Lincoln stood motionless at the end of the alley. There were at least half a dozen agents in blue FBI rain slickers bustling around the car, opening the trunk, meticulously shining their flashlights over the back seats; he could even see a pale hand- Robert's hand- hanging out the open driver's side door as another slicker-clad agent bent over the steering wheel. He wiped the rain out of his eyes and steeled himself to go take a closer look at the body in the driver's seat.
"Excuse me!" Even through the rain and the sounds of traffic on the other side of the alley, her voice carried clearly into the huddle of bodies around the car. Lincoln turned. "I need everyone to stop what they're doing and step away from the vehicle." She wasn't wearing a slicker, and Lincoln could see the raindrops already starting to darken her blouse. "Step back!" she repeated with authority. An unexpected surge of anger brought Lincoln forward to meet her as she strode toward the car.
"I'm sorry, but may I see some identification? What authority do you have over this crime scene?" She seemed not at all taken aback by his vehemence, and smoothly flipped out her FBI badge and ID."
"Special Agent Olivia Dunham, Fringe Division. Were you in charge here?"
"I still am as far as I'm concerned. Fringe Division? What's that?"
"Deputy Director Broyles has given me control over this case. I'm sorry, but this is now a classified situation, and I probably won't be able to answer many of your questions."
"Classified situation?! That's my partner lying dead in that car!" Lincoln realized that all of the agents who had been collecting evidence were now watching him and Agent Dunham. He lowered his voice with an effort. "There is no way I'm going to be shut out of this case. He's my partner, that makes this my responsibility." He thought for a moment that he saw a flicker of sympathy in her eyes, but as she opened her mouth to reply someone behind her called out.
"Liv! Jesus, put on a coat, will you?" The new arrival handed her a slicker. "Come on, haven't you gotten these guys out of here yet?" He didn't wait for an answer, but continued on toward the agents still huddled uncertainly next to Robert's car, pulling out his badge. "All right guys, let's go!"
"I'm sorry." Agent Dunham addressed Lincoln, seeming to draw on her fellow agent's business-like zeal. "I'll try to give you whatever information I can about the case's progression, but I'm afraid that right now you're going to have to vacate the area, although as the victim's partner, we will need to speak with you again later." She nodded goodbye and moved to walk past him. He grabbed her arm.
"No. Not good enough." The agent who had handed her the slicker was at her side so quickly that Lincoln was startled into dropping her arm.
"Is there a problem here?"
"No" Agent Dunham answered, although the other agent was looking at Lincoln. "No problem." She turned at the sound of a car door slamming at the alley entrance. A slicker-clad woman was helping an older man, who Lincoln could not imagine was an FBI agent, judging from his mis-buttoned flannel shirt and stained trousers, out of another car. "Why don't you go help Walter?" Agent Dunham nodded at the old man.
The other agent glanced coldly at Lincoln. "Fine. Let me know if you need anything."
Agent Dunham nodded and turned her attention back to Lincoln. "I know this must be hard for you, Agent—" She paused inquiringly.
"Lee." He responded automatically.
"Agent Lee. I know this must be hard." Her eyes flickered toward the car with the pale hand trailing out the door, and Lincoln's eyes followed hers, focusing in on the wedding band he had seen so many times before. He whirled back to face Agent Dunham, suddenly furious again.
"No you don't know! You have no idea what it's like to lose a partner, someone who you've been through everything with, who has your back! He has a family, did you know that? What am I gonna tell Megan? What do I say to his kids? I should've had his back! Don't tell me you know how I feel and then say I have to leave him here in this alley and never know what happened! You have no fucking idea!" She made no move to respond; she just stood looking sideways toward the car, rain running down her neck and dripping from the ends of the little wisps she hadn't captured in her ponytail. Lincoln felt suddenly ashamed of his outburst. "I'm sorry." She nodded, and this time he was sure of the sympathy in her eyes. "But please." He was suddenly desperate. "Please let me be a part of this investigation. I couldn't stand not knowing what happened. I don't even know how he died."
She frowned and twisted the end of her wet hair through her fingers. "I'll put in a request to Broyles to keep you informed. That's the best I can do." She seemed about to say something more, but stopped and shook her head.
"What about Megan-his wife? What do I tell her?"
"We can take care of talking to her if you'd like." Lincoln shook his head.
