slipping the crime photos back into their folder. Taylor cackled, clapping him on the shoulder. "If I were you, I'd just decide. Discussion breeds discontent." "There's nothing wrong with these autopsies," Whitney shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Bayliss. "If you want flawed findings, look in your own backyard." Bayliss held up his hands. "I'm not doubting the expertise and ability of any of these MEs. All I'm saying that perhaps we'd be better served if we had a doctor working on this case, and this case alone." "We've already got five people working this case full time. We're already stepping all over each other's shoes. How many more do we need?" Casting a glance at Frank, Bayliss hoped he'd step in and say something, anything. Much to his chagrin, his partner looked utterly engrossed in his morning hot-water-and-sugar. Taylor just smirked from her desk, burning another cigarette into oblivion. Detective Sands stood off to the side, watching the conflict from a safe distance. Steeling himself, Bayliss raised his eyebrows and announced, "Just seven. Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder will be joining us in a few hours." Whitney's eyes bulged open, and he dragged a hand through his already frizzled hair. "Excuse me, I think I misunderstood. I know you didn't just say you gave this case to the FBI." Bayliss nodded agreeably. "You'd be correct. Dana Scully is a medical examiner with extensive forensic and lab experience. Fox Mulder is a highly skilled behavioral scientist specializing in serial pathology. They'll be joining our team, not taking it over." "This is unbelievable, just unfuckingbelievable," Whitney muttered, making his way toward the door. "I have to make a call, I'll be back." "You can use my phone," Taylor offered laconically. "I'll be right back," Whitney snapped, flinging open the squad room door and heading down the hallway. "Guess room service pissed in his Cheerios this morning," Sands said. "You know, Tim," Frank started, putting a hand on his partner's shoulder. "I look forward to working with Dana again. She's sharp, organized, a good asset to a team in dire need of continuity." Bayliss stared at Frank, waiting for the inevitable corollary statement. He wasn't disappointed. "But Mulder. Special Agent Mulder. . . why do we need a shrink on this case, Tim? Don't we have a profile already?" Scrabbling through the disorganized piles, Taylor whipped a green folder from the mess, and waved it at Bayliss to punctuate Pembleton's question. "Profile." "A profiler working directly with the case will give us insight," Bayliss said, half parroting Giardello's explanation for Mulder's appearance in Baltimore almost two months ago. "Fourteen women are dead. We need all the help we can get." He didn't bother mentioning that he planned to plumb Mulder's expertise for ideas on how to mesh the wildly differing personalities on the task force into a diverse but single-minded entity. Indianapolis International Airport "It's been a while since I've had the opportunity to work on a raving lunatic," Mulder said. "I'm actually looking forward to it." Scully stared at him with disbelief, shifting her suitcase from one hand to the other to take the keys from him. Catching a glimpse of her expression as he signed a charge slip for their rental car, he broke into a grin. "I meant a normal, garden variety nut job," he clarified. "And that's the technical term?" "You bet it is." They walked out of the rental office, heading for the carport. While keeping up a comfortable line of chatter with Scully, he tried to ignore the gymnastics being performed by his stomach to the beat of his pounding heart. "I'll be glad to see Frank again," Scully said as she unlocked the driver's side door and popped the trunk. Mulder's face contorted through a myriad of expressions, finally settling on a look of dazed amusement. He'd heard her talking to Pembleton on the phone occasionally since they'd returned from Baltimore. Leave it to Scully to make a friend in a completely different city. "I'm sure he'll be much happier to see you than me," he said, his limited experience with Pembleton having been confined to an impromptu interrogation. A smile crossed her lips. "We'll both have our own welcoming committee." Mulder nodded, started to reply, then thought better of it. Instead, he waited for her to unlock his door as he stared into an angry grey sky. 2419 Delaware Street Leviticus 21:9 And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire. Deuteronomy 22:21 Then they shall bring out the damsel to the door of her father's house, and the men of her city shall stone her with stones that she die: because she hath wrought folly in Israel, to play the whore in her father's house: so shalt thou put evil away from among you. Deuteronomy 23:17 There shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel, nor a sodomite of the sons of Israel. No one paid much attention to the small, effeminate man writing in chalk on his own back porch. He was completely unremarkable, leaving one with the impression that they'd seen someone but with no real recollection of his features. He stood, brushing the chalk dust from hands, then walked down into the yard to grab a garden hose. Washing away the words he'd just written, a look of satisfaction settled on his bland features. Indianapolis Police Department, Homicide Unit "Detective Bayliss, Frank," Scully said pleasantly, shaking both men's hands. "Good to see you again, ignoring the circumstances." "Dana," grinned Frank. "How's the baby?" Bayliss listened to Pembleton and Scully exchange small talk, staring past them. Scully had arrived alone, making Bayliss wonder if Mulder had chosen not to come after all. Anxiety burned in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Mulder to be there, to help make some sense out of the group dynamic, but more than that, he just wanted to see him again. Trying to shake that particular thought from his head, Bayliss opened the portable file cabinet to retrieve the MEs' reports for Scully. "So where should I start," Scully asked, turning her attention back to the case. Bayliss handed her several thick folders. "I was hoping we could start at the beginning. There have been questions raised on the validity of the autopsy reports in some of the cases, and I wanted you to look over the files to see if there are any egregious errors." She nodded, looking down at the reports. "I'll go ahead and get on that so I can brief Mulder on the medical specifics of the case. I think he already has some theories based on the files you sent him, but he works better with all the facts at hand." "Thank you," Bayliss murmured. "So Frank, are you buying the coffee this morning?" Scully grinned. (End Part One) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (2/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) "Tim?" Bayliss looked up to see Mulder standing at the door to the homicide unit, hands stuffed in the pockets of his trench coat. Bayliss was at once both thrilled and uncomfortable to see him. He stood up, and shook Mulder's hand. "I'm glad you came," Bayliss said. "Please, have a seat." They didn't speak for a long moment, only staring uneasily past one another. Sitting, Mulder looked around the squad room. "It's awfully quiet in here for a serial murder to be going on." Tim nodded. "We've been cooling our heels all morning. Indianapolis' CSU hasn't come back with their results, and we don't have much to go on right now." "Where is everybody?" "Frank and Scully are down in the coffee shop going over medical reports. Whitney from Columbus and Sands from Pittsburgh are building a time line. Taylor was downstairs trying to borrow street cops from Patrol for a canvass, but I have no idea where she is now. I'm sitting here, going out of my mind." Mulder looked at him questioningly, waiting for an explanation. "I think I'm in over my head," Tim admitted quietly. "I'm having a hard time co-ordinating everything that needs to happen on this case. We can't even agree on a theory for this guy; he makes women disappear and reappear like a Vegas magician. No witnesses, almost no physical evidence. . ." "Hey, is this the big time effa bee eye shrink?" Taylor walked in, smacking Bayliss lightly on the shoulder. "Don't lean on my desk." "I'm the 'shrink'," Mulder confirmed. "Fox Mulder." "Khrystyne Taylor. Welcome to Indy." To Bayliss' surprise, she sounded almost pleasant. "They'll give us fifteen," Taylor said, lighting up. "But no overtime. The mucky mucks insist on keeping this shit low priority, they don't want to cause panic, they say, which is bullshit, but hey, I'm just a murder police, what do I know about murder?" Mulder marveled at the sheer number of words Taylor could fit into a sentence. She lounged comfortably in her chair, rolling her eyes at the brass, her company, or both. "Maybe I could talk to them," Bayliss wondered out loud. "I'll tell you what," Mulder said, standing up. "I'm going to get a head start and review those case files with Scully. I'll be back up in here in an hour or so with a game plan, how does that sound?" "Anything's better than sitting around here with our thumbs up our asses," Taylor said congenially. "Could I see you outside for a moment, Tim?" Bayliss nodded. "I'll tell you right now what part of your problem is," Mulder said, punching the elevator's down button. "What's that?" Bayliss stared at the floor, a sense of dread filling him. "You think you're out of your element, so you're trying to be fair. Don't. It doesn't matter that this is Indianapolis instead of Baltimore; consider yourself the primary with a whole lot of secondaries. You are in charge, you have to act like it. I'm not saying you should be disrespectful, but you have to be firm. Tell people, don't ask them. Decide, don't discuss." With a ding, the elevator door opened, and Mulder stepped in. He pressed the one on the keypad, and stepped back. "And Tim?" "Yeah?" "It's good to see you again," he said as the doors closed between them. Conference Room 4, Indianapolis Police Department "Okay," Bayliss said, standing at the head of the table. "Agent Scully has a few things to say, then Agent Mulder's going to give us our updated profile. Based on his analysis, we're going to take what we learn and break into three teams and retrace every step of the Indianapolis murders. I'm going to separate the existing partnerships because I want us all to have a different perspective on these cases than we usually might. Each team will be assigned five patrol officers to help canvass. For now, I'm going to continue to agree with IPD on keeping it low profile and out of the papers. Every time the press got hot, our guy has bolted, and I don't particularly want him moving to another city. When you speak to witnesses, identify yourself as law enforcement only, and do not, I repeat, do not give any statements to the press. We're here to catch a murderer, not get our pictures in the paper." Mulder quashed a smile at the newly forceful Tim Bayliss. He watched everyone's expressions as Bayliss spoke, carefully noting body language reactions, and he decided that as long as Tim could remain emphatic and goal oriented, these officers would follow his lead. "Okay," Scully said, smoothing her suit. "First of all, I'd like to say that there have not been any irreversible errors on the parts of your MEs. They've all done very thorough and detailed examinations, which has made my job a lot easier. What I'm going to do now is go over the medical facts in this case so that they're fresh in our minds when we go out on the street." Pulling out a large bundle of photos, laid them in neat piles next to one another, making fourteen in all. "These are in chronological order," she said. "Let's start from the top. None of these bodies show outward signs of violence. There are no bruises, contusions, entrance or exit wounds. Only one body, that of Jenna Becker's, there, shows signs of defense wounds. Taking a closer look, each woman's finger and toenails were clipped very short, almost to the quick. Becker's right index and middle fingernails show perimortem stress, and are cut under the quick. This would