[begin part 2 of 6, TNRT 5 - Storm]

Scully gave Max a quick overview of her meeting with Renko, as well as a
rundown on what was happening with Beauchamp and Moncrief. When she was
finished, Max was fuming. "I want to slap people who say the Patriarchy is
a Liberal myth." Scully heard a muffled thump. *Max must have hit the
couch.* "SHIT!" More thumps. "Goddamn desk-riding, no-nothing, limp-dick
mother_fuckers_..."

"I know," Scully said quickly. "I agree. But there's nothing we can do
about that now. And who told me you can't cry about things you can't
change?"

"You've got too good a memory," Max grumbled. Silence. "There is _one_
thing we can do, though..."

"I'm listening."

"We can put this fucking case _down_. Make those pinstriped shitheels eat a
crowburger with fries. That'd improve _my_ outlook on life. How 'bout you?"

Scully laughed. *You are the greatest.* "Definitely."

"Okay," Max said, resolve coursing through her voice. "Okay. We handle this
like any other problem. We think it through. We talk it out. We work
_together_. Agree when we can, compromise when we have to. Deal?"

"Deal," Scully said firmly.

Max sighed. "Scully, I'm glad it's you and Mulder helping on this. The
local Feebies act like we're retards with guns. This case is _already_ a
hairball, and we haven't even gotten off the ground!"

Scully pushed her hair out of her eyes. "We looked over the case file on
the flight up. It's a puzzle, alright."

"More like a Rubric's Cube." She sighed again. "Fuck it. We'll go at it
fresh tomorrow. Loot wants us all to meet at start of shift. That's 8am."

"We'll be there."

"Cool." The smile came back in her voice. "Did you get the same room as
last time?"

Scully felt herself blush. "Two floors down, other side of the building.
The view's not very good."

"Such a shame." Pause. "Is Mulder there right now?"

"He headed off to bed when you called."

Beat. Beat. Beat. "What are you wearing?"

*Oh my...* "Maroon skirt, white top."

"Shoes?"

"Stockings." The room was getting very warm. "I'm sitting on the bed."

"Mmmmmmm... Can I call you back in ten minutes? I still smell like cordite,
and I want to be clean before this conversation continues."

"I'll be right here."

"So near, yet so far."

<<TWELVE MINUTES LATER>>

Scully picked up on the fourth ring. "Hello," she said hurriedly.

"You sound out of breath," Max said impishly. "Did you start without me?"

"No," Scully answered, the smile in her voice obvious. "Ran in from the
bathroom. I was just toweling off when you called."

"You showered, too?"

"Well, if you could, it was the least I could do."

Max nestled back into the pillows. "If I was there, I'd help you dry your
hair."

Scully's quiet laugh was deep in her throat. "If you were here, we'd still
be in the shower, risking life and limb."

"What a way to go," Max giggled. "Next time we ought to try a bath. Smaller
risk of head injuries."

"Bigger risk of drowning."

"Nah." Her giggle upgraded to a laugh. "Though my downstairs neighbors
might think Cambridge got hit by a tidal wave."

Scully had the giggles now. "'Honey, the building's struck an iceberg!'"

"'Women and dance bands first!'" The laughter felt so good. A happy glow
suffused Max. "Have I ever told you how much I love your voice?"

"Really?" Scully sounded astonished.

"Swear to God. I hear you on the phone, or you come up behind me and say
something, and I just swoooooooon..."

"I think you've got a better voice than I do."

"No!"

"Yes. My voice is flat. It can't carry a tune in a bucket. _Your_ voice has
got this wonderful, smoky quality, like... I don't know _what_ it's like..."

Max dropped her voice as low as it would go. "You mean like this?"

"Talk normal, you goof," Scully laughed. "Your regular voice is enough to
make me have to change my underwear."

"Are you _wearing_ underwear?"

"What do _you_ think?"

*Oh, baby.* "Will you please go to bed with me?"

"Gladly." Max heard a rustle of covers. "Mmmmm. I love clean sheets."

Max hummed. "You're so warm."

Scully gasped. "Can you feel me? I swear I can feel you."

"Power of positive thinking."

"More like wishful thinking." She let out a low growl. "Wish I was there."

"Isn't that supposed to be 'Wish you were _here_?'"

"Uh unh. Wish I was _there_."

"Tomorrow night, baby. Just you and me, and the rest of the world can go to
hell."

"It can go to hell right now." Her voice became a murmur. "Please kiss me."

"C'mere." Max opened her mouth and closed her eyes. Her tongue tingled,
twitched, like it was dancing with a like member. They both moaned. Max'
hand was moving down her stomach in slow circles. "Oh damnit, Scully, I
want you so bahhhhhd!"

"I'm yours, Max," Scully said, her voice hoarse. "All yours."

"I'm kissing my way down your neck..."

"I'm liking that a lot..."

"Licking your collarbone... Stroking your tits..." Max swallowed once,
twice. "Sucking a nipple..."

"Ohhhhhhhh..."

