NEW & REVISED: "Neither Here Nor There"
Author: Tesla 
Feedback: Tesla@hiwaay.net
Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexual situations, and language 
Keyword: Case file, UST, Latent MSR 
Summary: Profiler!Mulder 
Spoilers: All seven seasons to "X-Cops" are 
presumed, but we swerve into a slightly altered universe 
after that.
Disclaimer: Items in mirror are closer than 
they appear.  Anyone who is offended by serial killers, 
Others, explicit sex, explicit violence, explicit language, 
beer drinking, and/or inaccurate portrayals of the D.C.  
area...well, you wouldn't have gotten this far.  Kisses to 
the Surfer God and 1013 Productions.  The real world is too 
much with us, but sometimes fiction can give us a little 
respite.
Archive:  Anywhere 


++++++++++

To lie in utter bliss and quiet, everything still except 
for the heart beating under your hand, was perfection.  The 
man thought he could almost swoon from the sweetness of the 
moment.  The night was heavy, lit by the flickering candle 
in the Chianti bottle in front of the bureau mirror.  The 
couple reflected in the glass lay entangled in the sheets 
of the iron bed in the loft.  Their skin was gold and ivory 
in the candlelight.

To feel the other's breaths against your skin, to feel her 
heartbeats under your palm, her blood running as quickly as 
yours. . .

"Quiet," he murmured.  "Feel this?" He slid his hand along 
the curve of her ass, and then slapped it hard enough to 
leave a handprint, vivid against her pale skin.  She tossed 
her head wildly at each slap, but didn't cry out.

There was artistry, mastery to the sensation.  He had to 
keep iron control on his own breathing, his teeth clenched 
against the ecstasy he was feeling...oh, they were just 
getting started!

The man pulled out, checking his condom.  Satisfied as to 
the fit, he turned his partner over onto her back, nudged 
her legs apart with his knee, and plunged into her.  She 
lurched hard, and for a moment he almost lost control.   
Oh, no, no.  The dance wasn't over for him yet. 

Or for her.  She was moaning and gasping, whimpering at 
each touch.  

"You can scream now," he said, ripping the duct tape from 
her mouth, and showing her the knife.  The girl drew in a 
short breath and let it out in a long, terrified scream.

He came, hard, as the knife went into her throat.

+++++++++++

Scully struggled with her clammy sheets.  She had skipped 
her sleeping pill after a nice dinner date, with wine.  But 
her sleep was enlivened by nightmares, as it usually was 
when she didn't take her medication.

The faces of the dead came to her as she slept. And not the 
beloved dead - not  her father, or Melissa, or even, 
reluctantly, Emily.  No, instead Clyde Bruckman spoke to 
her of the futility of free will; Alfred Fellig spoke in 
measured, gloomy tones of the death of love; Penny Northern 
held her hand and kissed her cheek. She tried to hold onto 
Penny; even in dreams, Penny was all comfort.  But Penny's 
image would dissolve and she would be left staring at 
Leonard Bett's head lying on the autopsy table, or 
Pendrell, dying on a dirty restaurant floor.

'God,' she thought, sitting up and untangling the top sheet 
from her legs, 'I should just start having sex on the first 
date.'  But her flesh crawled at the thought.  She didn't 
want anyone touching her right now.  She didn't want to 
worry about any new people in her life.

She could barely stand the people that were already there.

All she wanted to do was her work.  Find the bad guy.  She 
hadn't counted on having to keep changing apartments 
because various killers broke into the old ones.  She kept 
moving up from the first floor, to the third, and now, 
after she had actually shot and killed Donnie Pfaster in 
her living room, she was in a charmless condominium in 
Arlington, near the Metro stop, with twenty-four hour video 
surveillance and a secured underground garage.  It felt 
safe; she usually slept.  it didn't matter that she hadn't 
unpacked all of her things or decorated.  She felt better 
at the condo.  She just wanted to feel safe at home.

It didn't matter that her mother wasn't speaking to her 
since Scully had refused yet again to leave the Bureau.  It 
especially didn't matter, since Mom had sicced her older 
brother on her.  When had he become such a pompous idiot? 
She let him rant on about Mulder for a while before 
breaking in.

"Mulder doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with my 
personal life or decisions about my professional life," she 
had said.  "And if you ever talk to me about those 
professional decisions again, Bill, I will hang up on you.  
Like I am doing now." And she had clicked off the phone.

