groaned and plucked at her blouse. "God, doesn't the air conditioning work in here?
How can you work like this? It's like a sauna."
Fox Mulder shrugged unconcern, then pushed a hand back through his hair.
He checked each black-and-white in turn, his gaze flicking over them increasingly rapidly, as though he were reading.
"Well?" Bournell asked. "You got a magic trick for us? You got a rabbit we can chase?"
Mulder held up a hand to hush him, then slid the pictures from their folders and laid them out in a line.
A moment later he switched the second and fourth.
"Mulder," Neuhouse said, "we haven't got all day. Either you've got something or you don't. Don't play games, okay?
Mulder straightened, and almost smiled. "Beth, get me a sheet of paper, please?" His left hand gestured vaguely toward the other room.
It was his tone that moved her more than the request. Those who had worked with him before had heard it at least once. One of the older agents had said it was like the first bay of a hound that had finally found the scent; you didn't argue with it, you just followed.
And you made sure your gun was loaded.
Bournell frowned. "What? I don't see it."
Mulder pushed the photographs closer together and pointed. "Ifs there. I think." Sudden doubt made him hesitate. "I'm—"
"Here." Neuhouse thrust a blank sheet into his hand. She stared at the bodies then, and her voice quieted. "I've been looking at those women for over a month, Mulder. I'm seeing them in my sleep."
He knew exactly what she meant.
In many ways, the black-and-whites were as bad as looking at the bodies themselves. Although the color was gone, violent death wasn't. The only thing missing was the smell, and it wouldn't take much effort to bring that up, too.
"So what do we have?" Bournell asked.
"I'm not positive. It's kind of crazy."
Neuhouse laughed quietly "Well, this is the place for it, right?"
Mulder smiled. No offense had been meant, and he hadn't taken any. He knew his reputation in the Bureau, and it no longer bothered him. He was a flake, a maverick, a little around the bend on the other side of the river. He worked as much from logic and reason as anyone else, but there were times when he didn't have to take every sin-gle step along the way.
There were times when abrupt intuitive leaps put him ahead of the game.
Sometimes that was far enough to have it called magic.
Or, more often than not, spooky.
He put up with it because that reputation came in handy once in a while.
"Come on, Houdini," Bournell complained. "I'm frying in here."
Beth aimed a semiplayful slap at his arm. "Will you shut up and let the man think?"
"What think? All he has to do is—"
"Here," Mulder said, slapping the paper onto the shelf, indecision gone. He grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket. "Look at this."
The others leaned over his shoulders as he pointed to the first picture, but she wasn't the first victim.
"The cut runs from just over her right breast to just under the left. In the next, it's the reverse."
"So?" Bournell said.
Mulder pointed again. 'It could be the killer leans over and just cuts her." He straightened suddenly, and the others jumped back when his left hand demonstrated an angry, senseless slash-ing. "It could be, but I don't think so. Not this time." He pointed at the third woman. "This is dearly most of a letter, right?"
"R, maybe, if you combine it with the next one over," Neuhouse answered, glancing at her part-ner, daring him to contradict. "I know that much."
"Damn sloppy, then," Bournel said.
'For God's sake, Stan, he's slashing her! What the hell do you expect?"
Mulder copied the slash marks onto the paper, turned, and held it up.
They stared at it, puzzled, then stared at him— Bournell in confusion, Neuhouse with a disbelief that had her lips poised for a laugh.
"He's writing his name," Mulder told them. "He's letting you know who he is." He exhaled loudly. "One piece at a time."
The luncheonette was two blocks from
How can you work like this? It's like a sauna."
Fox Mulder shrugged unconcern, then pushed a hand back through his hair.
He checked each black-and-white in turn, his gaze flicking over them increasingly rapidly, as though he were reading.
"Well?" Bournell asked. "You got a magic trick for us? You got a rabbit we can chase?"
Mulder held up a hand to hush him, then slid the pictures from their folders and laid them out in a line.
A moment later he switched the second and fourth.
"Mulder," Neuhouse said, "we haven't got all day. Either you've got something or you don't. Don't play games, okay?
Mulder straightened, and almost smiled. "Beth, get me a sheet of paper, please?" His left hand gestured vaguely toward the other room.
It was his tone that moved her more than the request. Those who had worked with him before had heard it at least once. One of the older agents had said it was like the first bay of a hound that had finally found the scent; you didn't argue with it, you just followed.
And you made sure your gun was loaded.
Bournell frowned. "What? I don't see it."
Mulder pushed the photographs closer together and pointed. "Ifs there. I think." Sudden doubt made him hesitate. "I'm—"
"Here." Neuhouse thrust a blank sheet into his hand. She stared at the bodies then, and her voice quieted. "I've been looking at those women for over a month, Mulder. I'm seeing them in my sleep."
He knew exactly what she meant.
In many ways, the black-and-whites were as bad as looking at the bodies themselves. Although the color was gone, violent death wasn't. The only thing missing was the smell, and it wouldn't take much effort to bring that up, too.
"So what do we have?" Bournell asked.
"I'm not positive. It's kind of crazy."
Neuhouse laughed quietly "Well, this is the place for it, right?"
Mulder smiled. No offense had been meant, and he hadn't taken any. He knew his reputation in the Bureau, and it no longer bothered him. He was a flake, a maverick, a little around the bend on the other side of the river. He worked as much from logic and reason as anyone else, but there were times when he didn't have to take every sin-gle step along the way.
There were times when abrupt intuitive leaps put him ahead of the game.
Sometimes that was far enough to have it called magic.
Or, more often than not, spooky.
He put up with it because that reputation came in handy once in a while.
"Come on, Houdini," Bournell complained. "I'm frying in here."
Beth aimed a semiplayful slap at his arm. "Will you shut up and let the man think?"
"What think? All he has to do is—"
"Here," Mulder said, slapping the paper onto the shelf, indecision gone. He grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket. "Look at this."
The others leaned over his shoulders as he pointed to the first picture, but she wasn't the first victim.
"The cut runs from just over her right breast to just under the left. In the next, it's the reverse."
"So?" Bournell said.
Mulder pointed again. 'It could be the killer leans over and just cuts her." He straightened suddenly, and the others jumped back when his left hand demonstrated an angry, senseless slash-ing. "It could be, but I don't think so. Not this time." He pointed at the third woman. "This is dearly most of a letter, right?"
"R, maybe, if you combine it with the next one over," Neuhouse answered, glancing at her part-ner, daring him to contradict. "I know that much."
"Damn sloppy, then," Bournel said.
'For God's sake, Stan, he's slashing her! What the hell do you expect?"
Mulder copied the slash marks onto the paper, turned, and held it up.
They stared at it, puzzled, then stared at him— Bournell in confusion, Neuhouse with a disbelief that had her lips poised for a laugh.
"He's writing his name," Mulder told them. "He's letting you know who he is." He exhaled loudly. "One piece at a time."
The luncheonette was two blocks from
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