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Title: Sic Semper Tyrannis I'd would like to thank everyone who helped me with the search for the "Old Penitentiary," especially Steve and Lee Ann Wagner, and to offer a very special thanks to Kellie MathewsSimons for her gracious permission to reference events from her wonderful story, "Auld Lang Syne." Note: The story is preceded by "In A Georgetown Bar". For those who have not read it, I have provided Assistant Director Walter Skinner with an ex-wife and a daughter, and continue the relationship between Skinner and my character, Lucinda Carey. I have reposted "Georgetown Bar" in a PG 13 version, if anyone would like the background on that relationship. (The NC 17 version can be e-mailed, if you let me know. There is also a very hot encounter between Skinner and Carey in Tish Sears "Intermission." I would highly recommend it.) May 12 They sat with their heads down, the sweat beading on the backs of their necks; thirty students; writing furiously. It was finals week at Georgetown University, and finals time in Professor Lucinda Carey's class. From her desk in the corner of the room, Carey looked at her watch, then out over the bent heads. She felt a little sorry for them. The heat, uncharacteristically high, even for May in Washington, was oppressive, and the little classroom was stifling. The exam was no easy effort, either. A third year course, required for the major, Carey's "Myth and Paradigm in American Culture" was generally used to weed out the students who would go on in the program from those who chose American Studies because they thought a "studies" major would be a gut. It was not, at least not the way Lucinda Carey taught it. Toward the back of the room, a young man fidgeted in his seat, tapping his pen restlessly. He scrawled for a little while in his blue book, but it was obvious to any observer that his mind was not on his answers. He pushed the damp hair off his forehead and looked around. Carey watched him out of the corner of her eye. She was not concerned about him cheating; in her opinion, John Robert Sterling the Third was far too arrogant to stoop to such ends merely in order to pass a class. He might try to schmooze his teacher, but Carey was sure the boy would far rather fail than lower himself to admit that another *student* might be more able than he. Sterling *had* tried to charm her into a passing grade, if the truth be known. Carey smiled a little at the memory, because it had been that evening, in that pub on M Street, when she had met Walter Skinner for the first time. It amazed her how close she had actually come to missing him. If it had not been for Sterling's clumsy attempts to get on her good side, she would have left the bar a half hour earlier, and she and Walter would never have met. She supposed she owed the boy something for that, at least, in a back handed sort of way. She looked back over at him. A bright, but wayward kid, John Sterling had been on the hairy edge of failure all term, and if he did not pull an outstanding grade on this final, he would flunk out of the program, and probably out of school. Carey could not understand why. She had never really understood these kids, the bright ones who would not, for some psychological reason, apply themselves. She freely admitted that she had no particular talent with them, and she simply did not know how to reach this boy. It saddened her that this fine young mind was going to be lost. Sterling bent his head for a few more minutes, applying himself to the blue book in front of him. Then he closed it abruptly, slammed his pen down on top of it, and stormed from the room. A few students looked up. Most, however, were too intent on the test in front of them to notice. Carey sighed, then let it go. twenty nine other minds in that room required her, and she could not abandon them to pursue one misfit, no matter how much she felt for him. She promised herself to have a talk with the boy's academic advisor, but other than that, there was little else she had the talent or the inclination to do. Outside in the noon sun, John Sterling pulled off his tee shirt and exposed his slender, and somewhat underdeveloped chest to the May breezes. It was cooler outside than it had been in that claustrophobic classroom, and he felt immediately better because of it. The feeling did not last long. He knew that this final exam had been his swan song. He had failed it miserably, failed school, they would flunk him out after this. Like he had failed everything else in his life, so far, his father was sure to tell him. His mother could be relied upon to look pained. The only thing that saved him was the fact that his parents were somewhere in Europe at that moment, and would not find out for weeks. He had a little time to relax before he had to face the inevitable. But it was, nonetheless, inevitable. It just was not fair. No one understood, and no one really cared. Especially not