"No. I have to be the one to tell her. God, she doesn't even know anything's wrong yet, she's visiting her sister." Agent Dunham nodded her understanding. "Not that I can tell her anything other than that the husband she loves is dead." He could feel his anger building again and tried to swallow it away.
"You can tell her he was murdered, and that we're going to do our very best to catch his killer," Agent Dunham said quietly. Lincoln shook his head in frustration, but stopped himself from starting to yell again, although he couldn't quite catch the mutinous look that slipped out in Agent Dunham's direction. I'm sorry," she said again. "I or someone from my team will need to talk to you either later tonight or tomorrow as well." She began to move away from him once more, and this time, he didn't try to stop her.
"God Liv, I don't know how you stand dealing with those guys, trying to stick their noses in everywhere." Olivia glanced at the retreating back of Agent Lee, then down at the body in the driver's seat.
"This guy was his partner, Charlie. Can you blame him?" Charlie glanced around, the other agents had all cleared out.
"I'm sorry Liv. I didn't know." She shrugged her shoulders and bent over the body. It was, as she had expected, completely drained of color. The man was clearly not over forty, but his hair was snowy white and his skin so pale as to be almost translucent.
"Where's Walter?"
"I'm here, Agent Dunham!" The older man with the misbuttoned shirt beamed at her from the far side of the car. "This is quite a stroke of luck!" He chuckled as he came around to the driver's side and nudged Olivia out of the way.
"So this is definitely one of ours, then?" Olivia addressed Walter's back, as he hovered over the body, humming as he shone a penlight at the dead man's nonresponsive pupils. "Walter?"
"Hmmmm? Oh, yes! Definitely one of ours. Probably. It certainly fits the pattern, although I'll have to run some tests in the lab to be sure, but the pallor is generally unmistakable."
"Ok, bring me up to speed," Charlie requested. "I know you've been tracking this guy for a while, but I'm fresh on the case. Fill me in."
Olivia sighed. "It started almost three months ago, although we weren't brought in for a few weeks because at first they just assumed that the victims were albinos. Instead, we have murder victims that have been somehow drained of all pigmentation."
Charlie shook his head. "Can you remember back when hearing something like that would have seemed odd?"
She smiled ruefully. "There've been no obvious similarities between the victims, all different ages, races, occupations, found in all different areas of Boston."
"How many does this guy make?"
"Nine, that we know of. Most of them have their necks broken, although there were two blunt force traumas and one strangling as well. The loss of pigmentation is the only constant we've been able to find. How's it going, Walter?" she asked as Walter drew back from the body.
"I've done everything I can here. Have the body brought back to the lab and I'll examine it further. Astrid?!" He strode over to meet his junior agent assistant.
Olivia and Charlie both bent in to examine the car. Charlie whistled. "That is one pale son-of-a-bitch." Olivia carefully pulled back his suit coat.
"Still has his gun holstered, must have been taken by surprise. Maybe somebody was waiting in the backseat?" Charlie nodded.
"CSI will send over any samples that they took from the car, we'll see if we can match it to anything."
"We've found a few samples of blood and a couple fingerprints that weren't the victim's at some of the other scenes, but haven't been able to find a match."
"Any witnesses?"
"None. With the sixth victim, Jenny Kurtz, her neighbor heard her screaming and broke down the door into her apartment, but the killer had already left via the fire escape, and that's the closest we've come to a witness." She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "I just can't seem to get a break on this one."
"Lucky you've got me helping you now then, isn't it?" He grinned at her, and, despite herself, she grinned back.
Lincoln couldn't fall asleep, couldn't even bring himself to get out of the chair he'd collapsed into upon entering his apartment. Less than four hours ago he had watched his partner get into the elevator and wave goodbye, joking about how he was actually going to be home on time, for once, and Megan wouldn't even be there to appreciate it. His phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Lee? It's Dunham. Would it be too late for me to come ask you a few questions tonight? If you're not up to it, that's fine, tomorrow's not a problem."
"No, it's okay," he found himself saying. "Tonight's fine."
He wasn't angry with her anymore, he decided as he answered the door fifteen minutes later, but he was determined to get as many answers as he gave during their interview. "I spoke with one of the techs from our lab who was on the scene before you made everyone clear out, but she said they'd all been made to sign a waiver agreeing not to talk about anything they'd seen there. Why? What happened to Robert?" he asked without preamble. "What is Fringe Division? Why haven't I ever heard of it before?" She frowned slightly and stepped past him into the apartment, shutting the door behind her.