Fuck.  She didn't need to lay here and think about her 
brother.  She heaved the bedclothes off and got up to watch 
television.

++++++++++

The woman was tied with her own scarves.  She had found 
them for him and willingly held her wrists to the bedposts.  
Now, she clenched her teeth as the man's hand trailed 
slowly over her breasts, as he knelt between her spread 
legs.  One hand flicked slowly, meditatively at her 
clitoris.  She flinched, despite her best efforts.

Candles were set in front of the dresser mirror, and she 
had seen him look at their little flames with a twisted 
smile that made her shudder.  Now he was pushing into her, 
slowly, slowly, prolonging the torture.  He bent his dark 
head and gently bit her nipple.  He took one long, slow 
stroke, then another.  Another.

"Oh, God", she breathed.  "Fuck me, Mulder!  Fuck me hard."

Mulder raised his head.  "Anything to please," he said, and 
began moving faster and harder, until they both yelled.

++++++++++ 

Scully hated when Mulder looked well-rested.  It meant that 
he was game for flying by small plane to whatever rural 
village asked for an expert opinion on some odd death or 
weird weather pattern.  Today, however, he was looking at 
the standard inter-office memo with all the suspicion he 
had shown the Tennessee snake handlers.  

"What's up, Mulder?" she finally asked, after watching him 
read and reread the two sheets of paper. 

He finally looked up.  "Our friends at Investigative 
Support have requested our assistance.  On a serial 
killer." He blew his breath out.  "But I don't know why.  
There's nothing here that requires my 'unique expertise,' 
as Skinner phrases it."

She plucked the pages from his outstretched hand, and 
leaned back.   Women were being quietly and discreetly 
murdered all along the East Coast.   No one saw them come 
home with a man; no one even saw them come home.  They were 
in several different jurisdictions, and all involved women 
between 22 and 42 who were found raped and murdered in 
their own beds.  The weapon was always a knife; but the 
type of knife varied.  There was reason to believe that he 
used knives he found in the victim's kitchens.

Candles (Scully moved her shoulders uneasily, thinking of 
Pfaster) were found at every scene, placed in front of a 
mirror.  But they were not remarkable in any way, having 
been purchased at various chain stores.  A radio, stereo, 
cassette, or CD player had been left playing, set on 
'repeat.'  The music and equipment were already at the 
scene, and there was no pattern to the rock music left 
playing.  Although the bodies appeared to have been left as 
they were at time of death, closer examination of the 
surroundings showed some staging or arranging of the 
bodies.  Lately, one medical examiner thought the victim's 
face had been dotted with her blood, in a random-seeming 
pattern that would have meaning to the killer.  He always 
used a condom, but took it and the wrapper with him or 
flushed them.  He took his time, and managed to get rid of 
any of his pubic hairs.

"Or he depilated," Scully said, looking up.  

Mulder gave an exaggerate grimace.

She went back to the report.  The killer was careful to 
brush down the bed, to wipe the victim.  There were no 
bloody fingerprints on the bodies, no bite marks.  No 
fingerprints on the music source, and none in the bathroom.  
Cleaner had been poured in the sinks after he washed up.  
Any washcloths he might have used were missing, and any 
wineglasses he may have touched were found, clean, in the 
dishwasher.  The wine bottle was thoroughly wiped, and 
empty. 

In almost every case, the body wasn't discovered either 
until the victim didn't come to work on Monday, or if a 
neighbor complained about the loud music coming from the 
apartment.  A former Baltimore homicide investigator who 
began working for D.C. Homicide made the connection.  He, 
in turn, dug around on the computer databases and 
discovered seven victims, all killed in different cities 
and bedroom communities over the past four years.   The 
latest, Alexandra Brown in Reston, had been discovered this 
week, just a month after the last. 

"He's really into the clean-up," Mulder said, watching her 
eyes track down the pages.  "He enjoys it.  Maybe I should 
read 'American Psycho' again."

"I agree about the clean-up." She shrugged.  "Why us? No 
Flukemen, no flying cows, no-"

Mulder had stopped listening.  "Ah. I know why," he said, 
interrupting her.  "These cases are similar to an UNSUB 
Patterson and I investigated." He leaned back and propped 
his large dress shoes on the desk.  "They want someone to 
go do a Jodie Foster."

Scully knew she was gaping.  "They want you to go visit 
Patterson?" 