that pompous bitch, Carey. Jesus, she treated that stupid American Studies program like it was the answer to all the problems in the world or something. Like any of it actually mattered. He rubbed the back of his neck with the sweaty tee shirt. What the hell, anyway. It was not his problem any longer. It still bothered him, though, as much as he hated to admit it. It still hurt. Nobody cared a damn how *he* felt. Nobody even noticed him. Christ, even his girlfriend had thrown him out the other day, saying he "brought her down with all of his negativism, and that she needed positive energies around her." Positive energies, he would give her positive energies, the bitch. Sterling kicked sourly at the ground, then walked back to his dorm room. He roomed alone, insisting that he could not stand the idea of a roommate. He had few friends, and there was no one waiting for him when he got back to the cramped single. He flopped down on the bed, and tried to get comfortable, sure would feel better if he could just get some sleep. He had not been sleeping very well, lately. He rolled on his stomach, and closed his eyes. The buzzing began almost immediately, faint, but insistent. He pulled a pillow over is ears and tried to shut it out; a foolish maneuver really, since the noise seemed to be coming from inside his skull. He struggled for a few minutes, then sat up angrily, reached over and took a beer out of the little refrigerator at the foot of his bed. He took a couple of aspirin out of his jeans pocket and popped them into his mouth, chasing them with the beer. He shook his head, and pulled at his ears, pawing them like a dog. Then he stood up. His desk stood in the opposite corner of the room, and it only took him two strides to get there. He opened the center drawer and lifted out the pistol his grandfather had given him. The weapon had been acquired during World War II, kept as a souvenir, and given with pride to the only grandson on his sixteenth birthday. Every man needs a gun, the grandfather had said, if only to remind himself of who he was. Sterling kept it with care and pride, breaking it down and oiling it often when he could not get to sleep. He laughed softly to himself. If campus security knew he had the weapon, it would hardly matter if he flunked out or not. He would be out on his ear faster than he could spit. But no one knew. No one knew he had the gun, and no one knew he had rounds for it either. He took a deep breath, then put the gun back, and locked the drawer. Then, pulling a dry tee shirt out of the pile of laundry on the floor, he left the room. Lucinda Carey collected the last of the blue books from the few remaining students, and spent the last minutes of the allotted class period saying good bye and good Summer to her favorites. Like most teachers, she denied having them, but also like most teachers she had those few chosen students who had a real affinity for the subject matter, and for her teaching style. She enjoyed these students more than she cared to admit, they were what made teaching a pleasure for her. They were what made it worth putting up with the John Sterlings of the world. Then good-byes finally said, she tossed the bundle of exams into her briefcase, and headed for the Metro. She thought about returning to her office first, but the truth of the matter was, she was hot and tired, and had no particular interest in running the gamut of gossip and politics and last minute excuses that she knew awaited her there. What she really wanted was a bath, and a cold drink. She could go back to her office later in the evening, when the air would be cooler, and the crowds dispersed. Driving in Washington was such a nuisance that Carey had learned to take the subway whenever she could. It was inexpensive, clean, and relatively safe, as public transportation went, and the Metro dropped her less than half a block from her townhouse apartment. Generally speaking, she only used her car on weekends, or if she had too much stuff to carry on the train. She smiled to herself as the subway rattled quietly down the track, and thought about calling Walt when she got home. She would not, of course, she would never bother him at work unless it was an emergency. And she really did not have anything particular to talk to him about. She just wanted to hear the sound of his voice. It was nice to think about, anyway. Then she thought about it again, and decided to call him, after all. Maybe he would be free this evening and would like to join her for a drink. The Metro rolled to a stop, and Carey hefted her brief case. Ahead of her was the task she dreaded most about teaching - correcting blue book finals. She gave very few. Most of her classes required final papers, which she much preferred to these "short essay under time constraints" efforts. But a few of the core survey courses she taught lent themselves best to this type of exam, and a little pressure, she felt, was good for the kids once in