"Why don't we sit down?"
"Fine." He waved her toward the living room. "But I want answers."
"Fringe Division," said Agent Dunham as she perched herself on the edge of the chair he had recently vacated, "is a branch of the FBI that handles classified and unusual cases, and that's all I can say about it."
"Why does Robert's murder fall under your jurisdiction?"
"There's a possibility that his murder is connected to a case I've been working on, and even telling you that much is already bending the rules."
"So whoever killed him has killed other people as well?" Agent Dunham stayed silent. Lincoln could feel his frustration mounting again, despite his intentions. "If it was your partner, wouldn't you need to know?" She nodded, her face impassive.
"I would."
"Then how can you sit there and not tell me? How can you take this case away from me?" He pushed himself up off the couch and walked over to the window, leaning his head against the cold glass. He could see Agent Dunham in the reflection, elbows propped on her knees, head in her hands. She looked tired, he realized, and for the first time he reflected that it was fairly unusual for an FBI agent to begin an interview at 10:45 pm, less than four hours after the discovery of the victim. He himself probably would have left it until the next day. He took a deep breath and returned to the couch.
"I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault that I've been shut out of the case, you're just following the rules."
She nodded her thanks for his apology. "I did put in a request to Broyles to keep you apprised of the case information. I need to ask you a few questions now though."
He settled back into the couch. "Ask away."
"Had anything been worrying Robert especially lately? Did he mention feeling like he was being followed, or threatened, or watched at all?"
"No. Nothing like that. He was relaxed and cheerful all day, just like usual." Dunham nodded thoughtfully.
"May I ask what case you two were working on?" Lincoln smiled bitterly, but bit back the retort he so badly wanted to make.
"We'd just closed a case, actually. Kidnapping of a young boy. Turned out to be by his own father."
"I see. We'll need to take a look at all your recent case files, but was there anything unusual about the case?"
"Unusual in what way?"
She shrugged. "Just anything that struck you as out of the ordinary."
"No-oo." He shook his head slowly.
"What time did he leave the Bureau tonight?"
"Six o'clock, on the dot." Lincoln lapsed into silence. What if he had asked Robert to stay and help him finish the report on the Bradbury case? Robert had asked if he wanted a hand and he'd waved him away.
"So as far as you know, his plan was to go straight home? Is there anywhere he might have stopped on the way?"
"No, I don't think—oh no, actually I think he mentioned he was low on gas." Lincoln almost smiled. Robert was notorious for waiting until the empty light had been frantically flashing for hours before he filled the tank.
"Do you know where he would go for gas?"
"Probably the Circle K on Miller Avenue. It was on his way, I've stopped there with him a few times before." He was suddenly struck by her lack of a notepad. "You don't need to write this down?"
"I'll remember," she assured him. "Did Robert suffer from any illnesses that you know of? Diabetes, heart defect, anything like that?"
"No… Why? How did he die?" She shook her head, and then sighed.
"His neck was broken. Did he have any family history of genetic disorders or any other hereditary diseases that you know of?"
"No."
"Is there anything else you can think of that might be helpful?" Lincoln closed his eyes, trying to remember any detail that could lead to Robert's murderer, but nothing stuck out. He opened them again and shook his head. She nodded and rose to leave.
"I'll send someone over to collect his case files in the morning, if that's all right with you. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. If you think of anything else, please give me a call."
"Megan- his wife- will be back early tomorrow morning." She nodded. "Please, can I come with you, just for the interview? I know she'll be very upset, and I think it might help her if I'm there." Dunham considered.
"Fine. You don't ask any questions, and you don't mention anything about Fringe Division or anything I've told you about this case, clear?" He nodded.
"I'll meet you there at 10 a.m. then." She paused at the door. "Agent Lee, I-" she met his eyes briefly, and then flicked hers to focus on the door instead. "I am truly sorry for your loss. I hope you'll believe me when I say that I will do my absolute utmost to find the person responsible for Agent Carden's death."
"Thank you." Lincoln replied stiffly. "Good night."
Watching them together, Lincoln couldn't help but notice how different Megan Carden and Special Agent Olivia Dunham were. Megan was probably several years older than Dunham, but it was she who looked like a child, curled into the corner of the couch in an old sweatshirt of Robert's, her hair loose and messy around her face, traces of mascara still visible underneath her eyes, which were almost constantly filled with tears that she made no effort to hold back or wipe away.
