Shred of Doubt (2/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley

San Diego Police Department
May 1, 2000
10:15 am

They'd met briefly for breakfast, a lavish affair 
compared to what they were used to in their usual 
accommodations. Mulder knew Scully was 
watching him like a hawk as he picked at his omelet 
(plain cheese, nothing that would bother his throat 
going down). He would have killed everyone in the 
lobby for a piece of bacon, but he knew that 
between the crisp texture and the salt it would kill 
him before he got a chance to enjoy it.

Kresge was at the front doors, waiting for them at 
eight o'clock sharp. Mulder sighed as he saw the 
detective jump out of the driver's seat so he could 
open the door for Scully. Did this guy have springs 
in his ass? Was he a hurdles star in college? It was 
depressing to see anyone that 'perky' so early in the 
morning when Mulder just wanted to crawl back 
into the nice comfy bed. Maybe a different room, 
but the bed was definitely worth taking along with 
him. The fact that he was pining for the comforts of 
bed -- alone -- depressed him even more than 
Kresge's 'at your service' attitude. It was going to be 
a long day.

Two hours later, Mulder was convinced the day was 
actually much longer than any he'd lived through on 
the East Coast. It was only the middle of the 
morning. Scully was off somewhere, slicing and 
dicing on the latest victim. At least Mulder was 
pretty sure Kresge wouldn't be following her into 
the autopsy. At the mention of the morgue Mulder 
had noticed the detective turn a particular shade of 
pale green, and had smiled with that knowledge. 
But that just meant Scully was relatively safe. Now 
he knew that he was the one in danger -- they had 
put him in a gas chamber. Not really gas -- mold. It 
was a mold chamber. 

Kresge had seemed mildly apologetic as he showed 
Mulder to the spare office next to the restrooms. 
"It's the only one vacant at the moment, but it does 
have a phone line and a computer for you to use," 
the detective had explained. What he hadn't 
mentioned, not one word was that the wall to the 
room was covered in mold. From the ceiling to the 
carpet, in a swath about a foot and a half across, 
some sort of mold was causing the plaster of the old 
building to bubble and ooze. In some places it 
seemed to undulate, but Mulder was pretty sure that 
was just a trick of the light coming through the dirty 
panes of the window behind his back. Up near the 
ceiling tiles, the mold had a feather-like crust that 
was more pink than green, in contrast to the beige 
paint on the rest of the wall. Mulder's eyes couldn't 
help being drawn to it. It looked like something he 
and Scully would find on a case. It was everything 
he could do not to run his finger across it, he 
realized much to his horror.

He tried to concentrate on the photos of the crime 
scenes. It seemed pretty open and shut, when you 
didn't figure in the lack of point of entry. The 
victims' throats were cut and their mouths were 
stuffed with rose petals. Scorned lover? Stalker with 
murderous impulses? Red rose petals, fake silk 
flowers found in any dollar store or thrift shop. 
Some message was being sent.

Mulder looked again in the files to find the 
information on the victims. All the victims were 
young women, ages 22 to 25. Two of the three were 
college students; the third was a full-time barista at 
a coffee shop at Horton Plaza. None of them 
seemed to know each other, at least according to 
family members. One of the girls had just broken up 
with a long-time live-in boyfriend, but the guy had 
moved to Florida and had an airtight alibi the night 
of the murder. Aside from being young and pretty, 
the victims didn't have a lot in common.

He pulled out his yellow tablet and looked over his 
notes. He'd started his profile, but it was generic and 
uninspiring. Young male, aged 25 to 35, above 
average intelligence, strong, body builder or day 
laborer. Likes red roses.

He flipped the pencil and forcefully erased the last 
sentence. He wanted to concentrate but his head 
was splitting, his throat was killing him even though 
he hadn't spoken a word to anyone in nearly two 
hours and his chest was burning every time he took 
a breath. He glared accusingly at the mold on the 
wall. He had to get out of there. He needed to find 
out if Scully had picked up anything in the autopsy 
that the previous M.E.s might have missed.

Getting up, slowly, because he refused to use the 
inhaler in the Police Station, he pulled on his jacket 
and went to look for Kresge. The agents hadn't 
managed to rent a car yet, and technically he wasn't 
allowed to drive while taking his meds. His only 
mode of transportation was the detective. It annoyed 
Mulder to no end that he knew if he mentioned he 
needed to go see Scully, Kresge would drop 
everything to give him a lift, but he didn't think he 
had any other choice.

**

San Diego Police Department
10:26 a.m.

"Excuse me. Detective?"

John Kresge looked up to find Agent Scully's 
partner standing in front of his desk.

Without even waiting for his reply, the man said, "I 
need a ride to the morgue. Can you give me a lift?"

What was he . . . a taxi? And what was with the 
voice? Shouldn't it have cleared up by now? John 
was right in the middle of writing up another case 
report; just because the FBI could only work one 
case at a time didn't mean your average police 
detective was afforded that luxury. This serial thing 
was just one of many cases he had on his plate. 
"Can it wait, Agent? I have to get this report 
finished."

The agent bit his lip and scanned the room. "Can 
anyone else give me a ride? We don't have a rental 
yet, and I need to see Agent Scully."

Wait a minute! Where was his mind, that it hadn't 
made the connection between Agent Scully and the 
morgue? If Mulder had mentioned the lovely Agent 
Scully earlier in the conversation, John wouldn't 
have to backtrack and find some plausible reason to 
take the agent himself. "Ah . . . Well . . . I guess I 
could drive you, if it has to do with the case?" John 
looked at the agent hopefully.

"It does," Mulder confirmed.

