Stakeout

She was trawling on Mulder's home computer, logged onto the FBI intranet in his name and trying to waft air up her shirt by shaking it, when she found the profile.

It was logged under the case file number they were working on, and had Scully's name on it. She opened it.

Based on the violence and power of these crimes, I believe the killer to be male, between the ages of 25 and 35.…power derived from his seemingly impossible entry…above-average intelligence, as attested by his knowledge of the ductwork of buildings…the taking of the liver is the most symbolic, as it cleanses the blood…I believe our killer is operating under the classic form of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Wow. That was a profile? A literal map of how, why, and whom? She bit her lip.

"Hey Dad, how does OCD relate to snatching people's livers?"

He was in the kitchen, clanking ominously and doubtless ruining more of her nice food. "Probably because he does it in each case, feels complied to do it."

"But what's he doing with them? Keeping them in jars, or eating them?"

His head appeared. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, think about it. He's ripping out livers, so he doesn't care what state they're in. If that was his trophy, why damage it? Unless he wants it for something else."

"To eat."

"I never claimed a healthy mind. And on a purely nutritional level, any liver is an excellent source of iron and other nutrients."

Mulder nodded. "Possible. We should tell Scully."

Anne tapped more keys. "She left a message earlier. She's on the stakeout at Usher's office tonight, so don't call till tomorrow."

"You retrieved my messages?"

"I live here too," she reminded him mildly.

"Well, yeah. But your friends don't call…"

"Lack of friends does that. Your turn to conjure dinner."

"But I can't cook unless it's from a can or box."

"Can, yes. Box, no." She pulled out his phone book from the desk, and handed it to him. "I like Mexican."

He began to flip through the Yellow Pages. "Maybe we could drop by on Scully later. Tell her your theory."

"If you feel strongly about being decapitated."

"I do."

"Then we'll eat on the way."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Mulder had picked up a bag of sunflower seeds to wash down the enchiladas. She preferred to wash down enchiladas with hot salsa and Tabasco spread over nachos and a good two quarts of Coke. Except she couldn't carry those into a parking garage too well, so she got a package of hot buffalo chips when Mulder got his seeds. They were crunching companionably as they walked through the balmy parking garage.

"When do you think the super'll fix the a/c?" she asked.

"I think he'll wait until summer's over and then fix it so we have heat."

"That is severely depressing."

"Maybe you could move in with Scully."

"Like hell. She probably has things like curfews and regular meals and schedules and planned activities and normal school. I wouldn't survive a week."

"That's a tad melodramatic, don't you think?"

She dropped the pretense, for just a moment. She was the stray orphan ready to dive into the Potomac, and he was the stranger who talked her out of it. "Dude, our lives are a walking soap opera."

He nodded, solemn. Then he shook the bag with a lifted brow. She snorted. Yeah, right. Sunflower seeds were health food.

They had been making noise, because the next thing that happened was Scully wheeling around the corner, gun out and pointed at Mulder's head. She instantly pointed it at the ceiling when she saw who it was.

Mulder put on his best British accent. "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you copper?"

She looked mad enough to, and included Anne in her glare. Anne shook her head. "No way. This was all him."

"Mulder, you are jeopardizing my stakeout." Scully began to walk back to her car. Mulder, not taking the hint, followed.

"No I'm not. Didn't you see the X-files I dug up? The fingerprint at the Usher scene matched in all the cases. From the 1960s and 1930s. Even one from 1903. All with livers removed. But anyway, he never returns to the scene of the crime, he's already beaten this place. Seeds?"

Scully didn't even acknowledge him.

"He's not coming back," Mulder pronounced. "I'm going home."

Scully mouthed 'good'. Anne followed Mulder.

"Dad. You totally pissed her off."

"It's true."

"Hey, you don't gotta convince me. I know you pissed her off."

"I meant the case."

"I was deliberately misinterpreting your assholed-ness in a better light."

"I was not an asshole."

"Matter of opinion."

They kept moving, walking near a service entrance to the ductworks, when the clanging began. Mulder gave the ducts a look.

"Anne, get Scully and have her get backup."

Anne was excellent at running in heels. She skidded, yelled "Call for backup!" at Scully, and ran back. There were probably permanent marks on the concrete.

Scully joined them, gun drawn. She was the only one armed, apparently. "Federal agent! Proceed down the vent! Slowly!"

Anne could hear the backup thudding to them, men in shoes so thick they were rhinos stampeding.

The vent was kicked off from the inside, and slowly, someone exited, feet first. Brown boots, khaki pants and shirt, followed by a mop of hair the same shade as the boots. The person was a little man, hands raised in submission. He turned.

Anne was used to trusting her gut on the street, and she hadn't been off so long that her sixth sense had been dulled. If she'd seen this man on the street, mousy and all, she would've beat feet to the other side of town and prayed he never saw her.

The other agents cuffed him and read him his rights. Mulder, knowing when he was wrong, leaned over to Scully. "You were right."

Now, they just had to prove it.