*NO ARCHIVE*   
      
   TITLE: The Pattern   
   RATING: R for strong language and adult themes   
   CLASSIFICATION: X A R   
   DATE: 14th May 2005   
   TIMELINE: Pre-XF and S7 (with refs to S8)   
   ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.   
   AUTHOR: Joann Humby - jhumby@lineone.net   
      
   LEGALLY:   
   We all know the score. The characters are not mine, never will be.   
   They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.   
      
   WARNING:   
   Includes discussion of suicide, religion and other adult themes.   
   No other keywords given, sorry - they'd be spoilers for the story.   
      
   SUMMARY:   
   For Mulder, catching Monty Props the first time was hard. The   
   second time it nearly killed him. Third time lucky?   
      
   A mix of pre-XF and XF days. A story of Monty Props, Bill   
   Patterson, Diana Fowley and Walter Skinner. And of course Mulder   
   and Scully. A tale of two love affairs, two bosses and a series of   
   murders.   
      
   With grateful thanks to all my betas - Ann and Sana who've had to   
   listen to me moving slowly on this for months, Lisby and   
   MaybeAmanda who helped push it to a conclusion, and Medusa,   
   Vyper and Blue who provided fresh eyes at critical moments.   
   What a team!   
      
      
   ==========   
      
   1988   
      
   According to Monty Props' fantasy, he was the real deal. Part   
   Charles Manson, part Svengali, part Rasputin. Pure charisma.   
      
   According to Mulder's profile, on the unknown subject who was   
   seemingly the cause of at least seven deaths in the last two years,   
   he was a sociopath.   
      
   Either way, in 1988, Monty Props was right at the center of the   
   ISU's "what the fuck" list and therefore of Mulder's universe.   
      
   The plastic crate on Mulder's desk looked like the signal for an   
   office move. Only the yellow post-it note with the word "Links?" in   
   Bill Patterson's fast scrawl gave the game away. Autopsy reports,   
   eye-witness accounts, police interviews, impassioned pleas from   
   family members suggesting that there was more to the deaths than   
   met the eye.   
      
   The tattoo on the first victim found its mirror in the pages of the   
   second victim's diary and the doodles on the third victim's suicide   
   note. A cult perhaps?   
      
   The family of the third victim had decided to publish her note, in   
   the hopes of alerting other parents of impressionable adolescents,   
   and maybe of finding out more about the symbols. Another family   
   came forward, sent the diary of the second victim to the newspaper   
   whose reporter forwarded it to the local PD. The Medical Examiner   
   who'd autopsied the young man with the tattoo pulled the pattern   
   into a second state and suggested it was a matter for the FBI.   
      
   A couple of days later Mulder had added two more names to the list   
   of probable victims. By the next day the body count was at least   
   seven.   
      
   At least seven.   
      
   It was that "at least" that had given the case its nightmare   
   significance and was the reason why a blitz attack had been ordered   
   by Patterson.   
      
   So now there were phone calls to make. Faxes to send. Newspaper   
   archives to sort through. Patterson assigned three additional   
   profilers to speed up the process, borrowed agents from other   
   divisions to handle the routine material and filter it all down   
   into something Mulder might eventually have enough hours in the day   
   to read.   
      
   Another week of such action and the groundwork should be complete.   
   The team would go back to their normal duties and whatever happened   
   next would be up to Mulder.   
      
   At 7 p.m., Dave Hennessey, in his role as the voice of commonsense,   
   called a timeout. Pizzas were ordered, fresh coffee brewed, and   
   everyone met up at the table for an informal progress meeting and   
   meal break.   
      
   Not that the rest of the world cared. The phone still rang. Worse   
   than that, it still had to be answered.   
      
   Agent Karen Gardiner felt no guilt about playing to the sexual   
   stereotype and pretending to be the secretary - not when it was in   
   a good cause. And frankly, after a twelve-hour shift and with no   
   sign of a let-up in the schedule, an undisturbed ten-minute break   
   seemed like a very good cause. She was effective too, skilled in   
   keeping the smirk out of her voice. "Diana Fowley?" she mouthed to   
   the group of diners, waving her hand to show it was a question.   
      
   "Put her through to the kid; he could use a laugh."   
      
   Tired chuckles and raised eyebrows from the rest of the agents as   
   Hennessey's theatrically loud whisper got the expected single   
   finger response from Mulder. A good trick under the circumstances,   
   given that he achieved the gesture without even raising his head   
   and without any loss of control over the slice of pizza in his   
   hand.   
      
   Gardiner returned to the call. "I'm sorry, Dr. Fowley, there's no   
   one from the task force available to take your call at the moment.   
   If you'd care to fax through your notes, I'll see they reach the   
   right person."   
      
   "Fowley?" attempted Mulder, suddenly looking up and half-choking on   
   a mouthful of pizza as he tried to swallow it fast enough to make   
   himself heard.   
      
   "One moment," said Karen, putting the call on hold with the   
   deftness of a true pro. She waved the handset at Mulder. "Yeah, you   
   want to talk?"   
      
   He looked around for something to wipe his hands on but found the   
   table disappointingly bare of napkins, did as good a job as he   
   could with the autopsy report on which he'd been scribbling his   
   notes.   
      
   "Gross," supplied Hennessey, "I hope that's Bill's copy."   
      
   Mulder shook his head. "Yours." He looked at Karen, "Can you put   
   her through to my desk?"   
      
   "Sure thing, boss!"   
      
   Fresh laughter rocked the table as he headed away.   
      
   The kid was old enough to have a wife and kids of his own, a   
   mortgage, a station wagon and a dog. What he actually had was the   
   makings of an ulcer and a definite reputation.   
      
   But it was Diana Fowley's reputation that had brought him to the   
   phone. "Dr. Fowley. I'm Fox Mulder."   
      
   "Ah - 'Serial Killers and the Occult'."   
      
   Theirs was a specialized business, an awfully small world, but   
   there were still protocols to follow and acknowledgements to   
   deliver. "Psychosis, Brain Activity and Paranormal Phenomena," he   
   said, acknowledging her thesis. Shared territories established and   
   backgrounds drawn. They knew each other's work. They had nothing   
   further to prove. "You want to talk about the suicides we're   
   investigating?"   
      
   "No. But I think we should."   
      
   The kid smiled and tilted his chair a little further back.   
      
   -------------   
      
   2000   
      
   Skinner handed the photos to Mulder. Mulder thumbed through them   
   quickly, scarcely even looking at them before passing them along to   
   Scully, who was only slightly slower to send them back to their   
   boss.   
      
   "I take it you've already seen the pictures," said Skinner.   
      
   Mulder nodded. "Someone in behavioral sent the file over."   
      
   "What do you think?"   
      
   "It's him - Monty Props."   
      
   "I know it's not an X-File."   
      
   "It is if it's Props. I talked to the prison warden this morning   
   and he's still locked up."   
      
   Skinner nodded. "They would appreciate your input."   
      
   "We'll get right on it," confirmed Scully.   
      
   ---------   
      
   The meeting with Monty Props in the prison interview room had been   
   disturbing. At least to Mulder. He wondered if it had felt the same   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)