"Well then, I can finish this up later." Tossing aside 
the now-uninteresting murder-suicide, Kresge got 
up. "Give me a minute," he told the agent, walking 
past the man to the captain's office. He rapped on 
the door before opening it and leaning in. "Hey, 
Cap. I'm gonna run the fed over to the morgue. Be 
back in a few."

"Okay, John. But don't forget you have other cases, 
too. Get back here as soon as you can."

He nodded. "Right." He closed the door and headed 
back to his desk. When he reached the agent, he 
clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Okay. Let's 
go."

The agent nodded, and John heard him fall in step 
behind him. This Mulder was a funny guy, John 
thought. When John had graciously given the agent 
a whole office to do God only knew what, the guy 
had not looked very grateful. Granted, there was a 
slight leak in the ceiling, but what did the guy 
expect? John had requested Agent Scully's 
assistance on this case; how was he to know she and 
her partner came as a set? That Mulder was darned 
lucky they had the spare office, or John didn't know 
what he would have done with the guy.

And what was up with that "Scully/Mulder" name 
thing? These two had been working together at least 
two years. Were all feds so formal with their 
partners? John perked up as a thought occurred to 
him. Maybe they just didn't get along, personality-
wise. He could certainly see it. Agent Scully was 
friendly, outgoing, fun and mega intelligent. Her 
partner was kind of a wet blanket, if last night's 
dinner had been any indication. And he hadn't 
exactly been a ray of sunshine this morning, either. 

From the moment John had picked them up, Mulder 
had been sullen and surly. At times, it appeared that 
he didn't even like Agent Scully (or John). Go 
figure. Hey, all the better for him. If this Mulder 
guy wanted to keep to himself, John had no problem 
with it. John didn't have any great desire to become 
the man's friend, even if the guy did save his life.

Suddenly feeling like an ungrateful lout, John 
vowed to make more of an effort toward the man. 
He waited for the agent to fall in step alongside 
him. "So . . . is the office working out okay?" John 
asked, more for something to say than out of any 
yearning to know.

Mulder opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed 
it, nodding. "It's fine, Detective. Thank you," came 
the hoarse response.

Kresge smiled. "Hey, no problem. We're lucky we 
had the extra space." 

The agent smiled, but John knew enough of human 
behavior to see that it was forced. He wondered 
what the guy had expected. Agent Scully had said 
her partner was a profiler. Kresge had to wonder 
how an FBI profiler and a doctor of pathology 
wound up working in a division that investigated . . 
. well, weird things. John could hardly believe the 
FBI had a department for that kind of stuff. He 
couldn't imagine how Agent Scully had come to 
work there -- and why she still was.

John pointed out his car to the agent as he unlocked 
the door with the remote. "So . . . you said you 
needed to see Agent Scully. Do you have something 
new on the case?"

"Not yet," Mulder said, getting into the car and 
buckling his seat belt. "I need to see if she found 
anything the coroners didn't."

John nodded. "Oh." Huh. Couldn't he have asked 
her this over the phone? Oh, well. It didn't matter. 
John wouldn't get to see Agent Scully if he had. He 
was willing to humor the guy on this aspect alone.

As soon as John had started the car and fastened his 
own seat belt, he rummaged in his jacket pocket for 
his breath mints. Out the corner of his eye, he saw 
the fed tense up. When John grasped the container 
and pulled it out, the agent relaxed. John's eyebrows 
rose. What was that all about? Couldn't a man 
freshen his breath before greeting a lady? "Mint?" 
John offered, holding out the tin. That guy could 
probably do with a shot as well.

Mulder shook his head, smiling slightly. "No, 
thanks."

John shrugged, and repocketed the container. He 
checked for traffic, then pulled out of his space and 
the police parking lot. After a few minutes in the 
quiet car, he threw a glance at the fed. "Hey, you all 
right?" The guy was wheezing like he had a pack-a-
day habit, but John could tell from the lack of 
cigarette odor on the guy's clothes that he wasn't a 
smoker. 

Mulder nodded, not saying anything. 

John had been around the block a few times, and he 
knew an avoidance tactic when he saw one. He 
chanced another peek at the man beside him. Christ. 
The guy was holding himself as stiff as a board, and 
had turned about three shades paler than the last 
time he looked. "Hey, you don't look so good. Want 
me to drop you by the emergency room? The 
hospital's not that far from the morgue."

Mulder shook his head. 

John shrugged. Well, the guy ought to know if he 
needs to see a doctor or not. John couldn't force 
him. 

Leaning forward, he clicked the radio on and 
cranked it up. If Mulder said he was okay, then he 
was okay. But John didn't care to listen to the guy's 
misery any more than he had to.

**

Detective Kresge's Car
10:38 a.m.

Mulder was inordinately grateful when the strains 
of Queen's "We Are the Champions" blasted 
through the car speakers. He didn't enjoy listening 
to his noisy breathing any more than the detective 
did. He couldn't wait to ditch the guy so he could 
take a hit from the inhaler. Detective Kresge was 
going to be mighty disappointed when Mulder took 
his leave of Kresge at the morgue entrance.

It couldn't be helped, though. Mulder was 
dangerously close to a full-blown attack the likes of 
which he hadn't had since he'd first gotten out of the 
hospital, and he refused to have it in front of 
Detective Kresge. In front of *anyone*, if he was 
honest with himself.

They were about two blocks away from the medical 
examiners' building, so Mulder concentrated on 
calming his breathing enough so he could talk, 
albeit briefly. When Kresge put on the brakes and 
came to a stop behind a line of cars at a red light, 
Mulder unlocked the door and flipped the handle. 
"I'll get out here. Thanks, Detective," he said, 
getting out and swiftly walking away.