Mulder shrugged.  "At least he never ate anyone's liver 
with fava beans." He stood up.  "Come on.  Let's see how 
long it takes Skinner or the Department head to suggest 
talking to Patterson." At her arched eyebrow, he said, 
"They said to come up after you and I had looked at the 
request.  So we're not late."

"I'm thrilled," Scully said dryly, picking up her 
briefcase.

"I only hope you're saying that later," Mulder rejoined, 
and politely held the door open for her.

++++++++++

As it turned out, no one mentioned Patterson during the 
first twenty minutes of the briefing.  Scully had faith in 
Mulder's intuition on these matters, however, and waited 
for her opening.

"With all due respect, sir," she said to Skinner, "I don't 
see the point of calling us in.  There is nothing 
paranormal about this UNSUB."

"It's not your paranormal expertise we need," Mark Wallace, 
the Investigative Support liaison, explained.  "It's Agent 
Mulder's prior experience in profiling."

"The Baltimore UNSUB," Mulder said immediately.  "He left 
the area.  Patterson took that file away from me."

"And put it in his private file," Skinner said.  "He wrote 
a lot of notes about it." He and Wallace exchanged coded 
looks.  Wallace cleared his throat.

Mulder actually grinned.  "I bet," he said.  "He was 
obsessive about unsolved cases." He stretched his legs in 
front of him, leaning back in the chair.  "So when do you 
want us to start? Is there a new crime scene?"

Scully rolled her eyes ceiling-ward.  He was acting like a 
shit already.

Skinner turned in his chair, ignoring Mulder's near-
insolence, and pointed to a banker's box sitting on his 
credenza.  "That's got all the files. The body of the 
latest victim has been sent to our morgue." He flipped a 
manila photo envelope to Mulder.  "Pictures and addresses 
to the victim's apartment in Reston."

Mulder caught the envelope as he stood. "All righty, then," 
he said, sotto voce.   He strolled to the box and hefted 
it. 

 Skinner and Wallace actually smiled warmly at him.  

"Agent Mulder, any of my agents will assist you.  Just let 
me know who you want," Wallace said.

Scully, for her part, wanted to slap Mulder.  'Nothing 
turns him on like having the brass come to him for help,' 
she thought angrily.  'They don't give a damn that he'll be 
a basket case, and he doesn't either.  Meanwhile, I get to 
try to keep him out of the padded cell.  Again.'

++++++++++

Mulder loaded the file box in the trunk of his car, and 
drove out to Reston, Virginia, through a cold rain.  He was 
still sore from the gymnastics with Amanda the night 
before.  He'd have bruises on his ass where she had dug in 
with her heels.  Jeeze, who'd have thought that any friend 
of the Lone Gunmen could be such a hottie? 

He had met Amanda at a start-up genetic laboratory, where 
she claimed to be doing genetic research, but where, in 
truth, he suspected she was trying to clone Wayne Gretzky.  
Frohike had recommended her as just the right paranoid 
conspiracy-minded scientist to run some tests on the green 
goo he had taken from the lab in California.  They had 
spent exactly thirty minutes together in the lab before she 
had led him into her office, locked the door, turned on the 
radio,  grabbed him by the hair, and kissed him.

Mulder, believing he was obviously hallucinating from 
something Frohike had slipped him, decided to go with it, 
and they had fucked like bunnies on her desk. They had been 
continuing to do so at every opportunity possible. 

The only thing she ever objected to was talking.  
Specifically, when he tried to tell her any of his 
theories.  She only would listen to about ten minutes of 
any explanation.  "Mulder, shut up and fuck," was her 
general response.  Since she kept giving him the reports on 
the green goo, he was always happy to oblige.

Mulder thought he would have told Scully about it by now,  
but there seemed to be an embargo on all things Emily.  In 
fact, Scully didn't talk to him about anything that 
happened more than six months ago.  It was like she emptied 
the conversation bin periodically.  He now had more things 
that he wasn't allowed to mention, than subjects he could 
talk about.  And woe betide him, should he fly into the 
forbidden zone with unwary chatter; she would turn into his 
exasperated caretaker for at least three days.

Well, this insensitive still pig wasn't going to risk it.  
He would wait until Amanda and her fellow white-coats 
finished their work on the substance and see if there was 
anything worth telling Scully before he jumped headlong 
into the 'I've got some goo' conversation.  He had to agree 
to let the mad scientists in on any possible commercial use 
in order to pay for their time, but somehow he doubted they 
would find a market for that particular DNA brew.