Max worked her lips and tongue, eyes still closed, easily calling up the
sensation of Scully's bullet-hard cap between her lips. "I love your
breasts," she whispered. "I want to wake up with your tit in my mouth..."

"Oh God yes..."

"I'm touching you... Rubbing your clit with my fingers..."

"Ahhhhhhhh... Love your touch..."

"I love _you_."

"I love you, too." Scully's breathing was ragged. "Nice slow circles..."

"There's an idea... Oooh! A very _gooooood_ idea."

Happy noises came down the line, and then Scully's words came in a rush. "I
want you inside me."

Max' voice shook. "Me too you."

"How many...?"

"Let's start with... two."

"Okay...Mmmmmmohhhhhhhhyeah..."

"Oh, that is _so_ nice... Ohhh, you've got nice thumbs..."

"Slowwwwwwwwww," Scully moaned.

"You too... Make this... last..."

"That... was my plan..."

"Hehehe... Mmm! Oh!" The stars behind Max' eyelids were unusually bright.
"You want another?"

"Oh please... Oh, yes.... You get one, toooooooo..."

"Ooooooh, thank you... Oh, right there! _Right_ fucking there, yes
_ma'am_... Little faster..."

"Yehhhsss... Oh damn, that's great... Oh, fuck me, Max..."

"You fuck me back," Max hissed.

The line was filled with only guttural sounds now. Max' fingers were
soaked. She could swear she heard Scully's fingers sliding in and out.
"When I get you alone, I'm gonna lick you til you _scream_..."

"Oh my..."

"Drink every drop... Make you cum so hard, you'll think you're in an
earthquake...."

"Oh, honey, I wish I could taste you..."

Max felt herself smile. "You could lick my hand tomorrow..."

Scully was either giggling or panting. "T-t-too obvious..."

Their laughter did nothing to slow down their actions. Max was biting her
lip hard enough to cause pain. "Scully," Max moaned. "Put one in my ass."

Only the slightest pause. "Here..."

Max used the pillow to hold the phone in place. Her moan turned to a groan,
then into a small howl as she slid her middle finger inside. "Oh,
yehhhhhhhhhhhsssss..."

"Give... give me one, too..."

"Y-you sure?"

"Uh hunh..."

Max could hardly breathe. "Okay..."

"Uhhhhnnnnnnh!!!!"

"Just relax..."

Scully sounded strangled. "So tight..."

"You don't have to-"

"No! No! It's all right... Oh, it's so all right..."

"Yes, yes, yes," Max breathed in time with her thrusts. She could feel her
fingers touching each other.

Scully's voice started rising. "So close..."

Max doubled her pace. "Please, please let me cum with you!"

"Gahhhhd... Kiss meeeee!"

Max opened her mouth as wide as she could, aching for the flavor of Scully
as their moans got louder and louder until they were yelling unintelligibly
down the line, writhing like landed marlins, fingers pistoning and
stimulating, bedspreads being kicked off, revealing them both as they went
off the same peak.

They came down like leaves in autumn, fluttering slowly to the earth as
their breathing came back to normal. Scully was able to speak first. "Oh
yes... Yes, please hold me."

Max' eyes flew open. "How did you know...?"

"I... I could feel your arms going around me."

Max laugh was very weak. "What did you say about telekinesis?"

"What did _you_ say about wishful thinking?"

"I said _positive_ thinking. _You_ said wishful thinking."

"Sorry... Kind of lost track of things..."

"One can only wonder why." Her laugh was getting stronger. Scully joined in
blissfully. "Thank Christ you can laugh in bed."

"Doesn't it feel good?"

"Mmmmmmmmm. _You_ feel good."

"So do you." Beat. "I can't wait to see you."

"Too bad the next time has to be in a meeting," Max groused.

"I know." The imp crawled into Scully's voice. "Just remember, the best
thing to do when giving a speech is to imagine your audience completely
naked."

"Oh, _great_! Now I'm gonna sound like Porky Pig! Thanks a whole bunch, girl!"

They laughed a little more. "Go to sleep, honey. We've got a long day
tomorrow."

"Got that right." Max paused. "Can you stay tomorrow night?"

"If I do the early morning subway thing, I can."

"I can live with that." Another pause. "I love you."

No pause. "I love you, too. Sleep tight."

"You too."

<<THURSDAY MORNING -- START OF SHIFT>>>

The gray-haired man looked impassively at Mulder & Scully as they sprinted
towards him. He had decorations on his blue dress uniform, silver eagles on
his shirt lapels, gold braid on the brim of his cap. He made no move to
hold the doors, which closed in their faces as they reached the elevator.

"I'm not making any friends in this town at all," Mulder remarked.

Scully looked hectically at her watch. "Homicide's on the second floor.
Let's walk." The stairs were to the left of the elevator. She started up
without waiting for Mulder.