a while. Even if that meant she was left to deal with twenty small packages of mental stuttering. But first a bath. And a beer. She unlocked the door to her entryway, pushed it open and dropped her briefcase on the floor. She was looking down as she pulled the door shut behind her, so she did not even notice that the inner door to her apartment was ajar. And even when she did, she only thought that she must not have pulled it shut tight behind her in her morning rush. She walked into her living room. And stopped. Everything in the room had been turned on end. John Sterling went back to his dorm room. He had tried walking, out on the Georgetown streets, even tried a brief run, but the heat was too debilitating, and he was in terrible shape, anyway. He'd stopped running after a block. The buzzing would not go away. He had tried everything he could think of. He even tried to get a little of his own back, but even that initial burst of exhilaration had faded, leaving him depleted, and a little bit scared that he might get found out. He shook his head, and rubbed his ears again. His fingers came away bloody where he had rubbed the skin raw. There was just nothing he could do. - yes. Sterling shook his head. - Yes. "No," he said out loud. - YES. The voice. "No. I won't" - Johnny. "Don't call me that." - Johnny. You must, Johnny. You know it. Sterling flopped onto his bed and pulled the pillow over his ears. - You struck out for yourself today, Johnny, but it was me who guided you, protected you. They won't find out about you, Johnny, I have seen to that. Now it is time to strike a blow for me. You must prove yourself, Johnny. Stop them. Prove yourself to the cause. They are perpetuating the lie, Johnny. You can't let them continue to perpetuate the lie. You know what you have to do. Stop them. Stop them. Stopthemstopthemstopthem... "All right!" Sterling stood up abruptly, and went back to his desk. Struggling with the lock, he jerked the drawer open and took out the gun. He stared at it for a long moment. Then he checked the action. He knew it was loaded. He stuck the gun in his waistband and pulled his tee shirt down over the top of it. He left his room.
Ford Theater Special Agent Fox Mulder was not much of a tourist, so it was only coincidence that placed him in the Ford Theater Museum that afternoon when the shooting began. It was a nice afternoon, hot, but there was a pleasant breeze, so Mulder decided to skip a "sit down" lunch, and just take a walk. He was restless, and a little cranky, and the fresh air would probably do him good. He knew his mood was just a product of having nothing interesting to do; the X-Files were in a temporary lull and there was nothing really captivating for him to sink his teeth into right at that moment. There was some clean-up paper work to attend to, and some left over background research to fill in blanks he had not had time to complete while in the heat of his last case, but it was not enough to really hold his attention. He knew his seams were starting to show. Even his partner had commented on it. Understanding him with the thoroughness that came with long association, Special Agent Dana Scully was usually pretty tolerant of Mulder's moods and quirks of personality. But even she had reached the limits of her patience that morning as Mulder had paced and grumbled around the basement office they shared, telling him to go take a run, or go get laid or something, he was driving her nuts. She had smiled as she said it, her voice had been light and teasing, but Mulder was smart enough to recognize that he was beginning to get on her nerves. He decided it might be a good idea to get out of her hair for a while. Coming out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, Mulder grabbed a hot dog from a street vendor parked on the sidewalk in front of the Old Post Office Pavilion. Then hooked a right up 10th Street, and just strolled aimlessly, with no particular goal in mind. He had only gone about a block and a half, though, when a goal made itself known to him. The Ford Theater stood mid way between E and F Streets. Mulder stopped and stared up at the three-story, brick facade, and realized that he had worked within a block of the historical site for almost eight years without ever having been inside it. Well, he thought, no time like the present. He dropped his dollar into the plastic "donations" box, and stepped into the theater proper. Inside, it was surprisingly small, the orchestra rows of plush red seat's were practically on top of the large stage. Mulder looked around the ornate interior, at the balcony wrapped intimately around three walls, and at the Presidential box above the stage, draped in American Flags. He followed the arrowed signs up a stairway to the box itself, Box Seven, the sign said, and looked through the plexi-glass barricaded doorway to see the rocking chair in which the "Great Emancipator" had sat as John Wilkes Booth pulled his faithful