He parked the car, reached into his pocket and touched the 
passkey from the crime scene in its envelope, reassuring 
himself that he hadn't forgotten it.  He went up to the 
victim's apartment -- to Alexandra Brown apartment, he 
corrected himself. 

Nothing unusual about this place, he thought.   It was 
exactly as Hitchcock used to say - the most horrific crimes 
happened in the most ordinary places, as people passed by 
in the hall, on the street, unaware.  Just like the joggers 
running dismally in the rain; no one knew that evil had 
been present right around the corner from them.

He used the key, ducked under the yellow police tape, and 
then closed the door, standing just inside as he pulled on 
his latex gloves. 

The apartment was still neat.  Either Alex Brown had been 
very tidy herself, or the UNSUB had cleaned very 
thoroughly.  Mulder bet it was both.  Everything was 
orderly, organized, tasteful.  He pulled the police photos 
out of his portfolio as he walked to the kitchen.

Two wineglasses had been found on the drain board, and he 
laid their photo next to the sink.  He opened the cabinets.  
Good crystal glasses here, nice china.  Alex liked quality 
things.

No liner in the trashcan; it had been taken, with the 
contents.  He saw a knife holder on the counter; nothing 
missing.

He walked over to the stereo.  No dusting here----he'd ask 
for it, but he would bet that all the prints had been wiped 
or had been the victim's.  He pressed the "on" button.  
Elton John?

Not seeing, Mulder stood, scowling.  A CD.  Hadn't he seen 
Elton John music before? He left the music running, and 
stood over the couch, considering. 

There were two coasters and one of those wine holders still 
on the coffee table.  So, they had come back to her place, 
and sat down with wine.  They probably made out.  Mulder 
felt around in the envelope, pulled out more photos, looked 
them over carefully.  Here was something odd: a black lace 
bra and panties that Reston PD hadn't found, but the FBI 
lab had discovered the next day.

Frowning, he walked into the bedroom.

As always, the actual death scene struck him like a blow.  
There were the candles, guttered and burnt out, on the 
vanity.  There was the potpourri, the lace pillow covers, 
the framed posters on the wall that proclaimed that Alex 
Brown had decorated her bedroom with care.  He bet that the 
soft cotton sheets, now in evidence bags, stained with her 
blood, had been purchased from a high-end department store.  
The same with the candles, the very expensive aroma therapy 
candles Scully used to buy when she shopped at lunch, until 
Donny Pfaster put her off them completely. Surely those 
belonged to Alex and not the killer.

He patted his pockets, found a book of matches from a 
Georgetown bar.  He lit the candles and lowered the blinds, 
though he left the lights on. 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Mulder dropped the photos 
of the dead woman on the blood-stained mattress one by one.  
The killer tied her using her own kimono sash.  He stepped 
back and looked in the closet.  There it was, hanging from 
a hook on the door.

'Alex,' he thought, 'this isn't your fault.  I bet this guy 
looked like a dream come true.  I bet he had on the right 
clothes, and the right smile, and the right car.'   He 
returned to the living room to tap *eject* on the CD 
player.  How did that song go?

"Everything about this house is going to grow and die----" 
he sang to himself.

He put the CD back in the drawer.  Love lies bleeding in my 
hands.

"Your theme song," Mulder said.  "You miserable fucker."

He tapped *repeat,* and then returned to the bedroom.  
Turning out the light, he stood at the foot of the bed 
again and thought furiously, visualizing the couple on the 
bed.

Dark and quiet.  Not too chilly, but not hot enough to 
really sweat.  Just the right temperature to keep her from 
smelling, afterwards, right?

No, you didn't worry about that then.  You fingered and 
tongued her and made her come, so that she didn't mind 
about the bondage.  You probably made her come again before 
you put the tape on her mouth.  She may not have been 
frightened, even then.  Even then, she may have been lost 
in sensation.  You fucked her doggy style, because you 
slapped her on the ass until it was red.  We saw the 
bruises.  You left your handprint.

Then. . . then you turned her over.  You turned her over, 
and ripped off the duct tape, and you killed her.  You took 
off the tape so you could hear her scream, and that's what 
made you come.  The blood pouring out of her, and her 
screams, made you come.

"Didn't it, you puke?" Mulder asked quietly.  "Was it 
Mommy? Was she mean to you? Or Daddy? You weren't man 
enough for him? Who do you hate so much? I bet it's Mom.  I 
bet Mom blamed you for everything that went wrong.  Are you 
that Freudian, you fuck? Are you killing Mommy?" He bent 
over and picked up the pictures from the bed.