Traffic on the stairs was fast and heavy. Mulder had to hustle to keep up
with Scully, who was practically in the back of the person in front of her.
She had been going full-bore since she banged on his door at 6am, dressed
and ready for breakfast. Mulder had tried joking and teasing to lighten her
mood, but a stern stare over half a grapefruit put an end to that strategy.
She was on the phone with Skinner for most of breakfast, and the
conversation hadn't helped her disposition.

Homicide's squadroom hadn't changed in the month since Scully had spent a
long afternoon in Interview 1, reviewing and re-reviewing the MFA shooting
with multiple groups of people. The long high-ceilinged chamber was still
an antiseptic green, off-white cartoon-decorated PCs offering sharp
contrast to the film-noir gray steel desks they sat on. Neither Max or
Weeks was in evidence when Mulder & Scully came into the room. Two
detectives stood by the desk nearest the entrance, discussing the contents
of a notebook. One was freshly-showered with every hair in place, while the
other looked like an unmade bed. *Day Shift and Night Shift,* Mulder
decided. "Excuse me," he said, stepping towards them. "We're looking for
Lieutenant Weeks."

Day Shift looked up at them curiously, while Night Shift kept staring at
the notebook. "He's in a meeting right now," Day Shift informed them. "Can
I help you?"

Mulder pulled out his ID; Scully did likewise. "Actually, we're the people
he's supposed to be meeting with. Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI."

Day Shift's expression closed down. Night Shift looked at them without
bringing his head up. "Lieutenant's in Conference Room 2. Fourth floor."

"Thanks," Mulder said pleasantly, ignoring the usual bad vibes. Scully was
already out the door by the time Mulder turned to go.

"Hold the elevator, please," she called out, running down the hall. Whoever
was in the elevator either hadn't heard or didn't care, because the doors
closed before she got there. Scully raised a fist like she was going to hit
the doors, but she just sighed hard and dropped her hand to her side.

Mulder jogged up to her. "Think we're still asleep, and this is a Work Dream?"

Scully moved quickly towards the stairs. "If it was, we'd be in our underwear."

"My Work Dreams are better than your Work Dreams."

Scully didn't have time to give him a dirty look.

The fourth floor was more sedate, with the feeling of a
recently-refurbished management suite. The walls were off-white with brown
wood paneling on the wainscoting. A black plastic, white-lettered sign
directed visitors to the various conference rooms and offices. The door to
Conference Room 2 was across from the stairs. Scully pulled up in front of
the door. She had been running hard to make the meeting on time; now that
she was here, she felt almost paralyzed.

Mulder stepped up beside her, observing her expression, sensing the panic.
"Scully." She reacted so slowly, he thought she might not have heard him;
he was going to repeat her name when her head snapped round to face him.
"It'll be okay," he assured her quietly.

Scully started to speak, then just smiled and nodded, grateful for the
support. She straightened her suit jacket, knocked twice, and opened the
door.

Con 2 was done up in the same style as the hallway. It was a windowless
room with a whiteboard and projection screen on one end and an overhead
imaging system mounted on the ceiling. Legal pads and pencils had been
placed in front of every chair around the long conference table that
bisected the room. A stack of six file folders sat in front of him. Coffee
and donuts were laid out on a table at the other end of the room,
perpetuating the legendary police archetype; a man Scully didn't recognize
was pouring himself a cup. Max was over by the screen, going over
handwritten notes with a woman sitting at a computer terminal. Weeks sat on
the other side of the table, sipping on a cup of his own. Scully made sure
to focus on him. "Lieutenant Weeks?"

Weeks smiled as he rose. "Agent Scully, please come in. It's good to see
you again."

Scully gave him a professional smile as they shook hands. "Good to see you
too, Lieutenant. This is my partner, Fox Mulder."

Mulder offered his hand. "Lieutenant."

Weeks' grip was firm but not crushing. "Agent Mulder," he said formally.
The other man came over, sipping some coffee. His tall, lanky body and
monochromatic wardrobe made Mulder think of a praying mantis in mourning.
"This is Detective Michael Kreutzmann, one of the officers you'll be
working with."

"Charmed," Mickey said. He was shaking hands with Mulder but speaking to
Scully.

Max came over to Weeks. Scully was extremely glad the table was between
them, because Max looked good enough to devour. She was wearing all Earth
tones: Light brown tweed jacket, dark brown blouse, khaki slacks, brown
boots. She'd also spent time on her hair, something Scully knew she hated
doing every day. Max held a hand out to Scully. Her smile was the kind you
gave to a colleague, or a casual acquaintance -- friendly, but no more.
"How you doing, Scully?"

"Good, Max," Scully managed to say in a normal tone. "Yourself?" Until that
moment, she never knew how frustrating a handshake could be.

Max shrugged. "Can't complain. Wouldn't help, anyway." Scully thought she'd
have to force herself to let go. Fortunately, Max let go first and moved to
shake Mulder's hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Agent Mulder."

Mulder gave her a Level 3 Smirk. "Well, either all of it's true or none of
it's true."

Max gave him a smile and a chuckle. "I'll remember that."