Kresge's indignant, "Hey!" reached his ears half a 
block later. Although Mulder felt bad for ignoring 
the detective, there was no way he was stopping. 
There'd probably be hell to pay later, especially if 
he ever needed another ride, but for now it was his 
only recourse. He only hoped word of his rude 
behavior never made it back to Scully.

When he reached the County Operations Center, 
San Diego's morgue, he headed straight to the 
security desk and presented his credentials.

"What's your business here, Agent Mulder?" the 
bored-looking guard asked.

Barely able to breathe now, and unwilling to make a 
scene -- which he was certain he would if he 
attempted to speak -- Mulder pointed to his throat 
while he took his notebook and pen out of his jacket 
pocket. "I'm here to see my partner, Agent Scully," 
he wrote, dismayed to see how shaky his 
handwriting was.

The guard took the notebook, heading toward the 
phone, and Mulder had a moment of panic until the 
man reached for a clipboard, checking for his 
partner's name. "Okay, Agent Mulder. She's in bay 
4G." He handed the pad back to Mulder. "Take the 
elevator to the fourth floor and go left. It's all the 
way at the end of the corridor, on the right."

Mulder nodded his thanks and hurried away. He 
saw a men's room near the elevators, but it was too 
close to the guard's location so he reluctantly passed 
it by. He got on the elevator and took it to the 
second floor, then went in search of a secluded 
men's room.

God, he felt awful. He was sure that he wasn't doing 
himself any favors by denying himself the inhaler's 
benefits, but he'd be damned if he was going to look 
like some asthmatic, puffing on his inhaler every 
ten minutes. It was totally un-PC of him, and he 
knew he didn't think that anyone who used an 
inhaler was frail or sickly . . .

Oh, fuck it. Even though he was 'enlightened' and 
shouldn't think like that, deep down inside, he did. 
And he couldn't bear to be thought of in that light, 
especially by his peers in law enforcement. He was 
sure Detective Kresge was a little baffled by his 
presence, even though Mulder was certain that 
Scully had informed him that Mulder was a profiler. 
But Kresge and the rest of the police department 
didn't seem to be particularly impressed by that fact. 
They had a low enough opinion of him already; he 
didn't want to give them more ammunition by 
looking weak and unhealthy.

He almost cried when he found a men's room 
located smack in the middle of four unoccupied 
autopsy bays. Pushing the door, he fumbled with the 
deadbolt until he heard it click home, then took out 
his inhaler and shook it the way he had been shown 
by his partner. The canister broke loose from his 
trembling fingers and clattered to the floor. Mulder 
followed it down, losing his balance and landing 
hard on his rear, hitting his head against the wall. 
"Fuck," he swore automatically, then mightily 
regretted when he started coughing and couldn't 
stop.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, his chest burning more 
and more the longer he couldn't get his breath. In 
desperation, he grabbed the inhaler with both hands 
and depressed the plunger, letting the medicine into 
his clogged airway. He held his breath the way he'd 
been instructed, but all he could manage was two 
seconds before it exploded out of him. So much for 
exhaling slowly. His breathing improved the tiniest 
bit, but not near enough to make him feel better.

Not wanting a repeat of his experience in the hotel 
room, Mulder forced himself to wait a full minute 
before taking another dose. He leaned back against 
the wall, wincing when the back of his head came 
into contact with the tile. Vaguely, he wondered if 
he'd have a bump, but that was the least of his 
worries at the moment. He was gasping for air and 
afraid he was going to pass out before he could take 
another hit.

The instant 'Mississippi sixty' passed, he shoved the 
inhaler in his mouth and let her rip. This time he felt 
the effects almost immediately, and he savored the 
feeling of just being able to breathe. He leaned 
forward and folded his arms over his knees, then 
rested his aching head on his arms. When he felt 
well enough to stand, he climbed slowly to his feet, 
holding onto the wall for support. 

He made his way to one of the sinks, horrified by 
his reflection in the mirror. A hundred-year-old man 
probably looked better than he did at that moment. 
His eyes were red-rimmed and wet -- he didn't 
remember any crying, for chrissakes -- his nose was 
running, and he was so white he was almost 
transparent. He couldn't prevent a hysterical giggle 
at the thought that he resembled one of his x-files.

Christ, he couldn't face Scully looking like that. 
She'd pack him off to the hotel so fast, he'd be even 
dizzier than he was now. After another giggle 
escaped, he told himself to buckle down and knock 
it off; he had to make himself presentable. A trip to 
a stall procured toilet paper with which to clean his 
nose, and then he splashed warm water onto his 
face, washing away any trace of those inexplicable 
tears.

Still kind of shaky and feeling not so hot, he slid 
down the wall and back onto the floor, grateful that 
the morgue's bathroom floor was as clean and 
sparkling as any hospital john he'd ever been in. Of 
course, in the shape he was in, he'd have sat down 
regardless of how clean it was -- or wasn't.

Imitating his posture of a few minutes ago, arms on 
knees, head on arms, Mulder rested until he started 
to feel like a human being and not just like he was 
impersonating one. When he looked at his watch 
and realized how much time had gone by, he was 
glad he hadn't called to let Scully know he was on 
his way; she'd grill him no end as to why it had 
taken him so long to get there.

Hauling himself upright once again, he took a 
breath, then checked himself out in the mirror. He 
was a little pale, but nowhere near as bad as the last 
time he looked. He made a half-hearted effort to 
neaten his hair, then he squared his shoulders and 
went to find his partner.