indicate that the nails on that hand were broken off, perhaps in a struggle, then trimmed afterwards. "Next picture, a detailed examination of the mouths. Their tongues were excised in a careful, surgical manner, probably with an x-acto knife or similar tool. Because of the double layer cutting, I would rule out the use of a medical scalpel, which would make a single, clean cut. There are signs of hesitation on the walls of the mouth in the first two victims, evidenced by these small scratches here, but after that our killer seems to have gotten comfortable with the practice. "You'll also note the deep purple discoloration of the gums, discoloration and erosion of the throat, which brings us to the next point. These women were poisoned with extremely high doses of mercury. We also have some tearing in the backs of their throat, suggesting the use of a hard plastic or metal tube being used in an attempt to administer the mercury directly into the gastrointestinal system. "Mercury causes an agonizing burning sensation, nausea, vomiting, destruction of intestinal mucosa, and finally, death. It can also manifest itself as a reddish rash on the palms or soles of the feet. Traces of succinylcholine were found in their tissue, which was administered intramuscularly through an injection on or near the buttocks in each case. Succinylcholine is a surgical anesthesia; it works by disabling the central nervous system. This drug paralyzed our victims, but did not render them unconscious. Every one of these women were awake while their tongues were being cut out and their stomachs filled with mercury. "Body core temperatures taken at the scene and factored against weather conditions suggest that these women were dead less than eight hours when they were dumped. A number of the women show trace levels of alcohol, which is consistent with the activities ascribed to them on the nights they disappeared. None of them were close to legally drunk, and probably weren't even tipsy. Everything left is postmortem and has no real medical significance, so I'll defer to Mulder to cover these facts. Any questions?" The room was deadly silent for a moment. Scully hadn't told anyone in the room anything they didn't already know, but having the facts laid out at once made the horror seem even greater. Even homicide cops are occasionally affected by their cases, and Scully's matter of fact recitation jarred their emotions. There were no questions; at least not for Scully. "If you would, Agent Mulder." Tim forced the meeting along, glad that for the first time, the task force seemed singularly involved on the same level. Picking up his notebook, Mulder nodded. "As Agent Scully said, the bodies exhibit postmortem manipulation, so I'll get that out of the way before I move on to the profile. Starting with the condition of the bodies, all of them were carefully washed, dried, and made up. Mascara on the surface of the eyes, and cosmetic foundation found in the nasal passages and cavities confirm that this occurred after death. The vaginal openings were also sewn closed after death, using a heavy gauge carpet needle and canvas-type thread. The numbers written on the napes of their necks were probably written with his off hand, in this case, his right." Mulder paused, turning over a page and clearing his throat. "The way these women were killed, and the rituals performed by the murderer post mortem tell us a lot about the man we're looking for. He is probably in his early thirties, no more than 35. These crimes are too sophisticated and organized for a first timer, he's had practice, but too elaborate for someone to have been killing into their late 30s and 40s. This is our killer's prime; he's very good at what he does. He is Caucasian, very slightly built, and is probably homosexual. The man we're looking for doesn't look like a killer of women." Whitney snorted, leaning back in his chair. "How do you get that?" "It's somewhat complicated, but here's the short and sweet version," Mulder replied, leveling his gaze directly at Whitney. "His victims are white, so he's more than likely white. Serial killers very rarely cross racial lines once they've decided what kind of person to kill. He is male, because it's virtually unheard of for women to exhibit the kind of pathology necessary to commit serial crimes. These murders exhibit an overemphasis on these women's sexuality and femininity that is usually only seen in males, regardless of their sexual orientation. "He must be slightly built because the rage in these cases is not manifested in physical force. These women were not beaten into submission, they were drugged. If he were capable of overpowering them, he would have. Finally, he's homosexual because of the intense fear and disgust we see in his ritual regarding their genitalia. A heterosexual man who hates women destroys the sex organs by rape and mutilation, a homosexual man who hates women erases or ignores their genitalia. By sewing the mouth of the vagina closed, he's pretending it doesn't exist anymore." "Nice," Taylor muttered, leaning back in the chair. She folded her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. "Some other things we know about our killer," Mulder continued. "Besides being little, white, and gay, he's very smart and very familiar with homicide investigations, he may even have a conviction. The only time he betrays the exaggerated femininity of his victims is in clipping their fingernails. While long nails are a sign of femininity, long nails also trap evidence. Since the only victim in our series that shows any indication of struggling is the last one, I'd guess that tissue evidence has been used against him before. "The washing of the bodies has a twofold purpose. The first is to rid the corpses of the blood and excrement in which they are covered after the crime, and the second is to insure that any evidence that he touched them is gone. We've found no hairs and no fibers, so it's a reasonable assumption that this man has shaved his body and probably works in the nude. This means he has enough time and privacy, so we're looking for someone who lives in a house, not an apartment. He has a steady job, probably in a medical setting; he's held this job for quite some time, or participates in studies, giving him the opportunity to go on the road. "I believe he'll change his method very soon; Becker's murder wasn't as precise as the others. She had a chance and scratched him; he didn't successfully subdue her. This is a good sign for us, it means he's starting to become disorganized, but it's bad news for Indianapolis. If we don't catch him, the frequency of his crimes is going skyrocket. Until now, he's kept a very steady pace, one or two murders per month; Undeterred, I foresee another murder before the end of this month." "I have a question Agent Mulder," Pembleton interrupted, laying his pen on the table. "What is the significance of the bodies being left at landmarks, in plain sight? In some cases, the window of opportunity to dump the corpse has been less than five minutes." Mulder nodded. "Some killers write letters, some killers call newspapers, our killer leaves bodies in important places. I believe he's doing two things; taunting the police and begging for them to capture him. Subconsciously, he wants to be caught and punished." "And do you have a theory on his amazing ability to lure women from their homes and friends without so much as a struggle?" Pembleton crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. If Mulder was going to present an oddball theory, it would have to be now. Frank had to grudgingly admit that Mulder seemed professional and educated to this point, but he was still convinced this man was completely insane. "He doesn't look threatening, he probably just asks them to come with him under some pretense. It seems amazing to us because we don't know how he did it yet. In the 1970s and early 80s, police were baffled by Ted Bundy's seemingly paranormal ability to abduct women from plain sight; once while crossing a street, and in another case, between floors in a Vail hotel. Later, we learned he just smiled and asked for help, and the women willingly accompanied him." (End Part Two) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (3/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) Home of Jerri Ritcey "I've really told you everything I know," Jerri said, tapping her foot nervously. "We went dancing, we dropped her off around two, and we never saw her again." "Miss Ritcey," Taylor said gently. "I know this is upsetting for you, and I know you feel you've answered these questions a hundred times, but it's very important for us to make absolutely sure of everything we can. Now, you said you went to the 501, and then World Mardi Gras that night. Are you sure you didn't see anyone from the first bar at the second?" Mulder watched Taylor with unmasked surprise. This couldn't be the same woman who'd smacked Bayliss away from her desk, and cursed the brass in IPD with increasingly vile language on the ride over. Somewhere between closing the car door, and walking inside Miss Ritcey's home, Detective Khrystyne Taylor had turned into a consummate professional. Bayliss and Taylor took turns guiding Jerri through the events of her last night with Jenna Becker. Covering everything from state of mind to number of drinks, the answers all came out the same as the first time Taylor had interviewed her. "We took her home, and that's the last time we saw her," Jerri said sadly, staring down at her hands. "One last thing and then we can leave, okay?" Bayliss closed their discussion swiftly. "Did you actually see Miss Becker go into her house when you dropped her off?" Jerri's mouth opened and closed several times before she answered. "No sir," she said, ashamed. "We just let her out at the curb and left." "Goddamn it," Taylor hissed, slapping her hands on the steering wheel. She pulled onto the highway, jerking the car through minute spaces in traffic until she found herself in the far left lane. "Why didn't I ask that question? How the hell did I miss that? I wonder what the fuck else I missed, Jesus Christ!" "Hey, calm down," Bayliss said, clutching the handle of the door. "It's not a big deal, it just gives us a window of opportunity. It doesn't make or break the case." She glared at Bayliss from the corner of her eye. "It does matter, it was a mistake." "I've been meaning to ask you," Mulder cut in. "Four women are dead in your city alone, but they only put one detective on this case. They don't want you talking to the press, they don't want to give you any back up or support. . . what's going on?" A cold laugh bubbled out from Taylor's lips. "They want me out, and they think by piling on the shit, I'll leave gracefully. I investigated, arrested and testified against two dirty cops. Ever since then, I've been on my own. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of quitting; if they want my ass out, they'll have to fire me." The Children's Museum "I can't tell you how upsetting this all is," Dr. Fornelli said, walking with Pembleton and Scully though the lobby of the museum. "The volunteer who found the body hasn't been back since, parents are afraid to bring their children here. . . " "We know it's distressing, but we want to make absolutely certain that nothing was missed at the crime scene. I assure you, we'll be very discrete." Dr. Fornelli shook his head. "Actually, I'm glad you stopped by. I've called downtown several times, but no one's ever returned my call. The janitors found something. . . unusual in the bathrooms, and we thought the police should know. What took so long?" Scully exchanged a confused glance with Pembleton. "There's been a lot of ground to cover in this case. What have you found?" "Well, we've kept it closed off in case it was important." Dr. Fornelli opened the door of the men's restroom, holding it open for Pembleton and Scully. "In the stalls. . . someone wrote on the walls." "Graffiti in the first degree," Pembleton joked under his breath. Scully held back a smile as she stepped into the first stall. "Wait a minute," she said seriously, pointing down at the bottom edge of the wall. "Look." "219, 2221, 2317," Pembleton read. The numbers were written in black marker in an unsteady hand. "Those are the same numbers on our victims' bodies." "It looks like the same handwriting, too." "It's written in every one of the stalls," Dr. Fornelli said. "I'm sorry, I don't know when." "We need to get the CSU in here," Frank said firmly. "You said you'd be discrete!" Scully pursed her lips. "Dr. Fornelli, we need to dust for prints and take pictures of the writing. If you can think of a discrete way to do that, I'll be more than willing to listen." Pan Am Plaza Whitney and Sands watched the plaza security guard shoo a pair of teenagers away from the fountain, then return to a folding lawn chair situated at the far end of the garden. They walked over, pulling out their badges. "I'm Detective Whitney, this is Detective Sands. We wanted to go over some questions with you regarding the body of Marianne Hodgett." The guard sighed. "I already got an official reprimand for leaving my post that night. Are you guys trying to get me fired, or what?" "No sir, we're not," Sands said smoothly. "We just wondered if you had remembered anything more about that night." "I done told you all I know. I got up to go to the crapper, and when I came back, the body was there. I didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing." "And you didn't move or touch the body?" "I moved the sheet," the guard said defensively. "I didn't know what it was. When I saw it was a girl, I called it in and left her alone." Whitney raised an eyebrow. "You didn't check to see if she was breathing?" "I could tell she wasn't breathing." "How?" "Cause her chest didn't move. If she was alive, I would have known it. I already answered these questions!" Sands started to ask another, but was drowned out by the sound of a sandblaster. He turned to place the source of the noise, then leaned over to the security guard. "What's that?" "Buncha numbers some idiot wrote on the mural. They're sanding it off." A look of realization washed over Sands' face, and he rushed toward the man with the sandblaster. Tapping him on the shoulder, the worker turned the blaster off. Whitney caught up with Sands and stared forlornly at the half- obliterated numbers on the wall. 219. 2221. 2317. Conference Room 4 "So he's going back after he dumps the body, specifically to write these numbers. We've already called 219-222-1237 and gotten an invalid number. As far as anyone can tell, it's not a substitution code. They don't correlate to dates, addresses, or times, so what the hell are they?" Bayliss took a slice of pizza, and walked in front of the crime scene display. It had been a productive day, he decided. They now knew that the killer returned to his dumping area to memorialize his crime, and he hoped some of the prints Pembleton and Scully had lifted from the museum bathroom would come back with hits. In a way, the progress was somewhat frustrating; it hadn't occurred to any of the people involved on the case to go back and read the walls days or weeks after the bodies had been found. "Maybe it's nothing," Sands suggested, loosening his tie. "Maybe it's deliberately designed to throw us off the track." Pembleton shook his head, swallowing the last piece of his pepperoni and cheese. "Why would our perp risk being seen twice in the same area to leave a red herring? It has to mean something." "Hey maybe. . . .no, that's too easy," Taylor said, shaking her head. "Maybe they're bible verses, you know, like James 3:16?" "That's John," Pembleton corrected. "John 3:16, 'For God so loved the world. . . '" "Well if they are bible verses," Mulder said, crossing his legs. "Which books? There are two testaments to choose from, and 66 different books in all." Scully looked over at Mulder with a half smile on her face. "I had no idea you were such a theologian, Mulder." "I'm full of all sorts of surprises." "The only way to find out for sure is to get a bible and look," Whitney said, stealing one of Taylor's cigarettes and tucking it behind his ear. "No, I'm looking at the 21:9s, you're looking at the 2:19s." "Well shit, I'm already up to Joshua." "Too bad, I'm up to Ruth." "Fuck." "Is that any way to talk in front of a Bible?" "Oh, you can just fuck off." Four lists with 66 entries on each list. It had taken them nearly five hours to compile all of the appropriate verses from the bible, and now they stared at the sheets in silence. "Now we just have to find the common thread," Pembleton said none too eagerly. "We could always go to the bars our victims frequented before their deaths." Sands suggested, squeezing his cramped writing hand. "Maybe the bartenders saw them talking to someone that they've seen since." "My head is killing me, I think I'll just stay here and sift through these." Taylor said, pushing her chair back to stand up. Bayliss nodded, and picked up his notebook. "Okay, Whitney, Sands, you two check out Ike and Jonesy's. Frank, you and Dana can cover the Circle Center bars, World Mardi Gras and Gators. Mulder and I will go over to the 501. We'll meet back here in two hours, okay?" Coats were gathered, and everyone headed for the elevators in a small mob of police. Bayliss reached into his pocket, then realized he'd left his notebook on the conference room table. When he went back in, Taylor looked up from the bible verses, and cracked a huge smile. Bayliss glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "What?" Taylor laughed as he picked up his notebook. "Have fun at the 501." "Elevator," Scully called from the hallway. Bayliss stopped himself at the doorway and turned around. "What is that supposed to mean?" "Oh you'll find out," Taylor grinned, and flashed him a thumbs up. The 501 For a moment, Mulder and Bayliss weren't sure that they'd found the right place. Except for a very large, very dangerous looking bouncer standing on the street corner in front of the door, the 501 had every appearance of being a package liquor store. Its windows had been replaced by plywood, painted the same color as the exterior of the building, but it was patently clear that neither had been painted recently. As they walked across the street, the muffled sounds of techno music filtered out into the night air. Mulder and Bayliss pulled out their badges, and introduced themselves to the bouncer. "Where's your warrant," he asked, unimpressed. Bayliss just looked confused. "Why do we need a warrant? We just want to ask the bartender a couple of questions about the girl who was murdered last Saturday. Her friends said that they came here for a while." The bouncer's face relaxed. "Oh. Go on in, then. Johnny was on last weekend, but he's working the gift shop upstairs tonight." Mulder thanked the bouncer, then opened the door. There was very little light in the bar, only a few naked red and blue bulbs hanging from ceiling fans. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the dark shapes of people dancing, playing pool, and making out against the wall. Squinting, he realized that there were no women, anywhere. He turned to look at Bayliss, and saw a mirror of his own startled expression. As they tried to get their bearings, a man wearing only a pair of leather chaps and a long string of pearls approached them. "Little overdressed, aren't you?" "We're here on business." Mulder covered one ear to filter out some of the blaring music. "Where's the gift shop?" "Go through there, and to the left. It's right up the stairs." "Thank you," Bayliss said, unthinkingly tightening his tie. The man leaned over to Mulder. "Is he taken, because I'd like to buy him a drink." Mulder smiled apologetically. "He's all mine, sorry." "Lucky bastard," he replied, and melted back into the crowd. "He wanted to buy you a drink," Mulder said as they trudged up the narrow staircase. "What did you tell him?" "That you were taken." Bayliss looked over his shoulder, staring down at Mulder. "You told him I was taken?" Mulder shrugged. "Did you want me to tell him you were looking? Because if you really want that drink, I bet we can find him again." "Thanks anyway. This place is a little too weird for me." "Haven't you ever been to a leather bar?" Bayliss stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. "As a matter of fact, yes, I have, but I have never been to a gay leather bar, so I'm a little out of my element." "Well, you have one up on me, then." Mulder pushed his way past Bayliss and continued up the stairs. "I've never been to one at all." (End Part Three) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (4/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) "Hi, we're looking for Johnny?" An older man with a full white beard and very little hair held out his hand from behind the glass counter. "I'm Johnny, how can I help you?" "This is Detective Bayliss, I'm Fox Mulder. I understand you were working the bar downstairs last Saturday?" Bayliss examined the T-shirts hanging on the walls, and the knick knacks on the shelves as Mulder spoke to Johnny. "What's this about," Johnny asked, a little less friendly. "Last Saturday, a young woman was in here with a few friends. Her name was Jenna Becker, and she was murdered. We were wondering if remember seeing her." Johnny breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh that. I remember her all right. We don't usually have a lot of female customers, you know." "Did she cause any trouble, bring attention to herself in any way? I mean, besides, just being present?" Johnny shook his head. "No, not really. She and her friends danced for a while, had a drink or two, then left." Bayliss walked over to the counter, and laid a pin on the glass. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "You didn't notice any strange writing on the walls here after that, did you?" Taking the money, and giving Bayliss his change, Johnny shook his head. "No weirder than usual. Hey, sorry about the cold shoulder, we've been raided four times in the last three months just because the cops wanted to bust some heads. I didn't know you were family." World Mardi Gras "What a place to spend the last evening of your life," Pembleton said disdainfully, rubbing his wrist. Scully nodded, winding her way through the crush of bodies between the door and the bar. Pembleton stared around him, mentally cursing the dance music and the flashing lights, then dove into the fray after Scully. When he caught up, she was already at the bar questioning the bartender. "I said, did you see this woman last week," she repeated, raising her voice over the music. The bartender looked at the photograph, blanching. "Hey, isn't this the girl who got killed?" "Yes, Mr. Hall," she said, frustrated. "Did you see her last Friday night?" "I don't know. . . I think I should get my manager." Frank leaned over the bar, glaring through the man. "Did you see this woman or not?" "We have a lot of people come through here," the bartender waffled. "Listen, I don't know why you're lying to us, but we'll be happy to take you downtown to answer our questions if you don't cooperate." Frank wore an easy, jarring smile. Hall gritted his teeth, looking around. "Yes, she came in here last Friday night. We got into a fight, and she left with her friends." Surprised, Scully pulled out her notes and scanned them in the irregular light. "Were you working that night?" "Yes," he hissed. "She came in here to bust my balls over a pair of earrings she left at my place. I told her to get the fuck out, I was trying to work. She threw a drink on me, then she left." "Detective Taylor was told that someone else was on duty that night," Scully said suspiciously. "Can you explain the discrepancy?" "Listen, I knew it would look bad that we got in a fight, and then she turned up dead. It wasn't a big lie." Hall looked as if he might vomit at any moment. Pembleton looked around. "Where is your manager?" "In the office, down the hall. . . why?" "I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us after all," Scully filled in for Frank. Homicide Unit Interrogation 1 "Frankly, Brad," Pembleton enunciated. "I don't believe you. You lied about being on duty, you lied about knowing her, then you lied about fighting with her, and you don't have an alibi. Now I