Weeks resumed his seat, causing everyone else to sit down. "I must say,
Agent Scully, I was surprised when Max told me you and your partner were
going to be working with us. I thought we were going to have to deal with
the local office on this." His tone clearly said he'd been unhappy with the
prospect.

"The field office is working with ATF on their original militia-group
theory," Scully explained. "Our assignment is to find a connection from the
other end, by examining the murders themselves."

Weeks picked up a pencil and started twirling it like a baton with his
fingers. "A fresh perspective couldn't hurt. I know I'm stumped." He gave
the pencil one more revolution until the point was on the pad. "Well, you
are here and we are here, so let's get started. All yours, Max."

Max nodded, picking up a small stack of papers as she stood. Scully thought
she saw Max' hands tremble. "Okay. I know you've both studied the case
file. But just so we're all on the same page, I'd like to go over the
highlights of each incident before we start breaking everything down."

"Sounds good," Mulder said. Scully nodded, already holding a pencil.

Max gave them a little smile, then nodded to the computer tech. "Mickey,
could you get the light?" Mickey got up and walked over to a row of
switches by the door. It took him two tries, but he finally killed the
lights nearest the projection screen, leaving everyone with enough light to
make notes.

The PowerPoint presentation was short on frills, long on information. Max
ran through the cases with an ease that belied her nervousness. Max could
be gregarious to a fault, but formal public speaking was not her strong
suit. She had never worked with PowerPoint before, and would have preferred
to keep that record intact, but the Captain had insisted she use it.
("We've got to show these people we're not some podunk PD still living in
the Stone Age," he'd harrumphed.) The Information Services tech -- a bright
young civilian named Bonnie -- had been extremely helpful, so the
presentation was not the problem. The problem was giving it to a group of
people that included the new-found love of her life, and not being able to
acknowledge it. Mulder may have been in on the secret, but no-one else in
the room was, or would be any time soon. *These are not ideal working
conditions,* Max thought unhappily.

After Max finished the last case, the tech put up a multi-column screen,
with the perpetrators listed in the far left column. Max addressed the
screen. "When we discovered the weapons connection, we looked for any other
correlation between the perps. We checked families, places of birth, ethnic
background, religious affiliation, educations, occupations, social
organizations, military service, and arrest record, if any. No matches for
all six, and what few matches we _do_ have are sketchy. Two guys were in
the military, but different services and wars. Two others went to
UMASS-Boston, but twelve years apart."

She nodded to Bonnie. "So, having gotten nowhere with the perps, we decided
to take a look at the victims." The tech put up a screen like the first
one, only it listed the names of six women. "We kept the same general
parameters -- personal, educational, social. Same results, pretty much. A
couple of BU grads, but years' difference. Two secretaries, but different
businesses, different parts of the city. All of them work out, none at the
same place."

Max sighed, turning to face her audience. "So we were back at square one.
All weapons used were part of that hijacked shipment, and all the shooters
are dead." She took a deep breath, averting her eyes from Scully. "But I
couldn't sleep last night, so I looked over the files again. And while this
may not be a connection, exactly, it is a factor we might want to consider."

"What's that, Max," Weeks asked, sounding surprised.

Max signaled the tech, who brought up the screen they were working on when
Mulder & Scully walked in. "All the incidents occurred in public places.
_Very_ public places: The MFA. Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Copley Square at
lunch hour. A Mexican restaurant on Newbury Street. A department store in
Cambridge. The lobby of the Orpheum Theatre..."

"Crime happens in the open, too," Mickey put in.

Weeks nodded in agreement. "And it's not like husbands haven't taken out
their wives in public before, Max."

Max held up a hand. "Sure. At the wives' jobs, at their offices, in parking
lots, that kind of thing. Not in front of God and everybody in broad
daylight. And the hubbys who kill their wives at work are usually the
batterers, the restraining-order types. Joel Roberge had a restraining
order against him, but not for domestic violence. There's no history of
spousal abuse in _any_ of these cases..."

"No _reported_ abuse," Scully said, somewhat reluctantly. "Most domestic
violence goes _un_reported, either by the victims or by their families and
friends."

"But if someone gets _killed_, the truth usually comes out after the fact,"
Max countered. "A friend, a relative, a co-worker, _someone_ gets the
guilts and says, 'If only I'd _done_ something, _said_ something, yadda
yadda yadda...' It happens. I've seen it. And there's nothing like that
here."

"So, what?" Mickey had an elbow on the table and his head in his hand. "The
He-Man Women-Haters Club's cross-breeding with the Mafia?"

Max didn't hesitate. "If Wiseguys got hit like this, we'd have Fun With
Jell-O and the Gangbusters hanging from the ceiling, swearing someone was
sending somebody a message."

Scully didn't say anything, but her expression showed she was torn; she
didn't like arguing with Max, and knew her hypothesis was based on
professional experience, but the scenario just didn't ring true.