trigger behind him. Mulder felt a creeping chill. Come on, Spooky, he teased himself derisively, don't spook *yourself*, now. You've looked at thousands of crime scenes, most with the bodies still in them. This is just a chair. Still, the scene made him uncomfortable for reasons he could not explain, and he left abruptly. Down in the theater again, a pretty guide directed him to the stairway leading to the basement museum. Mulder had never been much of a museum goer, but something about this one intrigued him, and he wandered downstairs. The museum room was fairly small, vaguely circular, and was filled with a surprising number of people for a weekday afternoon in a week that was not a holiday or a school vacation. Mulder noticed that he was about the only man there in a suit, and the only one without a camera. He wandered through the displays. Most dealt with Lincoln, himself, with his books, and possessions, and there was a life mask and cast of Lincoln's hands on display in the center of the room. Mulder spent some time looking at the life mask, wondering what the man must have felt, in those last days before his assassination. What it must have been like to realize that the war was finally over, that he had "won," but at what horrible price. There was also a lot of furniture, and other odds and ends, but the exhibit that drew Mulder most was in the far corner: The Conspirators' Exhibit. It was a small exhibit, tucked away, as if it was hiding in shame. It held the Derringer that Booth had used to kill the President, Booth's diary, and some knives and other guns. There were a few other belongings as well, in the glass display case; these apparently were taken from Booth's co-conspirators after their arrests. Mulder read the card on the Derringer that told him the killing bullet had been a half inch thick and had driven five inches into Lincoln's brain. He shook his head. Then he looked down at the faded diary, and considered what kind of human being it was who became an assassin. Hunting murderers was his job. Before his sojourn into the X-Files, it had been his primary occupation, profiling and tracking down those social misfits who would intentionally take the life of another. He understood, to a large extent, what drove the serial killer, the spree killer, and even that more common creature who killed in a fit of blind passion. He did not understand assassination. Was it some misguided patriotism that drove the assassin? Some peculiar form of insanity that made a killer strike out against the highest ranking human being he, or she, could find? Was it something about the American culture itself, about the myth of the rugged individual, the concept, so difficult to achieve in reality, that anyone could come out on top with a little well planned effort, that drove some poor, dissatisfied individual to this ultimate act of rebellion? Perhaps it was some of all these things. He did not know. A small group of people joined him at the display; a young couple with their arms about each other's waists, an older man, a middle aged couple with two young children. Mulder stepped back to let them see. He was actually turning away to leave when the shots rang out. In the confusion that followed, Mulder could not be sure from where the shots had actually come, or how many had been fired. But he saw two people, the young couple by the Booth display, fall as he reached for his own gun. He never got the weapon unholstered; a tearing burn erupted in his left shoulder and a sudden impact threw him back against the wall. He sank to the floor, then rolled over and tried to look around. At first, he thought the shimmer that suddenly formed over the display case in the Conspirator's corner was merely a trick of lighting; maybe the effects of the air conditioning blower, or something like that. Then the shimmer seemed to move, swaying back and forth to follow the hysterical museum patrons. Mulder blinked his eyes. It was still there, still moving, as if it was trying to get a better view of the chaotic scene. Mulder shifted and that's when he saw the little girl trying to scramble away on hands and knees. He grabbed the child, shoved her under his body, and covered her head, cautioning her to lie still. He looked back where the shimmer had been, but it was gone, so he tried to examine the pain in his arm, and look around for the shooter at the same time. The shooting had stopped as abruptly as it started, but the screams and cries continued for some time. The terrified mother retrieved her child, not stopping to thank Mulder, or curse him. He sat up, and looked at his wound. Blood soaked from the gaping hole in the upper arm of his suit jacket, but Mulder did not think the wound was too serious. He could move his arm, and he still had feeling in his hand and fingers. It was probably just a flesh wound, tearing through the muscle. The other victims did not fair so well. Mulder could see the young couple from where he