'That's too easy,' he thought.  'You're sick, but it isn't 
that simple.  I think you hate women.'  He slapped the 
footboard hard. "You shit.  We're going to find you."

He heard the front door open.  "Mulder?" Scully called.

"In here," he replied.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" she asked, flipping the light 
switch.  "Have you found anything?"

"I found her underwear, and bagged it." He went over to the 
dresser and blew out the candles.  "Scully, I've got to 
read the file on the Baltimore murders.  So far, there's 
only one real similarity beyond the profile of the victims-
---use of a kitchen knife." He picked up the photos and 
tapped the edge against the dresser, squaring the pile.  
"So, I've got my homework to do.  How about yours?"

"I'll have a report for you by Monday.  I'd like to see the 
other autopsy reports."

He nodded.  "I'll give you half; and we'll swap when we get 
done."

++++++++++

 Mulder went back to Quantico to rearrange the ready room 
set aside for the investigation.  Daylight was burning, as 
his AD liked to say; eight women were dead and it was time 
to move.  

Wallace's staffers had already pinned up a map of the 
Virginia-Maryland block, with labels giving the name of 
each victim and place of her death.  Mulder sat down at the 
long government-issue table and began pulling out the 
photos of the victims in life - not pictures of their 
violated bodies, but ones they had posed for.  Seven women 
who had found their Mr. Goodbar.

Mulder knew better than to repeat that thought aloud; one 
of these junior agents would promptly begin referring to 
the UNSUB as "Mr.  Goodbar." A catchy name; that's what 
everyone liked.  As if giving a catchy name to the press 
was a step to finding a killer.  Mulder thought it was a 
step backwards. 

The longer he was with this job, the more he liked the 
Bureau's UNSUB, for    'unknown subject.'  Don't give these 
fucks the satisfaction of re-reading their news clippings 
with a hard-on.  When Ressler and Douglas were doing prison 
interviews of convicted serial killers, they noted that 
most of the killers had avidly followed the publicity.  But 
they didn't read the papers to learn how to avoid capture; 
it was to relive the thrill sexually.

He carefully pinned the pictures of the victims to one of 
the bulletin boards.  It was good to remember that these 
people were real, not just stats in a crime report.  Seven 
women, one of whom may have sat next to you on the subway, 
who smiled at you when you held a door open for her as she 
tried to gather up her belongings.

He stood still for a moment.  Could this guy be a commuter? 
Is that why the killings were so spread out? You got to 
know the other passengers on the train, in a vague way.  
They became imprinted on one's subconscious, so your 
memory, running on reminders to buy toilet paper and change 
the water in the aquarium, would tell you that 'her face is 
familiar' but nothing else.

He stepped backwards, and sat down in one of the office 
chairs.  It made sense. These ladies didn't seem like the 
type to pick up a Mr. Goodbar and take him home, just like 
that; they would know that was risky behavior.

He leaned back, his chin on one hand.  He reluctantly 
thought of Scully, and what she had said in her report of 
how she met Ed Jerse -- met him in a tattoo parlor she was 
surveilling, struck up a conversation,  exchanged phone 
numbers.  He had asked her out.  She had accepted.  They 
went to dinner.  They. . .   Mulder was oblivious to the 
two other agents in the room, as he scrawled his notes on 
the case files.

Someone had to see these women with this guy.  He just 
didn't just whisk them out of a commuter train.  Had he 
eaten dinner with them, had a few drinks?  Just once?  
Maybe more than once.  Maybe he staggered these killings 
out over such a length of time because he was in different 
stages of a relationship with each one.  He was had been 
killing one woman every eleven to twelve months. Why was he 
speeding up?

He probably read all the books on profiling, Mulder 
thought.  A functional killer.  Extremely organized.  Self-
employed, or with an extremely flexible schedule.  But how 
frustrating to him, not to be able to relive the butchery, 
except by playing with whatever trophies he had taken.

Now came the hard part; they would have to start looking at 
all of the crime scene reports, all the autopsies, and 
looking for similarities.  There was no handy "FBI-Find-
the-Killer" computer program.  One of Wallace's staff would 
help him, but he had to tell them what to look for. He 
opened up his laptop and pulled up an old folder for 
comparing details of crime scene. 

end 01/06