Max couldn't read minds, but she could read faces. Weeks and Mickey wore
the same dubious expression, while Mulder sat stone-faced. "Look," she
said, "I _know_ it's a reach. But the only other explanation is that six
guys from six different parts of Greater Boston -- most of whom wouldn't
know where to get a hot gun if their lives depended on it -- went to the
same gun dealer that bought guns from the same hijacked shipment, which
makes the dealer dirty, as well." She shook her head firmly. "That's
wayyyyy too much coincidence for _my_ low-fat diet."

Scully had scribbled a few notes on her legal pad. "Were all the couples
divorced, or in the midst of divorce, when the shootings happened?"

Max consulted her notes, irritation itching at her. It sounded like Scully
was trying to change the subject, and that rankled, no matter what they'd
agreed on the night before. "One divorce, finalized eight months before the
shooting. Three couples going through the process..." Her eyes flicked up
to Scully. "Joel and Louise was one of them..." Scully nodded. Max went
back to her notes. "One was in the fourth month of a legal separation, and
the last couple was in counseling."

Scully's eyes flicked up from her own notes. "But they hadn't talked to
lawyers yet?"

"No," Max said patiently, "but you don't ask an umpire for help unless the
game's turned lousy." Max and Richard had gone through three months of
counseling before they gave up and filed papers. Max stayed in bed for two
days after she signed.

Scully looked at Weeks and Mickey. "We ought to see what the counselor has
to say. Maybe he or she knows something the relatives don't." She looked
over her shoulder at Mulder. "Also see if any of the killers was getting
private counseling."

Mulder looked distracted, as usual, but nodded. "Okay, I'll buy that," Max
said grudgingly. *Agree when we can, compromise when we have to...*

Mulder spoke up for the first time. "Do you have autopsy reports on the
shooters?"

Max looked confused. "The perps? I suppose so. It's procedure. But their
deaths were pretty cut-and-dried, Agent Mulder. Two were cut down by cops,
three if you count me and Scully. Two ate their guns after the murder. One
burned to death after his Porsche was T-boned by a bus while escaping..."

Mulder raised his hand to stop her. "Actually, I'm more interested in what
might have happened to them prior to the last day of their lives."

Scully's eyebrow lifted off. "Are you saying their actions may have been
_physiologically_ driven?"

"Talk about a reach," Max chimed in, her doubt undisguised.

Mulder didn't bat an eye. "Your reach should exceed your grasp."

Max gave Mulder a look Scully knew all too well. It was the look local cops
and field-office personnel gave him when he introduced a line of
investigation that made no earthly sense. "Ohhhhhhhhhkay," Max replied.
"The Whiner... Doctor Weinglass, medical examiner, would have all that."

Mulder nodded. "Any of the bodies still on hand?"

Max laughed once, idly wondering what planet this polite, well-dressed man
came from. "Three went into the ground over the last couple of months. Joel
was buried week before last, and there wasn't enough left of the stunt
driver to take home in a doggie bag. The last guy..." She glanced at her
notes. "...a Louis Satterlee, retired Army colonel. He was one who took
himself out, late last Thursday night. He might still be on ice."

Mulder looked at Scully. "Would you please...?"

Scully sighed, her eyes on her notes. "It's why I get paid the big money."

"If you're gonna deal with the Whiner, you'll earn it," Mickey said as an
aside.

His comment got smiles from the rest of the room. Weeks' smile was the
smallest. He pulled a file out of the stack and handed it across to Scully.
"Anything else, Max?" Max shook her head, resuming her seat. "Well, this
has been a wonderfully bonding experience. But we're not going to put this
down unless we knock on some doors. Command, the DA, the mayor's office,
they all want this closed soonest, with a minimum of pub. You've got
theories, follow them, but don't get locked into anything. There's a reason
why this happened, and it may be one we've talked about." He gave Max a
look that wasn't censuring, but wasn't apologetic, either. "But it may
_not_. Whatever, if you need something from anyone in the department, tell
'em the request comes from the top. If they don't believe you, call me, and
I'll make sure it _does_ come from the top." Weeks addressed Mulder &
Scully. "Now, I know you two came as a package. However, I want all parts
of this group to have the benefit of both perspectives. Therefore, I'm
splitting up the existing teams." He looked around, not waiting for an
objection. "Anyone have a problem with keeping the pairings boy-girl
boy-girl?"

Mulder grinned at Max. "I know I don't." His tone was a little more than
friendly. Max came close to replicating a Mulder Smirk.

"No problem here," Mickey added. He'd been with the squad long enough to
know it wouldn't matter if he had a problem or not; what Weeks wanted,
Weeks got. Scully just shook her head, relieved the decision had been made
for her. For once, she was sorry she hadn't worn heels. *I'm going to look
like a midget next to Mickey.*

"Excellent," Weeks beamed. He picked up the remaining file folders and laid
them out side-by-side. "Five more cases. Who does what?"

Max took a quick look at the files and grabbed the middle one -- the
Roberge file. She glanced at Scully, waving a hand over the remaining
files. "Pick two." Scully dropped her gaze quickly down to the table. After
a moment's consideration, she took a folder from each end. Mulder picked up
the last two files.