Dunham, on the other hand, sat alertly on the edge of her chair, occasionally offering tissues to the distraught widow, her blonde hair contained neatly in one long braid down her back. She seemed utterly calm, but not, he observed, insensitive. She listened sympathetically as Megan sniffed her way through the story of how she and Robert met, and asked questions more gently than he had expected. She would have been fine doing this interview without him, he realized. Megan had no new light to shed on her husband's death, anyway. She agreed that he probably stopped for gas at the Circle K and that he'd had no medical conditions. The whole thing took under half an hour.
"Why don't you do interviews with your partner?" He asked as they walked down the steps outside the Cardens' house.
"I don't have a partner," she answered, fishing in her pocket for her keys.
"That guy who gave you the raincoat last night, he's not your partner?" She shook her head. Lincoln pondered. As far as he knew, it was unusual for a field agent, especially a young agent, not to have a partner, but maybe they did things differently in Fringe Division.
"Call me if you remember anything," she instructed as she unlocked her car. "Good luck Agent Lee."
Lincoln didn't know what to with himself. He'd been given mandatory leave pending a psych evaluation for the rest of the week, but he didn't feel like going home. He found himself back at the alley where Robert's body had been found by a cop just over an hour after Lincoln had waved goodbye to him. There was nothing there now that indicated the drama of last night, just puddles of rain and overflowing garbage bins. Lincoln listlessly scanned the ground all around where the car had been and peeked into the surrounding dumpsters, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. If only he'd been a little quicker getting here last night! He could've seen the body and taken a good look at the car before Agent Dunham had shown up. How had she known that Robert's death was linked to her case? Had Robert been involved in something he hadn't known about? He stamped a puddle in frustration, sending a wave of murky water into his shoe and up his pant leg. As he began to swear in frustration, his phone rang.
It was Deputy Director Broyles. Lincoln's heart raced when he recognized his voice; perhaps Broyles was about to give him permission to work on the case. He mumbled a quick thank you in response to the DD's condolences, and then waited for the verdict.
"Unfortunately, the nature of your former partner's murder means that it will need to be handled by a different department. I understand this must be frustrating for you, but I've instructed Agent Dunham to keep you apprised of all non-classified information as the case progresses."
"Thank you, sir." Agent Lee said in a voice of utmost calm, and hung up. He struggled to resist the urge to throw his phone against the wall of the alley. How could the FBI, his beloved Bureau, do this to him? If he could just see Robert's body… He snapped his head up in determination. He would keep investigating this case, he would find Robert's murderer, FBI classification be damned.
At home again, Lincoln pondered his next move. He had never seen any of the Fringe agents before, so they must operate out of their own base, not connected to the Boston Bureau building. That would make finding them, and Robert's body, difficult. He flashed back to the old man Dunham had asked her fellow agent to help. What had she called him? Walter, he thought. If the man wasn't an FBI agent, maybe he would have an easier time getting information from him, or following him to Fringe Division headquarters. Lincoln opened his computer, skeptical as to the probable success of this plan, but at a loss as to what else to do. He typed "Walter FBI consultant Boston" into Google, but none of the results seemed relevant.
What had Dunham said? Fringe Division investigated "unusual" cases. And why had she asked about Robert's medical history? Perhaps Walter was some kind of doctor, or forensic scientist, called in to examine unusual medical cases. A search with "doctor" added on still yielded nothing. Lincoln tried another dozen variations of the same information, and finally with the search " doctor Walter forensics Boston" he had a stroke of luck. An article came up about a paper written by a Dr. Walter Bishop about new theories in forensic anthropology. The article said that his ideas were "highly experimental," but it also attached a picture of Dr. Walter Bishop, and although it had clearly been taken many years ago, Lincoln was fairly sure that it was the same man he'd seen last night.
Over the next hour Lincoln learned a great deal about Dr. Bishop, including the fact that he had been in a mental hospital for sixteen years, and had been released less than a year ago. This made him doubt his certainty that this was indeed the man he was looking for, would the FBI really hire a mental patient? But a more recent photo in the online edition of The Harvard Gazette renewed his faith. It was definitely the man from the alley.
