*NO ARCHIVE*   
      
   TITLE: The Pattern   
   RATING: R for strong language and adult themes   
   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.   
      
   =========   
      
   1988   
      
   It had been nearly a month since Detective Paul Jennings last   
   showed up at the gym. Not that anyone had been too concerned.   
      
   "It wasn't like he played for a team."   
      
   "He said he was busy."   
      
   "I saw him at the station house; he said he'd be back next week."   
      
   Looking back, there were danger signs, or so the skeptics said.   
   And they were right but the signs were so faint that Mulder wasn't   
   sure if they were real or just the product of orderly minds that   
   liked to find information in random noise. In any case, they were   
   all grateful that the FBI had arrived to grant them absolution and   
   warn them of a serial killer who destroyed by stealth.   
      
   Jennings was always in a hurry. Uncomfortable if you tried to slow   
   him down. Unwilling to talk about anything but The Job. Always   
   capital letters for The Job, Mulder noted.   
      
   Not difficult to relate to that.   
      
   ---------   
      
   Bill Patterson was not prone to temper tantrums. Anger would have   
   made his aim unsteady, his scalpel less accurate.   
      
   "Another body," he said, a whisper, a scream in Mulder's ears.   
      
   Sitting up straight, eyes carefully focused on his boss, Mulder   
   said nothing. Excusable to make a mistake in response to a direct   
   question. Foolish to slip up if silence was a satisfactory reply.   
      
   "Nothing to say, Agent Mulder?"   
      
   "Nothing to add to my report."   
      
   "Do you like working here, Mulder?"   
      
   No?   
      
   A flutter of emotion crossed Bill's features. He turned briefly   
   towards Hennessey, gesturing with a movement of his head that the   
   other agent was to leave immediately. Patterson shifted his eyes   
   back to Mulder.   
      
   Hennessey accepted Mulder's slight nod in his direction as   
   approval and headed out of the room as unobtrusively as he could.   
      
   "I asked you a question," reminded Bill.   
      
   "Did you expect an answer?"   
      
   "This section represents the cream of forensic psychology. The men   
   in it are the envy of the whole Bureau. There are agents who'd go   
   down on their knees to get your job. Men with more experience.   
   Better qualifications. The right attitude. Do you know why you're   
   here?"   
      
   Some awful crime he'd committed in a previous life maybe? "Because   
   of my solve rate?"   
      
   There was something oddly freeing about making Patterson react,   
   finding the man's hot buttons and pushing them like this. It would   
   be expensive of course, Mulder didn't doubt that. Bill would   
   undoubtedly return the favor and do it with claws sharpened by   
   years of experience and an intimate knowledge of Mulder's   
   personnel file.   
      
   "Have you ever felt suicidal, Mulder?" A soft purr of a pause.   
   "Ever danced with death?" Patterson's voice dropped even lower.   
   "Ever think of seeing your sister again?"   
      
   The silence rippled. Electric. Patterson rose, prowling now and   
   the hairs on the back of Mulder's neck stood up as the man swooped   
   in close. "Tell me about it," he said. "That's an order," he   
   added.   
      
   The fact that Patterson felt obliged to make the order explicit   
   felt like a triumph to Mulder. Enough of a victory to make him   
   feel generous. Sure, he could answer the question. Why not? It   
   wasn't optional after all. He could either answer now while he was   
   on top of the game or he could wait until later, when Bill had   
   kicked him to ground. Thought of suicide? "Of course I did."   
      
   "Did, Mulder?"   
      
   "Do, Bill."   
      
   "Then you know what you've got to do to keep up your solve rate."   
      
   Of course he did.   
      
   ----------   
      
   A five-mile run hadn't even taken the edge off it. A prolonged   
   soak in the shower hadn't made him feel clean. He ignored the   
   flashing light on the answering machine and let it pick up another   
   call from Diana. According to Patterson, Diana Fowley was part of   
   the problem. From Mulder's perspective, she was part of the   
   solution, and that was why he couldn't talk to her right now.   
      
   Before you look for an answer, you've got to know the question.   
      
   It was clear to Mulder that the question was: why die? Get that   
   and he'd know why the victims had been chosen. From knowing why,   
   it would be just one more step to knowing who was doing the   
   killing.   
      
   The victim profile was a minefield of assumptions. The lone and   
   the lonely, but only because other people said so. Retrospective   
   diagnoses in most cases. Something missing in their lives? Them   
   and how many million others? Generalities he had in abundance.   
   Specifics were what he lacked.   
      
   Different races. Different sexes. Different ages.   
      
   Their jobs ranging from the not bad to the positively good. He   
   referred back to the statistics for suicides, looked at job   
   security, longevity, and absenteeism as predictors. They were   
   outside the bell curve, on the plus side of the equation.   
   Depression tended to destroy employment even before it destroyed   
   the life - the factors trading off one another for sure. But   
   still, these people didn't seem to be having those kinds of   
   problems.   
      
   Another hint that whatever had taken them down had taken them   
   fast.   
      
   "Meditation," he mumbled, closing his eyes. Why had he been   
   avoiding it? The common factor was clear to anyone with half a   
   mind, or at least to anyone willing to look. Inscribed on one of   
   the victim's arms as a tattoo. Scribbled on notepads. Decorating   
   diaries.   
      
   He sifted through the photos again, picked up a pencil and started   
   to draw.   
      
   ----------   
      
   2000   
      
   The apartment had been Mulder's choice. Scully could run away if   
   she needed to. If he'd gone to her place and things went badly   
   then he wouldn't have known how to walk out. Outstaying his   
   welcome was a habit, but then so was hiding in a corner to lick   
   his wounds. Well, tonight he wasn't going to do either; they'd   
   play this however Scully chose.   
      
   She sniffed the air as she entered.   
      
   "Chili," he said. "Frohike's secret formula. Be very afraid."   
      
   She headed directly into the kitchen, removed lids from pans to   
   examine the contents.   
      
   "You want some latex?" he asked, dipping his hand into his pocket   
   as if he had the gloves already waiting.   
      
   "Later," she said, and he knew that she'd done it just to make him   
   smile.   
      
   Eat first or talk first? And where to begin? With Monty Props?   
   Diana Fowley? Fox Mulder? Ah, there's the rub.   
      
   "It's ready," she announced, as if her single sweep with a wooden   
   spoon had transformed the situation.   
      
   Bemused, he took over ladle duty. "I'll serve." He suspected that   
   a dish like this with all those onions, tomatoes and things was   
   positively healthy, but she'd probably demand the label from the   
   jar as evidence if he made any such claim.   
      
   Despite its relatively wholesome contents, it tasted OK. Better   
   than OK actually, which surprised him a little. On a night like   
   this, wasn't everything supposed to taste like cardboard and dust?   
      
   "That was good," she said, sounding just as surprised.   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)