**

San Diego Morgue
10:55 am

The latest victim, July Renee Carter, was laid out on 
the table between Scully and a disgruntled looking 
older man. The stare-down they were holding would 
have put most reasonable people in a cold sweat. 
Scully was taking another calming breath before 
picking up where she had left off.

"Dr. Hawkins, I understand that you have been a 
medical examiner more years than I've been 
driving, but the point is sometimes there are clues 
left that might not make sense, that might be 
ignored -- " She held up her hand to ward off a 
further enraged attack on her parentage. " -- not that 
you missed something intentionally, just that you 
might have felt the evidence had nothing to do with 
the crime. That's where I come in. I'm used to 
dealing with unusual cases -- "

"Little lady, I've seen more crap and shenanigans in 
my 30 years on the county's payroll than you've 
seen in every horror or sci fi movie you've ever sat 
through at the Bijou! And I'm telling you, I didn't 
miss a damned thing! Now, I understand that you're 
with the Bureau and that means I have to extend 
you every courtesy -- "

Scully tuned out the rest of the tirade as she leaned 
over the body. On the right hand, something caught 
her eye. Spinning on her heel, she reached the 
nearby desk and a folder with copies of the photos 
from the previous two victims. Squinting at the 
pictures, she licked her lips.

"Dr. Hawkins, here, can you identify this mark?" 
she asked, handing the older man a magnifying 
glass and one of the photos. "It's on the victim's 
right arm, near the back of the hand."

Hawkins frowned, but took the glass and photo. He 
looked, then looked again before handing both back 
to Scully. "It's a stamp from a nightclub," he said 
dismissively. "You'll find that a lot around town."

"I can't find it on the first victim," Scully remarked, 
searching through the photos.

"Well, those things wash off pretty easily. Look, I 
see where you're going with this, Dr. Scully, but it's 
a long shot. These women were young, pretty, they 
probably went out a lot. And finding the bar that 
used that stamp is going to take some work. They 
change stamps every night so someone can't get in 
on last night's stamp and avoid paying the cover, as 
you would know if you partied on the weekend," he 
added with a smirk.

She glared back at him, but decided against taking 
up battle over his thinly veiled insult. "I know just 
the person to look into that, actually," she said with 
a sweet, but definitely fake, smile.

The door behind them opened and Scully turned 
quickly, half expecting Mulder to appear, ready to 
hunt down the bar stamp. She was more than a little 
disappointed when it was Detective Kresge in the 
doorway. 

"Well, you have fun with that," Hawkins snapped, 
pulling off his latex gloves and walking past 
Kresge. "Real sweetheart you found there, John. 
Thanks a lot!" he said, his tone dripping with 
sarcasm.

"Milt?" Kresge returned, half greeting, half inquiry, 
but the man was already most of the way down the 
hall. Kresge turned back to Scully. "Is everything 
all right?"

Blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, Scully 
forced a smile. "Just great, Detective. Thank you. I 
think I might have found something for us," she 
said nodding toward the body. "I should probably 
call Mulder and have him take a look."

"Oh, he's here, somewhere. I thought he'd beat me, 
but apparently he got lost," Kresge said with a 
perplexed expression. "And what did we say last 
night? The name is John. C'mon, say it with me -- 
Joohhnn," he drawled out as if teaching her a new 
language.

She bit her lip to hold back her smile. "Sorry, John," 
she corrected. "But you said Mulder is here? Where 
would he go? The hallway is well marked and the 
information desk knew what exam room I've been 
using."

"Don't know. Isn't it the Bureau that does 'missing 
persons'?" Kresge shrugged.

Once again the door to the exam room opened and 
this time, Mulder walked in. "Hey, Scully," he 
rasped, smiling. 

"Mulder, where have you been?" she asked, fists on 
her hips.

"Answering the call of a higher power," he said 
with his patented 'aren't I adorable' look.

She gave him the once over. His clothes were 
hanging off him; she knew he'd lost weight, but it 
was getting noticeable. She vowed to make sure he 
actually ate lunch and dinner, even if it meant 
something healthy disguised with a far amount of 
grease. Next to her, Kresge cleared his throat and 
she realized she'd been staring at her partner. 

"Oh, well, you're here now. I want to show you 
something," she said, trying hard not to blush at 
being found 'gazing' at Mulder. "Look at this." She 
leaned over and pointed to the mark on the victim's 
hand. Mulder stood next to her, very close to her, as 
she pointed out the mark. 

"There?" he asked, motioning to the ink stamp. 
That's when she smelled it. On his breath, that faint 
floral smell that came from the medication he was 
supposed to use twice a day, morning and night -- 
more often only if necessary. 

"Mulder, did you just use your inhaler?" she asked 
pointedly. 

"It looks like a stamp, like for entrance to a 
nightclub or bar," he said, either not hearing or 
choosing to ignore her question. She wasn't about to 
let him slide this time.

"Mulder, I just asked you a question. Did you just 
have to use your inhaler?" she repeated, this time 
placing her hand on his upper arm.

He stood up straight, shooting her an annoyed look. 
"Yeah, I did. Now, can we get back to this?" He 
turned to Kresge. "Does the Department keep a list 
of all the bars and nightclubs around or do I have to 
resort to the yellow pages?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah, we have a list," Kresge huffed indignantly. 
"You gonna call all of them?"

"No, I'm going to 'fax' all of them," Mulder said in a 
rough whisper, before turning to his partner. "Can 
we get a good picture of this stamp, one we can 
blow up?"

"It's on the disk," she said, pointing to the camera 
on the desk. "I can have all the photos sent to your 
email as soon as I find someone to download them."