Unfortunately, there was nothing that could lead him to Dr. Bishop's current whereabouts. He called a coworker at the FBI and asked him to run a search for his address, but, as he had half-expected, he was informed him that the file came up "classified". Without any clear idea what to do next, Lincoln drove the three hours out to Saint Agnes' Center, the mental institution where Dr. Bishop had spent sixteen years of his life.
"All I can say is, she never should have been allowed to take him out," sniffed the Center's administrator.
"She?"
"That blonde girl. Is the FBI hiring teenagers these days? I told her she needed a family member to take custody of him, and I thought that would be the last of it, he'd never had any family visit, but then she shows up again just three days later with his son! She'd somehow brow-beaten him into signing for custody of Bishop. Can you believe that?"
"And when was this?"
"Ooh, six months ago now. I expect he'll be back as soon as she's realized he's more trouble than he's worth."
"Did she say why she needed him?"
"Help with some FBI case. What Bishop could do to help the FBI though, I can't imagine."
"Do you have any idea where he might want to live, once he was free to choose for himself again?"
She frowned. "I always imagined him living in some FBI cell. I can't imagine him functioning outside of some kind of institution, he's too reliant on it now. He'd have to stay with his son Peter anyway, that was part of the agreement."
"He never mentioned anywhere he'd want to go, if he was to leave here?"
"No, the only place he ever talked about was his lab at Harvard. Apparently that's where he developed his genius." She rolled her eyes.
"Did he ever say where at Harvard his lab was?" Lincoln was groping blindly, unsure what might or might not be valuable information. He'd already tried to research Bishop's son, Peter, at home, and had hit a complete dead end.
"The name of his lab? UC 112," she replied promptly. "Good lord, he must have said that about five million times, don't think I'll ever forget it."
It was almost midnight by the time Lincoln got back to Boston, but he decided to check out the Harvard lab anyway. Maybe there would be some clue as to where Dr. Bishop was now. If not, he'd wait there until a more reasonable hour and see if he could find anyone who could give him more information.
The main offices were closed, but Lincoln stopped a group of students laden with books on their way across campus.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for UC 112, could you tell me where that is?" They looked at him blankly.
"UC 112?" one of them repeated doubtfully. Lincoln's heart sank; maybe the lab didn't even exist anymore.
"Hold on—UC, isn't that what they call the building behind Chem Tech?" answered an older student at the back of the group. "It used to be University Commons or something. There's no classes or anything there now though," he added, frowning. "I think it's mostly storage. Just go down that way, and then hang a right outside the library and it's the…third building on your left."
The door was locked. Lincoln realized that he should have expected that, but somehow he hadn't. He glanced around. It was almost one a.m., and the campus was deserted. Well, he'd come this far… The lock was more complicated than he'd expected. Even though he was considered something of a master lock-picker at the FBI, it took him almost fifteen minutes, kneeling on the concrete steps of the building, to hear the satisfying click of success.
He had half-expected the building to be dusty and cluttered, but the beam of his flashlight revealed a hallway that was clear and well swept. He found the stairs at the end of the hall and proceeded along the basement corridor, sweeping his flashlight over the room numbers as he went. The handle to 112's door turned easily in his hand. Lincoln was suddenly, irrationally nervous. For a second he almost considered turning back. Get a grip. It's a twenty year-old Harvard lab, probably nothing there anyway. He slowly opened the door and stepped into the dark lab.
He had just caught a glimpse of a light shining through the door on the right side of the lab when something smashed forcefully into the back of his head. He yelled in pain and almost fell over as stars burst behind his eyes, but managed to strike out behind him instead, his flailing arm connecting blindly with his attacker, knocking something out of their hand with a clatter. He turned, unable to see anything but a dark blob with legs illuminated by the erratically shining flashlight he didn't remember dropping. He swung his fist at what he judged to be the assailant's face, but whoever it was was too quick for him and neatly ducked his punch. He pulled his arms back to defend himself, but was unable to block the powerful kick that caught him in the abdomen, sending him over backward onto the lab floor.
Before he could move, the attacker was on top of him, sharp knees thrust into his chest, driving the last of the air from his lungs. One hand caught his hair, pulling his head back, while he felt cold metal pressed against his neck with the other hand. "Don't move," instructed a cold voice, and Lincoln instantly flashed back to the first time he had heard that voice, in an alley, instructing him to step away from Robert's car. Agent Dunham pulled his head further into the light from the still gently rocking flashlight on the floor. "Agent Lee?" Her grip on his hair loosened slightly, but she did not move, still searching his face.