Weeks stood. So did everyone else. "The brass is riding me like a
racehorse, people. Help me keep them happy. Keep me informed, keep each
other informed, and keep turning the stones, regardless of the hour.
Overtime budget's been approved -- get it while it's hot, get it while it's
buttered. Any developments, good or bad, call me immediately. Otherwise, we
meet here every morning, same bat time, same bat channel. Questions?" There
were none. Weeks put his hands on his hips. "Work it."

<<LATER THAT MORNING>>

"You two don't mind if I stand over here, do you?"

"Don't be bashful, Detective Kreutzmann," Weinglass chided, pulling on a
pair of long black gloves. "Step up. You might learn something." His tone
made it clear he doubted that would happen.

Mickey leaned against a long counter at the far end of the room, striving
to look nonchalant. "I don't need to find out what my food looks like after
I've eaten it. I spent four years at Holy Cross learning that lesson."

Weinglass rolled his eyes at Scully. "Detectives can be so infantile."

Scully had already masked up, so she couldn't have smiled at Weinglass if
she wanted to. Which she didn't. She examined the body in front of them
with clinical detachment. Colonel Louis Satterlee, US Army (Ret.), was in
marvelous condition for his age: Tight muscletone, flat stomach, good
leg-muscle definition. *Stairmaster? No, he'd run. Might even have done a
marathon or two. He was in shape for it...* If it weren't for the
fist-sized exit wound on the back of his skull, Scully would have been hard
pressed to explain why the West Point graduate wasn't still up and around.

"I honestly don't see why you have to re-examine these cases, Dr. Scully,"
Weinglass complained. He had refused to address her as 'Agent Scully' from
the moment he found out she was a fellow pathologist. "I've been at this
job 22 years, and I haven't botched a post yet."

"No-one's accusing you of that, Dr. Weinglass," Scully assured him again.
"I'm afraid my partner is rather adamant about confirming whether something
may have physically occurred to these men that caused their behavior, and
their deaths. And he insists I be as thorough as possible." *Blame It On My
Partner.* Mulder & Scully had used each other as excuses for so long,
neither of them gave it a second thought.

"You want to know what caused their deaths, Dr. Scully?" Weinglass picked
up a scalpel and idly tapped the exit wound. "Lead poisoning." He dropped
the scalpel. "Except for the one who shuffled off while doing a poor
imitation of Steve McQueen." He pulled on a mask, tugging the straps until
they lay comfortably. "What caused their _behavior_ was an inability to
control their private lives. Just like most of the poor former souls who
roll through my door." He nodded at Satterlee's corpse. "You want blood and
tissue from this one, too?"

Scully nodded, already tired of this terminally-crusty man. "Plus any
anomalies we may discover. Northeastern Medical will provide the courier."

"They'd better not bill me," he grumbled. "That camera over there _should_
be loaded. Why don't you play shutterbug. My assistant called in sick.
Again." Scully picked up the Polaroid camera, automatically checking the
flash attachment. Weinglass' eyes flared when she pulled out her pocket
Dictaphone. "My office will give you a transcript of the post."

Scully switched on the recorder and put it on a high stool next to the
table. "Turnaround time on this case is very short," she said, giving him
both barrels of The Ice Queen. "Shall we proceed?"

Weinglass gave a world-weary sigh, turned on the water jets and flicked a
switch on the microphone hanging above the table. "Eleven-eleven-ninety
six, 9:24am. Subject is a 62 year-old male Caucasian..."

--------

"I'm sorry," Leslie Davenport, Ph.D repeated. "But I'm afraid my hands are
tied on this matter."

"I don't see why," Max insisted. "Your patient is dead. Privilege isn't an
issue."

"Would that were true." The bespectacled psychiatrist made a helpless
gesture from behind his antique mahogany desk. The desk took up a third of
the small wood-paneled room he used as an office. "My patient may be dead,
but there is the question of his family to consider. They may not want
details of his sessions to emerge..."

Max wanted to leap over the desk and throttle the self-possession out of
this man. "Doctor, the man _has_ no family. He stopped having a family when
he blew Doreen O'Connor's brains all over Copley Square..."

Davenport held up a finger. "On the contrary," he corrected her. "Michael
Ceterski's mother is alive and well and living the life of a retired middle
school principal in Yuma, Arizona. Michael was devoted to her. I met her at
the funeral, in fact. She was quite distraught, as you can imagine..."

"Excuse me," Mulder cut in, his brow furrowed. "You went to your patient's
funeral?"

Davenport gave Mulder an enigmatic smile. "I counseled Michael for over two
years. I'd like to think we became friends."

"Okay," Max said carefully. "What can you tell us about your _friend_?"

Davenport chuckled, his hands on his sweater-covered belly. "I'm sorry,
Detective. I know you have a job to do, and are trying to do it without
sullying my oath. Michael was my friend, true, but first and foremost, he
was my patient. And I cannot -- and will not -- betray the trust a patient
invests in me. Even from the grave."