think you're lying about killing her." Hall seemed to shrink in his chair. "I really, really didn't kill her. I loved her! Why would I kill her?" "That's the most popular reason of all," Scully said evenly. "The classic motive," Frank added. "A cliche even. I just don't understand why you did the things to her body that you did." "What do you mean?" Hall sat up straight, a horrified look on his face. "I didn't do anything to her body! I didn't kill her!" "Can you believe a little pantywaist like this could do that, Scully?" Frank switched gears, standing over Brad and touching his long hair. "I mean, he doesn't really look like the passionate sort, does he?" "No, not really," Scully said, taking a step back. "Not passionate at all." "What did you argue about," Frank asked rhetorically. "She found another lover? Someone with the passion she desired, she needed? She embarrassed you in front of your friends, didn't she? Came into the bar with her new, virile boyfriend and paraded him right under your nose, and that made you mad, didn't it? Made you so mad you wanted to show her, wanted to show her that you could be like that too, so you. . ." "Yes, it made me mad!" Tears streamed down Brad's face, but his voice was vehement. "But I didn't kill her, damn it! I did not kill her!" Pembleton shut the door of the interrogation room behind him, then leaned against it. He looked back over his shoulder at the crying, broken man alone with his thoughts, then sighed at Scully. "Everybody lies," Scully said. "Yes indeed, everybody lies." Frank smiled brilliantly. "Think he's suffered enough?" "Probably." "Let's go cut him loose, he's learned his lesson." Conference Room 4 "Any luck on the bible verses," Bayliss asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm getting rid of the ones that don't make sense at all, laundry lists of begats, descriptions of scenery," Taylor said. "I'll be done soon." "What about this Hall guy?" "The manager of the bar confirmed his alibi for the first 13 murders," Pembleton said wearily. "He's not our guy." "What about Ike and Jonesy's, Whitney?" "Bartender doesn't even remember her, and no writing on the walls." "Well," Bayliss said, standing up. "I think that's about all we can do tonight. We have five patrol units on the Circle watching for our guy to come back and leave his signature, so I think we should wrap it up, and start fresh again in the morning." "What about the church," Mulder said. "Nobody checked the church today." "I'm not going to wake a priest up in the middle of the night," Bayliss said, cursing his oversight. "Someone can go down there in the morning." "I'll go," Pembleton said simply. He exchanged glances with his partner, and Bayliss understood him completely. "Good idea, Frank. Anything else? New business, old business? Good. Let's go." Hyatt Regency Room 412 "Nightcap?" "Sure," Mulder said, kicking off his shoes. "Have you ever been to a leather bar, Scully?" She stared at her partner as she opened the bottle of brandy. "I can't say that I have." "It's . . . enlightening." "In what way?" He groped for the right words, but came up with nothing. "It just is." "Have you talked to Tim?" "I did nothing all day but talk to Tim." "You know that's not what I mean." "I am not having this conversation," he laughed. "Where's my drink, woman?" "Keep that up, and you're going to wear it," she smiled, handing it to him. "Sometimes, I wonder if it was real." "I thought we weren't having this conversation." "We aren't." "It was real," she confirmed. "You think so?" "Definitely." "It's awkward." Laying back on the bed, he put his glass on his chest. "Well, Mulder, what did you expect?" "I didn't expect anything." "Then you won't be disappointed." "You're very wise, Dana Scully." "Yes, I know," she grinned, and finished her drink. "I'm going to bed." "Can I come?" "Don't you think you have enough problems?" He laughed. "I had to try." Hyatt Regency Lounge "I think she likes you," Frank said into his club soda. Sitting in the over polished hotel bar, he felt miles away from the real world. He should be in Baltimore, catching bodies by day, sleeping next to his wife by night. Instead, he was in the middle of nowhere drinking flat club soda with his increasingly morose partner. "Who?" "Taylor." "She doesn't like me," Tim said, swirling the dregs of his beer in the bottom of the glass. "I think she does. She goes out of her way to touch you, she stays late to play with Bible verses for you. If you ask me, it's love." Bayliss looked over at Frank. "She slaps me, Frank, she doesn't touch me." "And I think you like her, too." "What is this, junior high? Do you want to slip her a note, 'Do you like Detective Bayliss, check yes or no'?" Shaking his head, Frank put down his glass. "Of course not. I just didn't want you to miss . . . ah. . . an opportunity." "Why would you think I like her?" "Why does she slap you, Tim?" "Because I sit on her desk." "You need to be told more than once to not sit on someone's desk? Of course not, you're a smart man. You continue to do it so she'll continue to have reason to touch you." "You're out of your mind." "Am I? I don't think so." "Well I do think so," Tim sighed, signaling for another beer. "I think you're bored. You miss your desk, you miss Mary, you miss the kids, and rather than concentrate on that loneliness, you're trying to live vicariously through me." "Vicariously." Pembleton rolled the word on his tongue. "Notice the lack of denial." "You don't have anything I want, Bayliss." "Yeah, I love you too, Frank." "There's something going on I don't know about," Pembleton announced, pushing his stool back from the bar. "I don't know what you mean," Bayliss said, implicitly implying that he didn't care, either. "I think you do, Tim. And I'll find out, not because I want to invade your privacy or live vicariously through you, but because you're my partner, and partners shouldn't have secrets." "I think we covered this before, Frank." "Secrets," Frank hissed. "I'll find out." "You don't want to know." "I'll find out." "You'll regret it." "Probably. I'm constantly mortified by your darkness, Tim, but it's like a car accident. I don't want to look, but I can't stop myself." "That's the lousiest cliche I've heard all day." "Cliches are cliches for a reason." Frank dropped several dollar bills on the bar, and started away. "I'm going to go call my wife." Homicide Unit "There shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel, nor a sodomite of the sons of Israel." Taylor raised her coffee mug to Pembleton and Bayliss as they entered the squad room. Bayliss raised an eyebrow at her, wondering just what she was implying. "The Bible verses," she said, adjusting her shoulder holster. "I narrowed it down to the three I think are most likely. Wanna see?" Handing a sheet of paper to Bayliss, Taylor patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going to buy danish, want some?" "No, thanks," he replied, distracted. "No danish for you, Tim?" Pembleton started as soon as Taylor was out of earshot. "Whores," Bayliss said. "That's not a very nice thing to say about a fellow detective." "The quotes, Frank," Bayliss sighed with exasperation. "They're all about punishment for whores." The doors of the squad swung open. Mulder and Scully walked in together, good-naturedly arguing over which pastry bag belonged to whom. "Danish," Mulder offered, holding out the bag to Frank and Tim. Frank looked over at his partner, and started to laugh. Scottish Rite Cathedral "I was hoping you wouldn't come," Father Byrne said sadly, folding his hands. "Why is that?" Pembleton looked confused as he walked into the main hall. Scully trailed behind them, quietly admiring the stained glass and dark mahogany paneling. "The numbers you are looking for are written on the wall of the confessional." Father Byrne led the way, opening the confessional door. "Right down there, underneath the window." Scully leaned down and examined the wall. It smelled of lemon oil, and with her heart sinking, she touched it. Pulling her finger away, she saw the clear imprint on the surface. They wouldn't be taking any old prints away from here. She looked up at the priest. "You said you were hoping we wouldn't come." With a shameful nod, the father looked away. "Are you Christians?" Pembleton and Scully answered "yes" simultaneously. "You understand the concept of privilege." Frank's eyebrows shot up. "Are you saying you spoke to this murderer?" The priest shrugged. "Where are the numbers written, Detective Pembleton?" "He came to you as his confessor," Scully said miserably. "You understand," Father Byrne said, "I am as horrified by these crimes as anyone. I wish he had never come to me, and I wish I could help you. . . but when I am in the confessional, I am not a man, I am speaking for God. In God's eyes, if he is faithful, then he is forgiven. I can't break this man's word with God." Defeat rested heavily on Frank's shoulders. Taking Father Byrne in would incite the press into a frenzy, a furor in the police department, and rage in the religious community. In the end, the priest was right, he probably couldn't be compelled to tell them what he knew. "Father Byrne," Scully said finally, "You understand that we are law enforcement officers, and it's our job to solve these murders before anyone is hurt. Your communications with this man were privilege, and we understand that. What we don't understand is why you told us. We would have never known, and we could have lived without knowing." Father Byrne touched Scully's shoulder lightly. "Because it's killing me, Agent Scully. The blood of his victims stains me, too. Sometimes the confessor needs to confess." Pembleton coughed, shaking his head. "We'll need you to come downtown and make an official statement of privilege, for the record." As they stepped into the bright sunlight, a swarm of reporters converged on them. Scully and Pembleton linked arms with the priest, and fought their way down to the car. Their voices converged to a chatter reminiscent of a flock of magpies. "Is Father Byrne a suspect in the Prince Charming murders?!" "Absolutely not," Pembleton snapped, opening the back door of their car and pushing the father inside. "Is he a witness? Where are you taking him?" "No comment," Scully said, jumping into the driver's seat. (End Part Four) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (5/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) 2419 Delaware Street "At this time, it is still unclear as to whether Father Byrne was taken into custody this morning in connection to the Prince Charming murders. He was released shortly before noon, and has refused to comment. In other news. . ." The little man turned off the television, then threw the remote against the wall. Stalking into the kitchen, he cursed under his breath. His whey skin slowly turned a splotchy purple color as his anger grew. Suddenly, a cold calm came over him. He smiled malevolently to himself, making a plan. Homicide Unit Bayliss picked up the phone as he finished off the last of his lunch. Struggling to swallow and clear his voice, he managed to choke out, "Bayliss, Homicide." "Detective Bayliss, this is Belinda Atkinson," a female voice on the other line said. The named sounded familiar, and he tried place it, when she gave him the answer. "I work for the Indianapolis Star." "I have no comment," he said, rolling his eyes. "Detective Bayliss, I just need confirmation. I've been informed that the Prince Charming killer has been cutting the tongues out of his victims and sewing their genitals shut. Is this true?" Bayliss' eyes bulged. He motioned violently for someone else to pick up the phone. Sands lifted the receiver, and put the phone to his ear. "I'm sorry," Bayliss said. "Could you repeat that?" "I've been informed that the Prince Charming killer has been cutting the tongues out of his victims and sewing their genitals closed. Is this true?" Sands shook his head. "I don't know where you got your information," Bayliss waffled. "The killer sent a letter by messenger to our offices," Belinda said. "We just wanted confirmation that this was true before we printed it this evening." "If you believe