As his eyes adjusted, he could see her more clearly, her braid starting to come loose around her face, her fierce eyes and mouth pulled tight in wary confusion.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, never taking her eyes off of him as she rose slowly to her feet, flipping on a light switch by the door. She did not re-holster the gun in her right hand, the butt of which he realized must have been what she'd hit him with when he came into the room. He sat up slowly, unsure where to begin.
"I was looking for Walter Bishop." He searched for something more to say to explain himself, but came up with nothing. Agent Dunham stared at him. He felt strangely vulnerable under her intense scrutiny, especially as she towered over him in his current position, so he stood up, careful to stay several feet away from her, although he noted that the anger in her gaze had been almost entirely replaced by an equally intense, calculating gaze. For the first time he was struck by the strangeness of finding her here in the basement of an old Harvard lab belonging to a mad scientist at one in the morning. "What are you doing here?" he asked before he could help it. The look she shot him in response clearly indicated that he was in no position to ask questions. She stood for another moment, clearing still thinking hard, then shrugged and seemed to relax.
"Well, you might as well come in at this point." She gestured for him to precede her down the few stairs into the lab proper. Now that he had a chance to look around, he saw that it was filled with all sorts of strange-looking machines and equipment. There was a small octopus floating in a tank, and a second, and then third glance at a dark corner of the lab revealed a cow, sleeping peacefully in a stall fenced off by an iron gate. On the other side of the lab he could see what looked like a makeshift morgue, and there was a body bag on a table in the center. He opened his mouth to ask if it was Robert, then thought better of it. Agent Dunham had yet to re-holster her gun.
She gestured him into the side room where he'd seen the light on when he had first come in. There was a desk, with three chairs grouped haphazardly in front of it, and a pile of papers arranged semi-neatly under a desk lamp, but the room didn't really look like an office- Lincoln guessed it must have once been a classroom, judging by the blackboard on the far wall. They both sat. Lincoln swallowed nervously, wondering what to say.
"You are aware, I assume, that breaking into this lab, disregarding a direct order from DD Broyles to stop working on a case; these actions could easily mean the end of your career." Lincoln's heart jumped a little, but her tone wasn't angry or accusatory, it seemed almost curious.
"Yes. I am aware." He half-wanted to stop there and see her response, but he couldn't help qualifying his answer. "But I had no idea that this lab was part of FBI operations. I just wanted more information about Dr. Bishop."
"How did you find this lab? Who told you about Dr. Bishop?"
"No one." Lincoln took her through the steps that had led him here, from hearing Walter's name in the alley to his internet search to Saint Agnes' to Harvard. She remained silent for a few moments after he finished, and he waited with baited breath, wondering if she was going to start reprimanding him again, or tell him to get out.
"That was good detective work." Lincoln's eyebrows rose. The last thing he had expected was a compliment. Before he could respond, she went on. "Now that you've seen this lab, there's really no going back. Broyles will decide how to deal with you in the morning. In the meantime…" she paused.
"Please, is that Robert's body on the table? Can I see him, just for a minute?" it came out more desperately than he'd wanted it to, but she smiled.
"In the meantime, I might as well fill you in on the details of your partner's case." He stared at her. Was this a joke? He'd never met anyone more difficult to predict. She smiled wearily at his dumbfounded look, and he wondered suddenly when, if ever, she slept. "You've already completely breached Fringe Division's security by being here. As far as I can see, giving you more information can hardly do any damage at this point."
"But—" he didn't know which of his questions to ask first. "But it was so easy! This is Fringe Division? A basement lab at Harvard? Shouldn't you have some kind of sophisticated security or something?"
"Fringe Division's not the sleek agency you seem to be picturing it as. We have top clearance and work on some pretty… interesting cases, but that doesn't mean we have more funding or technology. Actually, we have less, because even the higher-ups don't always understand what we're dealing with, or get to see tangible results from our cases. We work out of this lab because it's the only place Walter feels comfortable working. We've been trying to fly under the radar, keeping a low profile here at Harvard, and until you came along, it's worked. There's only four agents working in Fringe, and one of them is Walter's junior lab assistant." Lincoln shook his head in bewilderment.
"So basically you're more X-Files than Men in Black." She actually laughed at that, the sound seeming out of place in the dim old classroom.
"I guess you could put it that way," she agreed.