"That chore, I can handle," Kresge said, picking up 
the camera. "Agent Mulder, should I meet you back 
here or at the car? Oh, wait. You don't know where 
the car is, since you didn't wait for me to park it. I'll 
just come back here to meet you, is that all right?" 
he sneered. "Let me know if you need any help, 
Dana," he said, putting emphasis on her name.

Both agents regarded the detective with matched 
curious looks. After he was gone, Scully turned on 
her partner.

"Mulder, if you're having trouble breathing, I want 
to know right now," she hissed as she led him over 
to the middle of the room where the exam light over 
the gurney gave the best illumination.

He pulled out of her grasp and backed up, away 
from the body. "Not here, Scully! And it's nothing, 
really. I just had a little trouble. They stuck me in 
Mold Central. There's a leak in the roof or 
something, mold all over the wall and the carpet -- I 
had to get out of there. But I'm glad I came over, 
this stamp thing might be the break we're hoping 
for," he rasped cheerfully.

She wasn't about to change the subject. "Mold! The 
last place you need to be is anywhere near mold, 
Mulder. Tell them you have to have a different 
office. My God, your lungs are still recovering; if 
you introduce mold into that environment -- you 
could end up in the hospital with bacterial 
pneumonia before we could do a darned thing about 
it!"

"Scully," Mulder tried to interrupt.

"What the hell is wrong with this town? First the 
hotel has only smoking rooms -- great idea for a 
man recuperating not only from seriously injured 
lungs but also from nicotine overdose -- then this 
moldy room -- "

"Scully," he attempted again.

"Which reminds me, I was going to call the hotel 
and make sure they got our rooms changed. I will 
not tolerate -- "

This time he grabbed both her arms and leaned 
down so that their foreheads touched. "Scully," he 
whispered imploringly.

"What?" she asked, looking up into his hazel eyes. 
She had to blink twice just to keep from grabbing 
his tie and kissing him right there in the morgue. 
"What?" she repeated softly.

"I can't ask them to change the office. It's the only 
one available. They already told me that," he 
murmured low in her ear. 

She bit her lip. God, that raspy, hoarse voice was 
doing things to her that hadn't been done since . . . 
well, since the last time they'd -- no, she couldn't 
allow her thoughts to drift back there. He wasn't 
ready for that yet and she knew it would be a long 
time until he was ready. "Can you work at the 
hotel?" she asked in the same soft voice she'd used 
before. Anyone overhearing them would think they 
were making arrangements for a 'nooner' at the 
nearest motel with hourly rates.

"I need a fax machine. With the number of faxes I'm 
likely to have, it would put the SDPD back a couple 
of union raises to pay for them all at the hotel's 
business center. I'll be fine at the station," he 
assured her. "Look, I'll only breathe through my 
handkerchief." He pulled out the scrap of cotton and 
waved it near her cheek.

She reached up and cupped his cheek. "I really want 
you to get some rest this afternoon," she said 
tenderly. At his rolled eyes, she let her thumb brush 
his lips. "I know you think I'm being a nag, but 
Mulder, I just can't stand to see you sick again. I 
don't think you understand how scared I was in 
Asheville."

He pressed a quick kiss onto her thumb. "I'll see if 
Kresge can get some support staff to help with the 
faxes. And I promise, I'll go back to the hotel, make 
sure they changed our rooms, and lay down for an 
hour or so. Deal?"

She was about to object to the 'hour or so', but one 
more look in those hazel eyes and all protests flew 
out the window. 

"Deal."

**

San Diego Morgue
11:31 a.m.

John was pleasantly surprised when he looked up 
and saw Agent Scully -- Dana, he corrected himself 
-- coming toward him; he was not so pleasantly 
surprised to find her partner right beside her. God, 
she was a looker, he thought, all leg in those four-
inch heels. How she managed to keep pace with that 
partner of hers --

"Earth to John. Hellooooo, John." The tech's 
amused hail snapped him back to her presence.

He tried furiously not to blush, but he could feel the 
heat spreading over his face like sunrise over the 
desert. "Oh. Sorry, Frannie. You about done?" he 
asked the pretty young lab technician as if he hadn't 
just been ogling a colleague.

"Yup," she answered. "I just need the address."

"Huh? What address?" He thought she was going to 
email the pictures. Why did she need an address?

"The email address?" 

Oh. How stupid could he be? 

"To email the photos?" she continued when he 
didn't answer her.

"Right, right," he answered quickly. "Just send them 
to me at the station. You have that address, right?"

"Yup." A few clicks of the mouse later, she 
pronounced, "Done." She nudged him with her 
elbow, looking pointedly at Dana Scully on the 
outside of the glass-enclosed lab. "Go get her, 
Tiger."

Again, he felt heat on his face. "Geesh, Frannie. Do 
you have to?" he grumbled, only partly in jest. 
Getting to his feet, he threw a quick, "Thanks," over 
his shoulder before he opened the door and smiled 
at Dana. He was delighted that she'd come to find 
him rather than the other way around, studiously 
ignoring the fact that her partner was there, too.

"Were you able to email the pictures?" she asked 
him.

John nodded. "I sent them to my email address. I 
figured they'd be easier to print if they were on my 
computer." He looked up at Dana's partner. "Is that 
okay, Agent Mulder?" The challenge carried over 
into his tone, and Mulder looked a little taken 
aback. God, that felt good, and Mulder's anticipated 
reaction didn't disappoint. 

What he didn't anticipate was the abashed 
expression that caused the male agent to look down 
at his shoes. "Uh, yeah. Good thinking, Detective. 
Thanks." 