it's evidence, you're required by law to turn it over to us." "Mmhmmmm. Can you confirm this information, Detective Bayliss? I have a deadline." "Why don't you come down here, with the letter, and we'll see what we can work out." "I'll take your silence as a confirmation, thanks." Bayliss started to protest but the line went dead. He slammed the phone down, and kicked at the desk. Looking around, he jerked the coat off the back of his chair and stuffed his arms into the sleeves angrily. "Where the hell is Mulder?" The Indianapolis Star "Well we would have sent it over to you," Belinda Atkinson said airily, handing the letter to Bayliss. "Did you come over to give me an interview?" Bayliss scowled. "I came over here to retrieve the letter, and to ask you not to publish some of those details." "Dream on, buddy," Belinda said, standing up. "You can either give me a comment, or you can leave. This isn't a poker table, and even if it were, you don't have anything to bet." Bayliss looked over at Mulder, waiting for him to step in. "Miss Atkinson," Mulder said smoothly. "We'll be happy to give you a statement, but you must understand. If you publish everything in this letter, every disturbed individual in this city will call and confess. By the time we finish sorting through them all, the real killer will have probably already murdered someone else." Belinda put her hands on her hips. "That's not my problem." "I can have you subpoenaed as a material witness," Bayliss threatened. "Then you wouldn't have a story at all." "A material witness for what? You have no suspect. You've made no arrests. You don't even know which page you're on. If you want to threaten someone, I highly suggest you try someone else, because it's not going to be me. If you have no comment, then get the hell out of my office." "You listen to me," Bayliss hissed. Belinda ignored him, picking up the phone. "Security?" Putting a hand on Bayliss' shoulder, Mulder tried to pull him away. "Come on, Bayliss." "If another woman dies, it's on you," Bayliss shouted. "It's on you!" Homicide Unit "Taylor, what the fuck is going on in here?" Taylor cringed at her superior's oily voice. Lt. Edmonds stood at the end of the homicide squad, buttoning and unbuttoning his ill fitting suit jacket. He stared at the chaos in the squad room; every phone ringing itself off the hook, every available ear pressed against a receiver. Detectives shouted, threw post-it pads to one another, and cursed under their breaths. This was the most action IPD Homicide had seen in months. "The killer talked to the Star, the Star printed an exclusive, and now every freako and dink in the Central Indiana area is calling to confess." Taylor crossed her arms over her chest. In approximately two seconds, he was going to rip her head off and hand it to her; she did her best to appear apathetic about the prospect. Crossing the room more quickly than she thought possible, he jabbed a pointed finger into her sternum. "This is bullshit, total bullshit, and it's your ass." She could smell gyros on his breath as he yelled into her face. "We got more than one murder case, if you hadn't noticed, but the fucking department is too busy taking phone messages for you to solve 'em." She took a step back. "I didn't tell them to answer the phone, Lieutenant." Edmonds took a long look around, surveying the faces of his detectives. "Where's the rest of your merry men? The only person from your little task force I see is you." "CSU, print lab, Eiteljorg Museum and the circle." "Well you gather their happy asses up and put them in Con 4. One hour." Conference Room 4 "You have two days to wrap this shit up," Edmonds said without preface. He glared with piggy eyes at the collected group of detectives, waving his finger for emphasis. "My squad room looks like someone murdered a bus full of school kids this morning, not four broads over a week ago." "With all due respect," Bayliss began. "Fuck respect," Edmonds snarled. "Two days. I don't give a shit, one way or the other, but in two days, Indianapolis will no longer be hosting the Prince Charming Task Force. Solve it, don't solve it, but in two days, you're out. Is that clear?" "This is the most physical evidence we've had in any of these cases," Scully said reasonably. "Given time, we will solve these murders. We all know this isn't an instant process." "You, don't even talk to me. These are Indy murders, you're out of your territory. I'm done talking, I ain't staying in here to hold your hands. Two days, period." Edmonds stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There was a long, uncomfortable silence as they stared around the room at one another. Two days to solve a string of murders that had gone on for over a year, and every single piece of evidence they had being displayed on the evening news. "We can do this," Pembleton said. He looked at their faces, one by one, waiting for someone to disagree. "Pick it up, Tim. What now?" Bayliss shook his head, sorting out his thoughts. With a deep sigh, he stood up, closed his eyes, and jumped in. WTHR Anchor Desk "Police tonight are asking your help to solve a string of grisly serial murders known as The Prince Charming Killings. Joining us with a description of the suspect and new information on these chilling crimes is Special Agent Fox Mulder from the FBI and Detective Bayliss from the Baltimore Homicide Unit. Agent Mulder?" The Monument Circle "Did you see who wrote these numbers," Taylor asked anxiously, pointing at the steps. Two pale faced teenagers shook their heads nervously, staring at the brigade of police officers surrounding them. "You're absolutely sure? No doubt in your mind?" She waited impatiently for them to tell the truth. They had been the only people on the steps for the previous half hour, and the numbers hadn't been there before they arrived. Taylor grew more angry as they continued to silently deny knowledge. Neither one of them fit the profile, but if they didn't cough up an answer, she was going to jack them up for the crimes anyway. She grabbed the girl's arm. "You, come with me. Whitney, take the boy." Whitney nodded, leading him away from his girlfriend. As they moved farther apart, the couple strained to see one another. "Listen kid, we don't care if you wrote them down, we just want to know why," he said soothingly, glancing up to catch sight of a news van pulling to a stop nearby. "Those reporters are going to splash your face all over the news if you don't hurry up and tell me, and I'm going to let them." "God, my mom will kill me," the kid breathed, staring down at his feet. Twenty feet away, Taylor was still trying to reason with the girl. "We need to know who wrote those numbers, kid. It is literally a matter of life and death." "I don't know anything," she said stubbornly. "That's a lie, and we both know it." "I don't know anything." Whitney waved his arms at Taylor. "Got it!" Taylor smiled coldly at the girl. "Don't know anything, huh?" IPD Crime Lab "No, they're great prints," the technician said. "They just don't match anyone. We checked twice." "So what you're saying is, if we bring you the hand, we have a positive ID." Pembleton quirked his jaw to the side, looking at the neat rows of cards on the table before him. "That's exactly what I'm saying." "That's still good news, Frank." Dana put her hand on his shoulder. "I have better news, though," the tech offered, shifting his magnifying loops. He shifted through some papers, and pulled out a bound notebook. "Quantico ran the tests on the carpet thread again, and lucky for you, it's not as common as we thought. It's hemp, specifically 'Nature's Own'. It's only sold through catalogue." A slow smile snaked across Frank's face. "A thousand blessings on your house." 2419 Delaware Street Stuffing clothing into a suitcase, the little man cast occasional glances at the television. He felt as if Mulder and Bayliss were staring directly at him from the screen, whispering his name. It certainly seemed as if they had everything but his name. Fibers, eye witnesses, fingerprints. . . for a brief moment, he wondered if they were bluffing. Stopping, he stared at the newscast for a moment, decided that no matter how false their evidence might be, scrutiny was too high for him to risk staying. He turned back to his packing, only half listening to the rest of the special report. "This man probably has a very low IQ, he may even border on functional retardation. We suspect he may even have an accomplice, being unable to commit these crimes on his own. . ." The little man's head snapped up at the words, and he threw his road map on the floor with a pop. 'Challenge set,' he thought to himself. 'Challenge met.' WTHR Studios Bayliss pulled his coat more tightly around him, shielding himself against the cold wind as they headed toward their car. Unlocking the driver's side door, he stared across the roof at Mulder. "If this works. . . if he kills someone else for us to catch him, it's ours." Mulder shook his head. "No one makes him kill but himself." Sliding behind the wheel, Bayliss dug the keys from his pocket. Hesitating, he put the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it. "It makes us accomplices." With a sigh, Mulder fastened his seatbelt. "Tim, he's going to kill anyway. He'll kill until he dies or we catch him. It's unfortunate, and it's depressing, but that's just the way it is. The only thing we did was hopefully make him less careful. It's all a question of guilt. Can you live with one more woman dead, or would you prefer fourteen?" "None. I'd like none." "That's not an option." Bayliss started the car, and pulled out of the lot. "It should be an option. I shouldn't be, we shouldn't be deciding when someone dies. I'm supposed to stand over a body I never expected to find, not plant one." "There are a lot of things that shouldn't be. You get used to it." "I never got used to it," Tim said. "Never. When the phone rings, I expect the worst, I even learned to make jokes about it, but I've never gotten used to it. I don't understand how anyone can. Frank can. Munch can. Hell, even Kellerman can, but not me. Me, I'm left at the end of the day with an empty apartment and a head full of questions I can't answer, and I wonder why. I'm where I wanted to be, so why is it so damned hard for me?" "Because they're you." "What?" "You never learned to make the distinction. When you see a body on the ground, you don't see them, you see yourself. Who did they love? What will they miss? What would have happened? Those things you want to know about them, they're questions you want answered for yourself. You just forget that you have the chance to find out, so they haunt you." "I was just talking here, Mulder, just talking. I wasn't looking for you to profile me." Mulder shook his head. "It's what I am." "Funny you should say that. Why do you think you spend your career investigating things you can't ever really prove and making guesses about what strangers are like?" Stiffening, Mulder checked his seatbelt, and looked out of the window. "I was just talking. Everyone's a stranger, everything is a secret." They were silent as they drove back toward the City County building, Bayliss navigating carefully through the multiple one way streets. Mulder glanced over at Tim, trying to divine his thoughts, listening to the other man tick his tongue against his teeth. "I never told Frank." "I wouldn't have told Scully. She saw me with you in the hospital." "So you keep secrets." "Yes I do." "Why?" "Why do you?" "Some things crawl and ache in your heart so much that saying them out loud would make them too much to bear." "Makes them real," Mulder mused. "Given enough silence, a secret can cease to exist." Bayliss shook his head. "No, it can't." "It sounded good, though." "Yes, it did." (End Part Five) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (6/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) Homicide Unit "We have a sketch artist working with two witnesses right now, we should have a drawing real soon," Taylor said, meeting Bayliss and Mulder at the elevator door. "Nature's Own is faxing us a list of customers in Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Columbus