"Doctor, we're not the tabloids," Max said, her desperation bubbling over.
"I assure you anything you tell us will remain in confidence..."

Davenport shook his head, his expression implacable. "You can make all the
assuring noises you wish, Detective Maxfield. But unless you can produce a
legal release from Michael Ceterski's family, I refuse to give up the right
of Privilege."

Max was close to exploding. She was about to threaten Davenport with arrest
as a material witness when Mulder spoke up. "We understand your position on
discussing past and present patients, Dr. Davenport," he said reasonably.
"However, I'm wondering what your position is on _hypothetical_ patients."

Davenport regarded Mulder with mild interest. "I'm listening."

Mulder paused, his mind racing. "A patient is divorced from his second
wife. His first wife has been dead for some years. A significant amount of
time passes after the divorce..."

"How significant," Davenport asked.

Mulder gave him a weak smile. "Less than a year." He looked around the
room, his hand following his gaze. What wall space that wasn't covered with
overloaded bookcases was inundated with diplomas, plaques and pictures.
"Eight months, for the sake of argument."

Davenport's smile was thin as a sheet of paper. His salt-and-pepper hair
was very curly, long in the back, and badly in need of cutting. "For the
sake of argument. Though you must admit, Agent Mulder, that's not really a
very long time."

Mulder nodded, conceding the point. "A moment in the grand universal
scheme. But an eternity for someone who's in love. Or whose love has been
rejected."

Condescension seemed to come easy for Davenport. "I wouldn't listen to talk
radio so much, Agent Mulder. It's not helping your view of the human
condition."

Mulder let that pass. "Would a patient like that develop enough rage to
commit murder?"

Davenport considered the air in front of him. "It's not out of the
question. Though he could develop any number of emotions in that time."

"Like what," Max wanted to know.

Davenport didn't look at her. "Sorrow, for one. If, as you say, this was
the patient's second marriage, and the patient had been alone for some time
prior to this marriage, it's more than likely that the patient believed he
would never be alone again. He would be partners once again. If that
partnership is taken away unexpectedly, and nothing can be done to recoup
that, the patient could turn inward, not lash outward."

"What would destroy a partnership like that," Mulder asked impassively.

Davenport started scanning his desk. Between notepads, pens, pictures, a
small ship's clock and a Gateway PC, the tabletop was very crowded. "It is
a clichˇ, but it is possible to love too much." His gaze landed on a
picture in a gold frame for a moment, then looked at the two people sitting
across from him. "It would not be unheard of for the patient, now part of a
pair once again, to do everything to make sure his partner was happy and
content. But while it does take maintenance to make a successful
relationship, it is possible to work _too_ hard. Stay _too_ close. Without
space, a person can suffocate."

"So good intentions can be just as damaging as bad ones," Max offered.

Davenport looked at her like the class dunce had just figured out the
answer to the problem. "They can, indeed."

"The rejection of those kind of intentions could be doubly damaging,
though, couldn't they?"

Davenport held his palms together, as if in prayer. "It is possible.
Depending on how a patient channeled that rejection."

"If the patient channeled that rejection successfully, and did nothing for
a long period of time..." Mulder began.

"How long?"

Mulder knew he was being played with, but went on anyway. "Possibly eight
months?"

Davenport smiled, firm in the knowledge that he was in control. "Very well.
Your question was...?"

Mulder looked him right in the eye. "What would cause the patient to
abandon this process and take sudden, violent action?"

Davenport seemed to think a moment, then shook his head. "It would be
difficult to form an analysis without more facts. The patient's actions
could stem from a single, seemingly-innocuous incident, to a deep-seeded
sense of betrayal that could no longer be denied. Of course, you would have
to speak with someone who knew the patient intimately to divine that."

Max' voice was hard as a rock, and almost as flat. "Like his psychiatrist?"

Davenport did an exaggerated double take. "Well, that would be one course
you could pursue." He shook his head. "Mind you, I don't know any
psychiatrist who would discuss his patients' mental condition, even though
the patient was no longer with us." He was the picture of artlessness. "I
know _I_ wouldn't."

--------

Of all the buzzwords that floated through the 90's, Scully hated "wellness"
the most. She thought it was a Boomer-inspired piece of nonsense that
cheapened the cause of medicine; it offered up visions of Nehru-jacketed
'healers' that worshipped crystals and savored herbal tea. The woman behind
the main desk of the Somerville Wellness Clinic was anything but a holistic
hippie, but she wasn't much of a help, either.

"I don't care if you're trying to solve the murder of Martin Luther King,"
she said sharply. "I cannot give out that information."

"We're not asking to look at your patients' secret journals," Mickey said
evenly. "We just want to speak with whoever handled the counseling of
George and Anna Pelc."

The hard-eyed woman whose nametag identified her as "Melanie Radcliffe --
Assistant Administrator" held her pose : Arms folded, chin cocked, mouth
set. "We do not release the names of our staff to _anyone_," she repeated.
"Nor do we release any information about their treatment of patients. That
is our policy."