A little confused by the about-face of Mulder's 
attitude, John decided to give the guy a break. 
Although the agent looked better than he had in the 
car, there was a weariness about the man that spoke 
to his not being quite up to par. "No problem, Agent 
Mulder. Glad I could help." He chanced a smile and 
was rewarded when Dana returned it. He saw 
Mulder's eyes slide over to his partner before the 
agent looked back at John and gave him a much 
weaker version. John cleared his throat. "Uh, should 
we head back?"

Dana shook her head. "I only came up to get July 
Carter's tox results from the lab. Dr. Hawkins 
'forgot' to give them to me." She glanced at the two 
men, her eyes holding on her partner. Suddenly, she 
turned to John. "It's going to take them a few 
minutes to pull up the report. I'll walk you out while 
they get them together."

Happy with this turn of events, John nodded, and 
the three of them started walking, John beside Dana 
with Mulder trailing behind slightly. When they 
reached the elevator bank, Dana scanned her partner 
up and down so intently that John wanted to squirm 
for the guy. But the agent took it all in stride, only a 
sigh betraying the fact that he was even aware of 
her scrutiny.

The elevator door opened, and John felt a pang of 
jealousy when Mulder ushered Dana into the car 
with a hand to her back. Huh. Maybe they got along 
all right, after all. John might do well to remember 
that and not bad-mouth the guy to his partner. She 
obviously liked him, despite the numerous faults 
John had picked up on.

"Detective, once we get that list of clubs and bars, 
I'll need a couple of people to help with the faxing 
and follow-up calls to any that don't respond," 
Mulder said. "Oh, and how many fax machines do 
you have available for our use?"

John bristled at Mulder's presumption that John 
could just pull officers off cases to do Mulder's 
bidding, then forced himself to relax. It wouldn't do 
to irritate the guy in front of Dana. "I'll ask the 
captain if we can spare anyone, and I'll find out how 
many fax machines we can tie up for this." He 
looked Mulder in the eye. "That good enough?"

The agent shrugged. "It'll have to be."

No matter how hard John tried, Mulder just rubbed 
him the wrong way. "Look, Agent Mulder, I'll do 
what I can, but we do have other cases, you know."

Mulder's calm nod annoyed John no end. "I realize 
that, Detective." The guy's voice was getting 
harsher and grating on John's nerves. "But it was 
you who requested us. If you can't provide what we 
need to work this case, then we might as well go 
home."

'I didn't request *you*,' John wanted to say to 
Mulder, but held his tongue.

"Mulder, Detective Kresge said he'd try. He's doing 
all he can," Dana said, and the euphoric feeling that 
bubbled up from her faith in him crashed and 
burned when he took in the intimate pat she gave 
her partner's arm.

Mulder met her eyes briefly, then nodded. "Yeah, 
okay." He glanced at John, but didn't say anything, 
and John found himself balling his fists at his side, 
trying to keep his temper in check. The jerk didn't 
even consider apologizing, he thought. How the hell 
Dana put up with such an arrogant prick was 
beyond him. The woman was a saint.

Or an angel, he sighed to himself, letting his gaze 
settle on her. Well, at least Mulder wouldn't be 
joining them on any interviews, Dana had told him 
earlier. She didn't say why, and he didn't care; this 
was John's chance to shine. Show her that he wasn't 
afraid to put himself in the line of fire with her 
while her partner twiddled his thumbs 'profiling.' 

Again John wondered just what possible use Mulder 
could be on this case besides tying up half the 
precinct with his faxing hobby. Oh, well. If it kept 
him busy and out of John's -- and Dana's -- way, 
then he was all for it.

**

San Diego Police Station
4:40 p.m.

The replies had stared flowing in around half an 
hour ago, before they had even finished faxing out. 
Captain Milward had graciously allotted two whole 
fax machines to Mulder, and they were now down 
to using one machine to fax out, leaving the other 
free for returning faxes.

Instead of assigning an officer to assist him, 
Milward had let Mulder borrow his administrative 
assistant, and Mulder wanted to kiss him for that. 
Wendy Rogers was an older woman who'd been 
with the department for 34 years and, boy, did she 
know her stuff. He was sure they wouldn't be nearly 
as far as they were had he been assigned a cop as 
his 'helper.'

He also appreciated the fact that, although she'd 
been 'briefed' by Milward and Kresge, once Mulder 
had explained what they were doing and why, she'd 
looked quizzically at Milward's office and shaken 
her head. Then she'd looked back at Mulder, smiled 
and said, "Good idea."

She'd taken the copies of the stamp and cleaned 
them up into faxable images, then printed several 
copies for them to fax. She took Mulder's idea for a 
cover/reply sheet and produced exactly what he'd 
envisioned. Then she'd mail-merged the names and 
fax numbers of all the clubs onto the cover sheets; 
those hours of hand writing 63 cover sheets that 
he'd been dreading was merely a distant memory, 
thanks to Wendy. God, she was great. He wondered 
if he could keep her.

Wendy had 'suggested' that he take a break from fax 
hell -- his back was killing him, he had about a 
million paper cuts, and he was dead tired -- and 
when he returned she called to him excitedly. 
"Mulder!" (He'd asked her to drop the 'Agent' 
almost the second he'd met her, and she'd happily 
complied.)

He hurried to where she was waving a piece of 
paper. "Did we get a hit?" he asked, tiredness 
dropping away.

In response, she smiled and presented him with the 
sheet of paper. "Looks like it."

Quickly scanning it, he looked up at her. "The 
Palace? You know it?"

She nodded. "It's more a dinner theater than a club, 
but they market it that way so they'll draw in the 
younger crowd. It's named for the old 'Palace' 
theater in New York City back in the vaudeville 
days." She stole a look at the reply. "They have a 
few contemporary acts, but mainly they keep to the 
vaudeville theme."