and Indianapolis, and we have clean fingerprints for a match." Bayliss' face lit up. "We have a witness?" "Don't get too excited. The guy paid two teenagers to write his numbers on Monument Circle. It's circumstantial at best, but it's better than anything else we got." "I see a ray of hope," Bayliss grinned. Taylor pulled the squad doors opened. "Oh, and you missed Pembleton and Scully dressing some idiot down in interrogation." The squad room was still busier than ever, filled with smoke and loud voices. Scully, Pembleton, Sands and Whitney huddled over one desk, ignoring the phones ringing around them. Sands jabbed his finger on the desk, smiling widely as he talked. Bayliss raised an eyebrow at their animation. Tim looked over at Taylor for an explanation. "He's been like that ever since we got the witnesses," Taylor shrugged. Conference Room 4 "Okay," Bayliss said, passing out copies of the sketch artist's handiwork. "Frank, I want you and Dana to go back to the Scottish Rite. I realize that Father Byrne has privilege, but try anyway. Taylor, you, Whitney and Sands cover all the bars Becker went to before she disappeared. Mulder and I will talk to the Becker witnesses, then come back and canvas the Circle area. We have 36 hours left, let's get moving." Mulder stared down at the bundle of papers in his hands, sharp line-drawn eyes staring back from an angular, almost elven face. The face didn't look much like a killer's, but he reminded himself that they never did. Lost in thought, he memorized the drawing, from the neatly cut hair to the tilted lower lip. Scully pulled him out of his reverie, tapping him on the arm. "You coming?" "Yeah." He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "You okay?" He nodded, finding a smile. "Have fun in the box with Pembleton?" Scully grinned. "Absolutely." Father Byrne's Apartment "Detective Pembleton, Agent Scully. . . I hadn't expected to see you again." Father Byrne wiped his hands on a towel, then hung it on the side of the sink. He leaned against the counter wearily, then turned back to the task of putting away dishes. "I have a few questions," Pembleton said softly, pulling a sketch from his coat pocket. "Have you ever seen this man in the cathedral?" Glancing from the corner of his eye, Father Byrne considered the question and the drawing. "Yes." "Have you ever seen this man near the confessional?" There was a long pause. Pembleton was doing his best to avoid the real query, 'Is this the man who confessed to you.' He just hoped that Father Byrne would go along. He was under no obligation to cooperate, but Frank suspected his guilty conscience might work to their advantage. "Yes." "Have you ever spoken to this man?" Father Byrne nodded silently, dropping silverware into a drawer. "If I asked you anything further about your conversations with this man, would the answers be privileged?" "Yes." Scully bowed her head penitently. "Thank you, Father." Father Byrne looked her over, then smiled tightly. "You know the way out, I'm sure." Home of Jerri Ritcey "I don't recognize him, sorry." Jerri crossed her arms across her chest, shaking her head for emphasis. "You're absolutely sure?" "One hundred percent, I've never seen this guy." Dr. Fornelli's Office "We have so many people coming through on a daily basis. . . " "Could you take a closer look?" "I'm sorry, I don't recognize him." Office of the Director of the Eiteljorg Museum "No, I've never seen him." The Pan-Am Plaza "He doesn't look at all familiar." World Mardi Gras "I've seen him in here a couple of times, but I didn't see him last week." "Do you know his name?" "Yeah right, I have time to learn everyone's names." The 501 "Where's Detective Bayliss?" "Also interviewing possible witnesses, sir. I assure you, we're all working together on this." "What were your names again?" "Detective Sands and Detective Whitney, sir." "Yeah, I've seen him. We call him John the Baptist." "John the Baptist?" "Yeah. He always carries a Bible, and he's into watersports. It's funny to us, anyway." "Do you know his real name?" "Sorry. Do you think anyone else here might know?" "Ask Tony down in the restaurant." "I think his first name is Rick, but I don't know for sure. I only went out with him once." "Do you know where he lives?" "Around here, probably. I met him here, we walked to the restaurant, and afterwards, he walked home. I don't know anything else." "You're sure?" "Trust me, if I knew more, I'd tell you. I am totally sure." 2437 Delaware Street Bayliss knocked on the door again, a little louder this time. He realized it was getting late, and people didn't care much for opening their doors to strangers after dark, but they only had a few houses to go and he wanted to get it over with. He looked over at the next house, watching Mulder question a tiny, antediluvian woman. By the way Mulder leaned over her, flashing his winning smile, Bayliss knew he was flirting any information she had right out of her. As he pondered the approach, the front door to the house he was standing at swung open, and he was met by a very large, very angry looking man with a shotgun. Stumbling back a few steps, Bayliss held up his hands. "I'm a police officer, I just want to ask you if you recognize . . . " "Get off my porch." Bayliss reached into his pocket, and pulled out the sketch. "Please, just put down the gun. All I want to know is if you know this man." Lowering the shotgun, the man stared at the drawing. "He's a faggot." Bayliss' eyes widened. "You recognize him?" "Yeah, he's a fucking faggot Bible thumper. That don't go together if you ask me." Swallowing a sense of bitter unease, Bayliss pressed on. "Where have you seen this man? Do you know his name?" "I don't talk to faggots," the man sneered. "But he lives down the street. We been trying to convince him to move. I got kids, you know. I don't want no faggot getting hold of them." "Which address?" "It's the white house, right down there," the man pointed. "Hey, why're you asking? What's he done?" "We just want to ask him a few questions. Thank you for your cooperation, sir." "That's police talk for wantin' to arrest somebody. I hope you find him, we don't need his kind around." 2419 Delaware Street "No one's answering," Mulder said finally, as Bayliss tried to peer into filthy windows. "We'll have to get a warrant." "It's ten thirty," Bayliss complained. "We'll have to get some judge out of bed, and 'some guy said' isn't exactly evidence." "I don't see that we have much choice at this point. Let's talk to everyone else first, maybe they have something to add to the pile." "Pile is about right," Tim muttered. Judge Madeline Smith's Office "I realize it's late, thank you for coming in, your honor." Bayliss stood respectfully on the defendant side of the judge's desk, his coat folded over his crossed hands. Taylor shifted from foot to foot next to him, infinitely uncomfortable. Judge Smith liked to have fifteen pounds of evidence and 10 eye witnesses to grant a warrant; she'd tried to tell Tim that, but he brushed it aside. It didn't really matter though, Judge Smith was the only one who'd answered the call. "It's not midnight yet, it's not late. What can I do for you?" "We need a warrant." Bayliss smiled sheepishly, his voice low and soft. He pinned the judge in his puppy-dog gaze. "Just a line of sight warrant, nothing big." Judge Smith half smiled. "So little to ask, and what do you have to offer me, Detective Bayliss?" "I have," Bayliss said seductively, "I have four eye witnesses, a name, an address, and fingerprints." Raising an eyebrow, Judge Smith stood up, stuffing her hands in her pants pockets. "Really? That much?" "Two witnesses who confirm that our suspect paid them to write his signature where he last dropped a body. One witness to whom our suspect confessed. One witness who places the suspect in the same bar our last victim visited before she was murdered." "Why does this sound too good to be true?" The judge peered skeptically over her glasses. "Tell me the part I won't like." "We only have a first name. We don't have the confession because it's privileged. The fingerprints won't match anything until we have a hand to put them with. We can connect our suspect only to locations and aftermath, not the actual crime." Tim smiled winningly, expertly concealing his discomfort. "Well, you certainly have courage," Judge Smith said coldly. "But I have to wonder why Detective Taylor allowed you to pull me away from my busy home schedule. Certainly she knew my standards for granting a warrant." Before Bayliss could reply, Taylor stepped forward. "You've always been fair in the past, your honor. I know we haven't met your usual standard for burden, but I believed you'd consider the special circumstances in this case." "You're a very bad liar, detective." Judge Smith pulled open a desk drawer. "You're a very bad liar, indeed. I suggest you survey the location and come back to me when you have enough evidence for a warrant. No matter how high profile a case is, I will not be overturned for ignoring due process. Good night, detectives." Bayliss and Taylor gave their good nights, and filtered out into the hallway. They headed for the elevator, staring at their feet as they walked. "I'm sorry," Bayliss said finally. "We hadda try." Taylor shrugged unhappily. "Would have helped if his name had been on that thread list." "Yep." "So we stake out his house." "Yep." "Wanna get laid?" Bayliss turned and stared at Taylor. "Pardon?" She smirked. "Nothing. Let's go share the bad news, shall we?" (End Part Six) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (7/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) Corner of Delaware and South Street "I hate stake outs," Pembleton groused, unwrapping a sandwich and laying it on the napkin in his lap. "Human beings were not designed to spend 12 hours sitting in the same place." "We weren't designed to do a lot of the things we do," Dana agreed, pouring a packet of sugar into her iced tea. She glanced up over the dashboard, keeping an eye on the house they were watching. So far, no one had gone in or out, and the windows were dark. "There was a time when I would have enjoyed this," Frank admitted. "But those days are long gone, long gone. Now I just want to arrest someone and go home." "Little jaded there, Frank?" "No, a lot. I've been thinking about retiring." Scully's eyes widened. "Really? That surprises me." "Why would that surprise you? I have a wife, two children, and a pension due me. We could move to Washington and be closer to Mary's parents." He made a face. "Or we could move back to New York and live in a real city." "It surprises me because I can't imagine what you would do besides being a cop." Frank laughed softly, playing with his sandwich. "I can't either, but I'm sure I could find something. I have many talents." "Have you told Bayliss this?" "Of course not. I can't stand listening to him mewl and whine." "You'll miss him," she said confidently. "I most certainly will not," Frank snorted. "It will be a pleasure to spend days, even weeks, without being dragged into the passion play he calls a life. No more arguments over sandwiches forgotten, no more long discussions on the merits of playing hearts, no more battles over good dog names. It will be a pleasure, Dana, a pleasure I can't begin to explain." Scully half smiled, remembering the agony they shared standing in front of the Cartwright Mansion, neither knowing if their partners would walk out or be carried out on a gurney. Pembleton could talk all night, but he'd never convince her that he didn't care about Bayliss. "I still don't understand your unnatural devotion to Mulder." She laughed to herself. "He's my partner, Frank. Where he goes, I go." "If I tried to follow Bayliss, I would go insane. He goes through these phases, completely incomprehensible to anyone but him. He went out on a date with one of our witnesses a few months ago; and while that in itself is odd, this witness was a man. A man, Dana. I've known Tim Bayliss for six years now, and never once has he shown that he was anything but heterosexual. He was uncomfortable around gay men less than three years ago on a case, but now, now he's