"We are not just _anyone_, Ms. Radcliffe..."

"That's right," Radcliffe agreed snippily. "_You_ are the people who are
supposed to protect and serve us poor downtrodden citizens." She flicked
her eyes at Scully. "_She_ is the people who keep us poor downtrodden
citizens safe from terrorists and revolutionaries. And my question to you
both is this: What have you done for _me_ lately?"

Kreutzmann felt stupid smiling in the face of this abuse. "A little
cooperation goes a long way, Ms. Radcliffe..."

"Is that so?" The frizzy-haired matron pointed towards the front door. "You
know those people who accosted you on the way in here?" She gave Scully a
hard look. "The ones who gave you those leaflets you dumped in my
waiting-room trashcan? Those are the fabulous folks from Operation Rescue
-- you know, the happy people who chain themselves to the entrances of
abortion clinics? Put clinic employees' faces on 'Wanted' posters? Applaud
the killing of doctors serving their patients' needs? Their primary target
is the Planned Parenthood office four doors down. We do not do abortions
here; however, we _do_ have two OB-GYNs on staff, both part-time
volunteers. So the protesters waylay every single woman who comes through
our door, just to make sure Planned Parenthood isn't outsourcing some of
its workload." She re-focused her wrath on Mickey. "The number of
complaints I have made to the police is getting close to three figures. The
number of times you have done anything about this ongoing harassment is
still sitting on zero." She smiled. It was not a nice smile. "So you'll
excuse me if I'm not brimming with the spirit of cooperation."

Mickey was starting to steam. "I see you're the Assistant Administrator.
May we speak with the _Chief_ Administrator?"

"Certainly," Radcliffe said bitterly. "Get in your car, go to Logan
Airport, and catch the next plane to Maui. That's where she's spending her
honeymoon. If you'd rather wait, she should be back in, oh..." She glanced
at her watch. "...eleven days." Her smile didn't get any nicer.

Mickey gave her an equally unfriendly grin. He stepped up to the desk and
leaned his elbows on the counter. "Here's how our relationship is going to
work," he said quietly. "I take my federal friend and leave this happy
place. I come back with a warrant the size of the Hancock Tower, ordering
you to surrender every single piece of paperwork anyone has done in the
history of this establishment. I will need to do this because you will not
tell me who this mystery doctor is, or what he's done, or who he's done it
_to_, because that is your policy. So, to redeem myself in the eyes of my
superiors -- who frown upon detectives being rebuffed by mere office staff
-- I have to be meticulous as hell and examine anything Doctor X may have
written, dictated, touched, seen, smelled, or tasted."

Radcliffe looked like the top of her head was going to pop off. Mickey
continued as if she wasn't even there. "When I finally find the information
I need, we will return this truckload of files and dump them _right_
_here_..." He rapped his knuckles twice on the counter. "...because the
Boston Police Department does a lot for its citizens, but it doesn't do
windows, and it doesn't file any paperwork other than its own." He leaned
forward a little. Radcliffe automatically leaned back; she was shorter than
Scully, so Mickey towered over her. "Which means the task of putting
everything back in its proper place... will be _yours_." He flashed his
grin again. "Now. Do we want to go through all that, or do we want to be
best friends?"

Radcliffe breathed through her nose. She appeared to be grinding her teeth.
"Are you always this delightful, Detective Kreutzmann?"

"You should see me when the moon is full. I come all undone." Mickey's
smile didn't dim one watt.

Radcliffe shot daggers out her eyes at Mickey for another few seconds, then
bent over and opened up a king-size Rolodex. She gave the cards a short
spin, thumbed through a few, pulled one out and showed it to Mickey. When
Mickey reached for it, she pulled it away. "Look," she said tersely. "Don't
touch."

Scully stepped forward and jotted down the doctor's name and phone number.
"What does the blue dot mean," Mickey wanted to know.

Radcliffe's voice was deadly quiet. "He's a part-time volunteer," she
explained, her fingertips white as she clutched the card. "Three afternoons
a week. No, I don't have his schedule."

Scully wrote that down, too. "Is this number home or work?"

"I believe he works out of his home." Radcliffe said, biting off the words.

Mickey noted the three-digit exchange. *Brookline.* "May we use your
phone," he asked politely.

The multi-buttoned phone bleated an electronic ring. "It's out of order,"
Radcliffe dead panned. She picked up the phone. "Somerville Wellness
Clinic, this is Melanie. How may I help you?"

Mickey smiled and started for the door. Scully whispered "Thank you," to
Radcliffe and followed, pulling out her cell phone and dialing the number
on her notepad.

Mickey held the door for Scully. "Maybe I should have said 'Please.'"

Scully gave him the look she saved for when Mulder was being immature. She
listened as they came down the stairs, ignoring the leaflet-waving people
rushing towards them. "Voicemail," she muttered. *Doesn't anyone answer
their phone any more?*

--------


[end part 2 of 6, TNRT 5 - Storm]