
The others leaned over his shoulders as he pointed to the first picture, but she wasn't the first victim.
"The cut runs from just over her right breast to just under the left. In the next, it's the reverse."
"So?" Bournell said.
Mulder pointed again. 'It could be the killer leans over and just cuts her." He straightened suddenly,
and the others jumped back when his left hand demonstrated an angry, senseless slash-ing. "It could be,
but I don't think so. Not this time." He pointed at the third woman. "This is dearly most of a letter, right?"
"R, maybe, if you combine it with the next one over," Neuhouse answered, glancing at her part-ner,
daring him to contradict. "I know that much."
"Damn sloppy, then," Bournell said.
'For God's sake, Stan, he's slashing her! What the hell do you expect?"
Mulder copied the slash marks onto the paper, turned, and held it up.
They stared at it, puzzled, then stared at him— Bournell in confusion, Neuhouse with a disbelief that
had her lips poised for a laugh.
"He's writing his name," Mulder told them. "He's letting you know who he is." He exhaled loudly. "One
piece at a time."
The luncheonette was two blocks from FBI head-quarters, a narrow corner shop with a long Formica
counter and a half-dozen window booths, most of the decor done in pale blues and white. The windows
had been tinted to cut the sun's glare, but it still threatened Mulder with a drumming headache whenever
he glanced out at the traffic.
Once done with the sparring duo, he had grabbed his tie and jacket and fled, stomach growling
unmercifully, his head threatening to expand far beyond its limits. Even now he could hear them arguing,
with each other and with him, telling him, and each other, that he was out of his freaking mind. Killers did
not write their names on victims' bodies; at least, they sure didn't do it in classical Greek.
And when they finally, reluctantly, accepted it, they demanded to know who the killer was and why he
did it.
Mulder didn't have any answers, and he told them that more than once.
When it had finally sunk in, they had stormed out as loudly as they'd stormed in, and he had stared at
the door for nearly a full minute before deciding he'd better get out now, before the echoes of their
bickering gave him a splitting headache.
The trouble was, stomach or not, the nattering and the heat had combined to kill his appetite.
The burger and fries looked greasy enough to be delicious, but he couldn't bring himself to pick anything
up, even for a taste. Dumb, perhaps, but still, he couldn't do it.
A siren screamed; a police car raced down the center of the crowded street.
In the booth ahead of him, two couples chat-tered about baseball while at the same time they damned
the heat wave that had been sitting on Washington for nearly two weeks.
On his right, on the last counter stool, an old man in a worn cardigan and golf cap listened to a table
radio, a talk show whose callers wanted to know what the local government was going to do about the
looming water shortage and con-stant brownouts. A handful were old enough to still want to blame the
Russians.
Mulder sighed and rubbed his eyes.
In calmer times, it was nice to know his exper-tise was appreciated; in times like these, exacer-bated
by the prolonged heat, he wished the world would leave him the hell alone.
He picked up a french fry and stared at it glumly.
The radio announced a film festival on one of the cable channels. Old firms from the forties and fifties.
Not at all guaranteed to be good, just fun.
He grunted, and popped the fry into his mouth. All right, he thought; I can hole up at home with Bogart
for a while.
He smiled to himself.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. In fact, he thought as he picked up the
burger, it sounded like exactly what he needed.
He was finished before he realized he had eaten a single bite. A good sign.