going off on dates with them. No, I can't follow Bayliss. I don't even understand Bayliss. I sincerely doubt Bayliss understands Bayliss." At that moment, Scully realized that Tim hadn't told Frank anything about the time he'd spent with Mulder in that mansion. An uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach, and she took a long sip of her tea. Corner of Delaware and Merrill Street After sorting out whose food was where, Mulder and Bayliss sat silently in the car, watching the house. The night noises of an inner city neighborhood were a backdrop symphony; animals in trash cans performed percussion, an old woman screaming at errant grandchildren was the melody. Mulder folded and unfolded the foil around his gyro, trying to decide whether to bother with the cucumber sauce. He furtively looked over at Bayliss, then back down at his dinner. If he'd been with Scully, he wouldn't be able to shut up. Instead, he was sitting there silently, playing with a sandwich he didn't really want, and wishing he weren't noticing the soft, clean scent of Bayliss' cologne. Willing himself to pay attention to the surveillance, Mulder ignored the warmth crawling across his skin. "You know," Bayliss started, "Times like this, I miss smoking." Mulder nodded, glad for the conversation. "Good way to pass time." "I mean, I'm glad I quit. I feel much better, I have more energy, but there's something comforting about waiting with a cigarette in your hand." "Sunflower seeds," Mulder said, picking at his sandwich. "Almost as good, and they won't kill you unless you choke." "Really. Sunflower seeds?" "Really." Bayliss shook his head. "See, sunflower seeds, though, they're so much work. You have to peel them, you have to keep hold of them. A cigarette though, just light. It floats in your hand, there's no effort to it." "You could eat the shells." "That's disgusting." "Some people do it. I don't. I find comfort in a pile of seedless husks." Tim laughed quietly. "That sounds Freudian." Smiling wryly, Mulder ate one of the tomatoes from his gyro. "In the end, everything can be Freudian." "Not everything." "Yes, absolutely everything." Rising to the challenge, Bayliss smiled and thought for a moment. "Asparagus." "That's too easy. It's a phallic symbol." "Okay, okay, I can see that." He paused. "Water." "The return to the womb." "Smoking." "Infantile oral fixation." "Mother Theresa," Bayliss smiled, laying down his psychoanalytic trump card. "The pleasure principle." Tim pushed the straw back into his drink and stared at Mulder. "The pleasure principle? We're talking about a nun here." "I know that. The pleasure principle is the concept that people do good because it makes them feel good, and they don't stop because they require escalating positive acts to maintain their level of happiness. It only relates to sexual pleasure if that's the manifestation which one chooses to pursue." "So what you're saying is that Mother Theresa worked her entire life for the indigent and downtrodden so she wouldn't see diminishing returns on her goodness high?" Mulder shook his head. "I never said that." "That's exactly what you said." "No," Mulder argued. "I said that everything can be boiled down to a Freudian motivation. I didn't say it was right." "Huh." Bayliss adjusted his glasses, and leaned against the headrest. "The pleasure principle." 2420 Delaware Street Home of Mary Ann Kubistawieky "Do you all want some coffee or something?" Whitney looked up at their impromptu hostess, handing the binoculars to Sands. "It's not necessary, ma'am." "No trouble, I reckon, I always make coffee when the police come." Sands raised his eyebrows. "This has happened more than once?" "Well, when they come to take Bobby, I made coffee," she nodded, rolling her eyes back as if trying to visually locate other dates in her memory. "Then when they come to take John, he's my youngest, made coffee then too. S'comforting, hot coffee is." Whitney exchanged an incredulous glance with Sands. "Sure, sure then. Coffee would be nice." They watched Mrs. Kubistawieky limp into the kitchen, then heard the sound of water running into a metal container. "So the feller who lives across the street, what's he into? It must be pretty bad for y'all to be sitting in my living room watching his house. When Johnny got sent up for growing pot in the basement, they just come right in and took him. Warn't nothing this fancy." "We just want to ask him a few questions, ma'am." "He carries on something odd," Mrs. Kubistawieky offered. "Writing on his porch in chalk and washing it off, burning trash in his backyard; that's illegal in city limits, you know. They gave Old Johnny, may his soul rest in peace, a 40 dollar ticket for burning trash in our backyard. Milk? Sugar?" Delaware Street Taylor walked up one side of the street and down the other, muttering under her breath. She and four patrol officers were standing various posts along Delaware, waiting for their suspect to arrive. With a sigh, she dug her hands into her pockets, looking for her cigarettes. Instead, she found two lighters, a book of matches, and a clear, cat's eye marble. She contemplated the marble before tossing it on the broken sidewalk. It rolled a few feet, then was trapped in a fissure. Rechecking her pockets, she found four cents and an empty gum wrapper. She scowled, then crossed the street again. Corner of Delaware and South Street The walkie talkie in Scully's lap hissed and sputtered to life. "I don't have any fucking cigarettes." Taylor's voice crackled over the small speaker. "That," Frank announced, "Is the saddest thing I've heard all day." "She never smokes them anyway, she just lights them." "Yes, but it's comforting to know it's there, if you want one." "You used to smoke?" Scully shook her head. "Of course you did." Frank raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, of course I did?" "Most cops smoke," Scully explained ingenuously. "As a matter of fact, I did smoke. I smoked all day long; fragrant plumes of burning tobacco surrounded me in a shroud of planned obsolescence." "You're pining." "Pining?" "Yes, longing to set a weed on fire and to inhale the noxious waste thereof." "When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous." "It is ridiculous." "So what is your vice, Agent Scully?" She shrugged. "I don't have any." Pembleton considered her for a moment, then began to laugh. "You must have one. Everyone has one. It doesn't even have to be bad for you, though it's a much more effective vice if it is. So come on, what's your secret vice, Dana?" She mulled over the notion for a moment. "Pistachio pudding." "What kind of vice is that?" "My kind," she grinned. "Two cups of milk, a package of white powder in tupperware, shake, and five minutes later, a delightful green pudding." "Green. Your vice is green pudding." "What color did you expect it to be?" "Red." "They dye them red. In their natural state, pistachios are green." "I know that," Frank sniped. "But if they dye the nuts, why not the pudding?" "They do dye it. They just dye it green." "Now that's ridiculous." "But delicious right from the container." "And this is your vice." "Yes indeed," Scully said, stretching her arms. "You need to get out more." "Yes indeed." Union Station Parking Garage Yelena Galifi walked into the parking garage, clutching her keys between her fingers. It always made her nervous to be the last one out, but she paid close attention to her surroundings, and walked confidently. Her self defense teacher had congratulated her on her vigilance at the end of her course, and when she got scared, she thought about that. Over the echoes of her footsteps, she could hear someone muttering, followed by the sound of keys hitting concrete. As she rounded the post, she saw a feminine looking man in a leg cast, trying to retrieve his keys from underneath an old car. He looked on the verge of tears when he noticed her, but only nodded and turned back to his task. "Can I help you?" Yelena was surprised to hear herself speak, but squelched her inner alarm. Even at a distance, she could tell she was bigger than this man, and he hadn't even asked for her help. A bad guy would have approached her, she decided. "I dropped my keys," he said in a surprisingly female voice. It wasn't just a stereotypical "gay lisp," but virtually indistinguishable from a woman's voice. "I can't get down there to get after them." With a nod, Yelena walked over, surreptitiously uncapping the mace in her jacket pocket. "I'll get them, but could you stand over there, please?" The man nodded through a forced smile, brushing his scattered blonde locks from his eyes. He hobbled away slightly, thanking her effusively for her help. Yelena knelt down, looking under the car for the keys. They were further under there than she expected. Putting her own keys down, she braced herself with one hand and reached with the other. Scrabbling for a few moments, she finally snagged the key ring. As she started to pull herself up, she felt a sharp pain in her hip. She fell to the ground, her face hitting the pavement with a crack she heard, but didn't feel. (End Part Seven) Title:Forward Slash II: Signature (8/8) Author: Saundra Mitchell E mail: vii@netdirect.net Rating: R (Adult Situations, Language) Corner of Delaware and Merrill Street "Why did you call us in?" Tim looked over at Mulder wearily. "What are you talking about?" Examining his hands, Mulder didn't look up. "Scully and me. Why did you call us in? There's a field office in Indianapolis. Baltimore too." Shrugging, Bayliss removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose, hiding a pained expression. "I knew we could work together. I knew you wouldn't try to claim jurisdiction." Mulder stared out the window. "You're not answering my question." "Then what are you asking, Mulder? You're starting to get on my nerves." "I can write a profile from Washington. Scully can examine autopsy notes from Washington." Mulder stopped, suddenly aware that his heart was racing. He wanted to ask the question, but he wasn't sure he wanted the answer. Closing his eyes, he took a breath and pressed on. "Why did you want us in Indianapolis?" Bayliss inhaled through his front teeth, making a sharp hissing noise. Squinting, he looked over at Mulder, opening his mouth to answer, then closing it again. He was suddenly very aware of Mulder's presence and he caught himself staring at the strong curve of his jaw. Shaking his head, Bayliss turned his attention back to the surveillance. Sighing, Mulder slumped in defeat. "What time is it?" "Because I wanted to see you again, okay? It's been two months, and we haven't spoken to one another. Hell, Dana's been up to see Frank and Mary four times now, but we haven't even spoken. I guess. . . I guess I just wanted to see if you'd come." They fell quiet again, staring straight ahead. The edges of the windows were starting to cloud, and Mulder realized the sounds of the city had dwindled to nothing. He took a deep breath, and shifted in his seat to adjust for a discomfort that wasn't at all physical. Without turning, Mulder raised a hand tentatively and laid it across one of Tim's. 2420 Delaware Street Home of Mary Ann Kubistawieky "I'm gonna turn in, gentlemen," Mary Ann said, prying herself out of an ancient recliner. "There's coffee in the pot, if you want some. Don't worry about locking the doors when you leave. It don't lock anyway." Corner of Delaware and South Street "Hey, a car," Scully said, trying to twist the kinks out of her back as she watched it turn down Delaware. "It's slowing down." Pembleton picked up the walkie talkie, and closed the microphone. "Taylor, incoming. Late 70s Malibu, identify?" Delaware Street Taylor leaned against a car nonchalantly, waiting for the car to get closer. Staring up through her bangs, she focused on the driver's side of the windshield, waiting for him to come into view. When he did, her heart quickened, and she touched the microphone on her shirt. "It's him. Going in." Reaching into her jacket, Taylor unfastened the thumb break on her holster, ready to pull her gun if necessary. She waited until the man shut the car off and opened his door before walking swiftly across the street