He looked blankly at her. Vaudeville? In Southern 
California? Was she serious?

Apparently taking his astonishment as confusion, 
she clarified, "You know . . . song and dance, 
jugglers, magicians, acrobats . . . that type of act."

He still found it hard to believe. "People go to this 
club? Young people like our victims?"

"Oh, yeah. Some of those acts have quite a 
following."

That was it. She was pulling his leg. "Ha. Good one. 
You got me."

Her delighted laugh made him smile uncertainly. 
"It's hard to swallow, I know. But it's true." She 
glanced around the squad room. "It's in our district. 
Ask anyone. They've been there several times when 
a fan got a little too . . . er . . . enamored and had to 
be taken in for indecent exposure."

Mulder's mouth fell open. "For a juggler?"

She chuckled. "Well, for the singers and dancers, 
mostly, but every once in a while . . ." She 
shrugged. "A juggler. Or an acrobat or magician." 
She shook her head. "You never can tell what's 
going to float someone's boat."

Mulder raised his brows. Man, she wasn't kidding. 
This was so absurd it had to be true. "But a 
juggler?"

She winked at him. "Well . . . I've heard juggling is 
only a part of the act."

He had a feeling where this was leading. "I'm afraid 
to ask."

She chuckled. "Let's just say that all the performers 
are physically fit, which is pretty obvious by the end 
of their performances."

Now Mulder was sure she was putting him on. 
"Strip juggling?"

"And strip magicians, acrobats, animal acts -- "

"Okay, stop. That's going a little too far, even for 
me." His mind was going places he'd rather it didn't.

She laughed. "Well, now you can see why it's so 
popular. Even with young woman." She grinned 
slyly. "Especially with young women."

"Er . . . yeah." Something about what she told him 
just clicked it all into place. That club was the 
connection. He knew it. If he could only think more 
clearly --

"Mulder? You okay?"

Looking up at the familiar words to find someone 
other than his partner was . . . something of a relief, 
actually. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking." He 
blinked. "I need to get over there. Where's it 
located?"

"Where's what located?"

Scully's voice directly behind him made him jump, 
partly from surprise, but mostly out of guilt. Trying 
to remove the culpable expression from his face, he 
turned around, only to find his partner with her arms 
crossed, foot tapping, and a pissed look in her eyes. 
There was no need to wonder how much she'd heard 
-- the murderous look on her face gave him all the 
answer he needed.

"We found it," he said, partially as an effort to 
distract her, partially because he wanted her to 
know.

She blinked. "The club?"

He nodded, taking her arm and leading her a few 
feet away, only just taking note of Kresge who'd 
been standing next to her. "What's he doing here?"

"He works here."

Mulder pursed his lips into a scowl. "Why is he 
*here?* With you?" Was the guy going to be up her 
ass the entire case? Even as he thought it, Mulder 
gritted his teeth at his choice of phrase. That loser 
had better not be. Ever.

"He gave me a ride from the morgue. Why?"

Deciding it was not in his best interests to act the 
jealous boyfriend at this phase in their relationship, 
Mulder shook his head. "Just wondering why he's 
always Johnny-on-the-spot with you." Damn it. 
Hadn't he just told himself not to do that?

Scully frowned. "Is this why you pulled me aside?"

Properly chastised, Mulder put Kresge and his 
intentions toward Scully out of his head. "We found 
it."

"Yes. You said that," she said dryly.

"No, Scully. That's it. That's where he takes them 
from."

He could see the second that all thoughts of Kresge 
and Mulder's jealousy left her mind. "How can you 
be sure?"

"I don't know yet."

"Mulder, we can't just focus all our attention on this 
club without a good reason."

"Why not?" he argued. "It's not like they've gotten 
anywhere on this case." He took hold of her 
shoulders. "You know me, Scully. You know how 
these 'feelings' usually turn out to be right."

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "All 
right. We'll check it out."

He smiled. "Great. Let me get my jacket."

"Not you, Mulder. Kresge and I will check it out. 
You're going back to the hotel to get some rest."

Her words brought all the resentment he'd been 
feeling about the detective to the fore. "I'm fine."

"You're not, and you know it." Her harsh whisper 
hit him like a slap in the face.

"Everything all right, Dana?"

Kresge's interruption didn't irritate only him; he was 
pleased to see Scully roll her eyes in annoyance 
before she turned to face the detective. "Fine, John." 
Looking back at Mulder with her 'you-know-I'm-
right-so-just-suck-it-up-and-do-what-I-say" face, 
she said, "Mulder's come up with something. I was 
wondering if you'd accompany me to the location?"

Mulder thought if Kresge had a tail it would be 
wagging at light speed. The agent turned away in 
disgust; he was embarrassed to find Wendy Rogers 
gazing at him sympathetically. He gave her a half-
hearted smile. "Thanks for all your help, Wendy. I 
think I'd still be writing out cover sheets if it weren't 
for you."

Her smile was a little more sincere. "I have a feeling 
you would have done all right." She threw a glance 
at Scully and Kresge, who were going over how 
they'd handle the interviewing, and who Mulder 
was trying his best to ignore. "I wouldn't worry. She 
does like him, but she loves you."

Mulder was too discouraged to be surprised that she 
had picked up on their relationship. He sighed. "I 
wish I could be so sure."

The woman laid a hand on his arm. "I think you are, 
but every now and then you doubt her and you 
doubt yourself." She looked at Scully and Kresge 
once again before giving her attention back to 
Mulder. "John's a great guy. One of the nicest cops 
I've ever met. But your partner's not interested. Not 
like you think."