toward him. "Excuse me, sir, Indianapolis Police, could you step away from the car, please?" The little blonde man stared at her, fixed to his spot. He half raised his hands, but said nothing. Touching the mike button with her left hand, she continued her cautious approach. "Come in." Three seconds later, Sands and Whitney appeared from Mrs. Kubistawieky's house, and unmarked Caprices pulled up on either side. The four patrol officers assigned to the watch appeared out of nowhere, as if they had just faded back into existence. Taylor ordered their suspect up against the car. Without a word, the man assumed the proper position to be frisked, but said nothing. She patted him down, stopping at his jacket pocket. "I'm going to put my hand in your pocket. Am I going to find a needle in there?" The man shook his head, still silent. "Gimme your flashlight," she said to one of the patrol officers. He produced a pen light and handed it to her. Peering down into the suspect's pocket, she found an orange syringe cap, and a small rubber topped bottle. "I need some gloves, and a bag. What's your name, bucky?" When he didn't reply, she reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. She tossed it to Bayliss, then took the latex glove offered to her by Scully. Snapping it onto her hand, she reached into the pocket, and pulled out the bottle. "His name's Richard Ward and he has a nurse's license in here," Bayliss said. "Well, Richard Ward," Taylor said, thrusting the bottle under his nose. "What's this?" Before he had the opportunity to say nothing yet again, the detectives present heard a muffled moaning coming from inside the car. Taylor's eyes widened, and she pulled the cuffs from the back of her pants. Snapping them in place on Rick's wrists, she reached into his other pocket and pulled out his car keys. Handing them over to Bayliss, she quietly recited the Miranda warning to Rick. "Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?" He nodded in response, his eyes riveted to the police officers opening his trunk. When he heard the gasp, he closed his eyes, smiling to himself. Homicide Unit Interrogation 1 Mulder and Scully stood silently behind the one way glass, watching Pembleton and Bayliss trying to crack Rick Ward from his silence. Whitney and Sands were still at the house on Delaware Street, and Taylor was downstairs doing a rush on their suspect's prints. At this point, the two federal agents had nothing to do but watch. "Do you want a lawyer? Something to drink?" Bayliss stood over Rick, nodding his head encouragingly. Rick just shook his head, and stared straight forward. He hadn't said a word since they'd pulled him out of the car. "Why're you smiling," Frank asked, tapping his manicured fingers on the table. "You've had that stupid smile on your face for an hour. What do you have to smile about? You're a failure, Rick. Yelena Galifi is sitting in a hospital bed right now, telling a police officer everything she knows. We have your fingerprints, and later on, we'll have every damned thing in your house laid out in evidence control. So why're you smiling? Hm? Are you stupid? In response, the tight-lipped smile widened. Rick ran his hands through his hair nervously, his eyes darting from Bayliss to Pembleton, and back to Bayliss. Tim sat next to Rick, presenting a comforting front. "You know, Frank, I learned something very interesting today. Very interesting indeed." "What's that, Tim?" "The pleasure principle." "The pleasure principle?" "Yes, Frank, the pleasure principle." Tim looked seriously at Pembleton. "See, sometimes people find out that doing something makes them feel good. It could be, I dunno, rubbing their bellies with liniment, or accidentally hurting someone. Anyway, it makes them feel good, and we all want to feel good right?" "I know I do." "Of course you do. We all do. So anyway, these people start to do it on purpose, you know, whatever makes them feel good, so they don't feel bad. They just want to feel better, so their ritual, their vice, if you will, becomes an obsession. It's completely out of their hands. They can't help it, not at all, even if they wanted to. They're forced, psychologically, to keep going." "That's very interesting, Tim. But after a while, a little bit of liniment isn't good enough anymore, is it?" Bayliss put his arm around Rick's shoulder, leaning across the table. "That's right, Frank. Hey, you're good at this psychology stuff. Turns out, that they have to do it bigger, better, to get the same good feelings. It's an addiction. Nobody's fault, an addiction; just like drugs or liquor." Rick started to shake, then a wheezing snicker issued from him. Bayliss sat back, staring at the man. "First you're smiling, then you're laughing. What's wrong with you, boy?" For the first time, Rick's smile faltered, then faded altogether. Tim and Frank were surprised at the sudden change of demeanor, but stunned when their suspect began to talk. "I know how this works," Rick said in a woman's voice. Bayliss stared, but Frank managed to keep his veneer of cold disinterest. "You think you speak for the dead. You all do," Rick continued. "But you don't. I can. I do. My mother said all I needed was a good woman. Is fourteen enough? This interview is over now. I want my lawyer." Conference Room 4 "I examined him," Scully said as she walked into the conference room, her face pale. "And?" Taylor crossed her arms over her chest. "It would appear," she began, glancing over at Mulder for support. "It would appear he cut out his own tongue and somehow grafted in one of his victim's. For all intents and purposes, this man shouldn't be able to speak at all." "And yet he can," Pembleton said skeptically, staring at Mulder as if his very presence had caused the anomaly. "I suggest we keep that little tidbit out of the newspapers," Bayliss sighed. "The world will find out soon enough at his trial." "Have we heard from Whitney and Sands," Taylor asked softly. "They're still pulling evidence from his house," Mulder answered. "So far, we have hemp thread, syringes, several bottles of succinylcholine. . . " The five sat quietly, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Now that they had the killer in custody, the letdown was immense. They looked at the pile of folders in the center of the table. They had worked 20 hour days doing it, but they had caught their murderer. Breaking the stillness, Lt. Edmonds burst into the conference room, his jowly face beet red. "Taylor," he barked. She stood up, clutching the table for support. "Yes sir?" "Your suspect's dead. He hung himself in lock up." "Oh god," she croaked. "In my office, now." Homicide Unit Bayliss and Mulder sat at Taylor's desk, waiting for her to reappear. Scully and Pembleton had gone off in search of a Chinese restaurant still open for take out at that late hour. Around them, things seemed almost normal in the unit; detectives taking phone calls for ordinary murders, the pace no faster than the bodies fell. When the door opened on the unit, Mulder and Bayliss stood up immediately to greet a somber Taylor. She brushed past them, and started throwing the contents of her desk into an empty paper box. "What happened," Bayliss asked, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I was irresponsible in the processing of our suspect," she said, biting out each word. "Consequently, four states' attorneys are bent the fuck out of shape, and I'm the last in the line of goats. Hi ho, Taylor away." "You got fired?" Mulder stared at Taylor incredulously. "Yep." "Just like that," Bayliss questioned. "No inquiry, no hearing?" "I was already on discretionary probation for insubordination. They've been waiting for an excuse to fire me. They got one." She threw the last of her things into the box and picked it up. "Well gentlemen, it was a pleasure working with you." Mulder glanced over at Bayliss. "Wait, Frank and Scully are getting Chinese, they'll be back in a few minutes. Why don't we wait for them, then we can get a drink?" Taylor shook her head, walking toward the door. "I was asked to vacate the premises immediately. Thanks anyway, though." "We can at least walk you down," Bayliss said, starting after her. "No." Taylor backed against the door, opening it. "I mean, no thanks. I just want to go home. I'll see y'around." Hyatt Regency Room 412 Mulder stared at the ceiling tiles, making patterns where none existed. He'd been trying to sleep for nearly two hours, failing miserably. Despite her unspoken desire to be alone, he, Bayliss, Scully and Pembleton had tried to track Taylor down. She had either chosen to ignore their knocks at her door, or she hadn't actually gone home. What should have been a night of celebration had become a joyless acknowledgment of a job done. Left with a sour twist in his stomach, Mulder had retired early to catch a nap before he boarded the plane back to Washington. There was a soft tap on his door, and he sighed as he rolled out of bed. Adjusting his boxers, he opened the door, expecting to see Scully standing there. "Hi," Tim said uneasily, trying to ignore the fact that Mulder was one pair of shorts shy of nude. Mulder dragged a hand through his hair. "Hi." "Can I come in?" "Yeah," he replied abruptly, pulling the door open a little further. Tim stepped inside, looking around the room. "It's nice. I had to share a room with Frank." "I'm sorry." Mulder shut the door, trying to figure out what to do with his hands. Normally, he'd put them in his coat pockets. "One of the advantages of having a female partner." "I guess so." "We finally found Taylor," Tim said haltingly. "Well, she found us, really." "Yeah?" "Yeah, she came into the bar we were at, but she was already drunk. We ended up taking her home." "I'd be drunk too." "It sucks what happened to her. I wish we could do something. Anything." "I know what you mean." "I just hope she's okay. All alone, I mean." "Me too." "So anyway, I figured you'd be leaving today, and I didn't know if I'd get a chance to say good bye," Bayliss said finally, stepping toward the door. "You're not going back?" "No, not yet. I have to finish some paperwork, do a couple of press conferences. I'll probably be here a couple more days." "Oh." They stood only a few feet apart, stumbling for the right words. Eventually, Bayliss sighed to himself. "It's late, I'd better go." Mulder nodded imperceptibly, his hand resting on the door handle. He wanted to stop him, but he didn't know how. Tim took a step forward, now only inches from Mulder, gripping the back of his neck as he stared at the floral patterned carpet. He hovered there, not daring to look up, but unwilling to leave. He was the one who'd wanted to see Mulder again, to find out if there was anything there, and now he was on the verge of leaving without finding out. He reached and touched Mulder on the shoulder, drawing a jagged breath. In an instant, he had decided to ignore his apprehensions. They leaned forward at the same moment, all hesitation gone. The hand that had rested on Mulder's shoulder stole up, twining itself in his tousled hair. Pressed against the door, Mulder leaned harder into the kiss, helplessly overwhelmed by the sensation of Bayliss' body against his. He had thought about this, lying alone in his Washington apartment; thought about being Bayliss' arms again, their tongues intertwined as their hands scrabbled to touch familiar but separate bodies. A soft moan bubbled in Mulder's throat as Tim gently bit his lower lip, the hand in his hair tightening in gentle, erotic pain. Finally Tim pulled away, keeping his eyes closed, and his forehead against Mulder's. They exhaled together, sharp breaths of passion slowly growing longer and more controlled. Mulder half opened his eyes then licked his lips, pulling Bayliss closer. The last time, he could see nothing in the oppressive dark, now he could see the soft curve of Tim's eyelashes, the tremble of his lips in the awkward moment when something would be decided. For the first time in his life, Mulder completely understood finding beauty in another man. In his low, honeyed voice, he whispered one word, his arms tightening around the other man's waist. "Stay." (End of Part Eight) (The End)