Mulder's gaze was drawn to the two of them, Scully 
laughing at something Kresge said, and Kresge 
beaming at her adoringly. The agent looked back at 
Wendy, wondering if he looked as lost as he felt. "I 
hope you're right."

Although she smiled encouragingly at him, he 
couldn't muster up the energy or the will to return it. 
Oh, God, did he hope she was right.

**

Embassy Suites
10:45 pm

Kresge pulled the car under the awning and was 
about to park when Scully put her hand on his arm. 
"Thanks for the ride, John. Hopefully by tomorrow 
we can come up with our own transportation. I hate 
making you play chauffer all the time."

"Nonsense, Dana. I don't mind at all," Kresge was 
quick to reply. "If you're not too tired, maybe we 
could go over our notes -- "

No sooner had he started talking than a giant yawn 
overpowered her. It felt like it had started 
somewhere in her toes. "Gee, John, that would be 
great but I'm a little bushed tonight. Jet lag, you 
know," she smiled back at him. "If you don't mind 
taking a rain check, maybe we could go over those 
notes early tomorrow, before the briefing at 9?"

Kresge's face fell slightly, but he forced a smile. 
"Sure. How about I come get you about 7:30. I'll 
bring bagels and coffee, we can have a bite to eat 
while we work."

Scully smiled brightly. "That sounds wonderful. Oh, 
and Mulder takes decaf, if it's not too much trouble. 
Good night, John." She completely missed the look 
of total despair at the mention of her partner 
because she was busy getting out of the car. She 
turned and waved to the detective before entering 
the hotel.

The Palace had been quite the place, she mused as 
she walked through the double glass doors to the 
hotel. Sniffing at her sleeve, she grimaced at her 
reflection in the mirror as she made her way over to 
the desk. She needed a shower desperately. She 
smelled like the bottom of an ashtray. But she had 
to find out what rooms they'd been moved to and 
she wanted to check in on him before bed. She 
could call him, but Mulder would probably tell her 
he was fine even if he was on death's door. Why 
were men so stubborn about their health?

The desk clerk looked up at her with a brilliant 
smile. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Dana Scully. Fox Mulder and I are here 
on business and we had smoking rooms. We 
requested non-smoking rooms. There was supposed 
to be a room change sometime earlier today."

"Oh, yes, Ms. Scully. You're now in 1011 and Mr. 
Mulder is in room 713." She handed Scully her new 
room key and a smile. "Your room is a king bed, no 
smoking. Per your request we moved your bags. 
Just go on up."

"Thank you," Scully said with a tired smile. She 
headed directly to the elevators and rolled her 
shoulders on the ride to the seventh floor.

As she walked down the hallway to his room, she 
planned her visit. If she knocked on the door and 
immediately asked about his health, Mulder would 
close down completely and be surly and obstinate. 
If she couched her visit in terms of bringing him up 
to speed on the case, he would be more open to her 
asking about his health. No, more than likely, he'd 
be more distracted thinking about the case to notice 
that she was asking about his health. Yeah, that 
always worked, she reminded herself stoically. 
Always like never. Still she had to try.

She found his door and gave it a few rapid taps, in 
deference to others who might be trying to sleep. He 
opened the door and smiled at her, before erupting 
into a coughing fit.

"Hi, Scully. You found me," he rasped around a few 
more choked coughs. "What did you find at the 
Palace?" He waved her in and closed the door.

"Mulder . . . " She stopped before she started 
questioning his health. Get him on the case, she 
reminded her 'overactive mother instinct' -- as 
Mulder referred to her normal concern. "It was 
interesting, to say the least. We talked to the 
manager, showed him pictures of the victims. He 
remembered two of them. Said they were regulars."

"I knew we'd hit pay dirt," Mulder replied with an 
enthusiastic nod of his head. He reached out and 
grabbed a chair suddenly, as if to steady himself.

"Mulder, are you dizzy?" she asked. In a move that 
would have made a stunt man proud, he flipped the 
chair around and was sitting on it before she'd 
finished her question.

"Me?" he asked innocently. When she folded her 
arms across her chest he gave her a half-shrug. "A 
little, yeah. I was lying down, I probably just got up 
too quickly when you knocked."

"You were coughing, too, just now. Do you need 
your inhaler?"

He ran his hand through his hair. "So we have a 
commonality, finally. We need to check out the 
employees, maybe even the acts, especially on the 
nights the women went missing -- "

He was ignoring her. He knew she hated that. He 
watched her out of the corner of his eye as she 
considered calling him on it, but suddenly she 
stopped and visibly sniffed the air. "Mulder, they 
didn't give you a non-smoking room?"

"If they had, I wouldn't be in this one," he reasoned.

"No wonder you're dizzy and coughing," she said 
with a sigh. "This is ridiculous!" She reached for the 
phone on the desk, but his hand shot out and 
grabbed her wrist.

"No use, Scully. I already complained. They are 
completely out of no-smoking rooms. But they did 
offer me an additional night's stay -- no smoking, if 
available."

She shook her head, trying to calm her anger. She 
didn't want to direct it at Mulder because he was the 
victim. "Look, this is completely unacceptable. 
Mulder -- "

"I know, Scully, I know. I even thought about 
sleeping in the bathroom with the fan on all night," 
he suggested. "But the tub isn't that comfortable."

"No, I bet it isn't," she said, giving him a smile and 
rubbing his arm. "Look, I'm going to get you 
packed -- "

"I really don't want to change hotels in the middle 
of the -- "

"You're coming to my room." 

**end of part 2**