sat; he had seen enough dead bodies to be pretty sure they had not survived. A fierce anger coursed through him at the sight. Not far from the lovers, the older man who had just joined him at the display also lay with tell tale stillness, his glasses askew, and his camera slung to one side of his chest. Mulder leaned back against the wall, and took a deep breath. All around him, people howled in terror and in pain. He tried to leverage himself up to a standing position with his good arm. He sensed a presence and looked up to see a terrified museum guide staring at him, her face a mask of horror. He looked down to see his weapon showing. "I'm F.B.I.," he told her, pulling out his ID. She looked at it, and nodded, relaxing a little. "You're hurt," she said. Mulder shook his head. "It's just a flesh wound, help me up," he replied. The girl started to protest, but something in Mulder's face must have changed her mind, because she put her hand under his right arm and helped him stand. Mulder steadied himself against the girl's shoulder, murmured thanks, and stumbled over to the Booth display. He glanced around himself, wondering where to start. Try to attend to the victims, or take off after the shooter, wherever he or she might be? He shook his head, feeling uncharacteristically confused. He turned to the display case. And stopped. There, lying on top of the glass case, was a piece of paper. He was absolutely sure it had not been there when he had looked before. There was writing on it. He leaned closer to look. He could just make out the words. Something written in Latin, it looked like: "Sic Semper Tyrannis." "Sir?" Mulder turned around. It was the museum guide. She looked at him worriedly. "Are you all right, sir?" Mulder pointed at the note. "Evidence," was the only thing he could say before he passed out cold.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Assistant Director Walter Skinner looked up from his paperwork when the buzzer beeped on his phone. He reached over and taped the 'respond' button. "Yes?" "Call on line three, sir," his secretary said. Skinner smiled a little as he thanked her. He knew who it was. He could tell just by the tone of Muriel's voice. Muriel Duncker had been Walter Skinner's executive assistant for almost ten years. She ran his office with an iron fist in a velvet glove, smoothed his way, organized his working life, and filtered the barrage of demands and audience seekers that descended upon him every day. In that almost ten years, she had seen him through two promotions and a divorce. There was not a soul on this earth who knew him better than she did, and he honestly did not know what he would ever do without her. Not that their relationship was casual. They did not know each other socially, not even in a work/social setting. They were friendly, but rather formal. Muriel was like that. So was Skinner. They were amazingly well suited for each other. Perhaps most importantly, Muriel could withstand the proximity of Walter Skinner's legendary temper, winning her the nickname of "Asbestos Duncker" in many circles. Most subordinates, a lot of contemporaries, and even a few superiors had been known to check Skinner's mood through Duncker before ever entering his office. In fact, only Fox Mulder regularly disregarded her warnings when the AD was unapproachable. But then, Mulder had never been particularly concerned about bearding the bear in his own den. Not when he wanted something, anyway. Muriel Duncker knew Walter Skinner, knew his moods, his worries, could tell what the day would hold just by the way he held his head when he came into the office in the morning. So it had only taken her about ten minutes, six weeks earlier, to figure out that there was someone new in Assistant Director Walter Skinner's life. Someone important. Someone female. And in Muriel Duncker's humble opinion, it was about goddam time. Skinner punched the button for line three. Of the lines coming into his office, this line was more or less his private communication link with the outside world. While he was still married, his family had used it, during the divorce, his lawyer. And lately, only his daughter, Heather, had used line three with any consistency. Until six weeks ago. Walter Skinner still marveled at the dumb luck that had driven him out of his office onto the streets of Washington six weeks earlier, to walk, uncharacteristically, in the warm spring evening air. The dumb luck that had brought him to that little bar in Georgetown, and Lucinda Carey. He sometimes could not believe that it had been only six weeks since she had entered his life, she had become so much a part of his thoughts, and of his plans. In the three years since his divorce there had been other women, a rare few, with whom he had formed brief, and moderately fulfilling liaisons. But none had been able to touch him, truly, in that core where he kept himself. Until Lucinda Carey. Now, in less than two months this woman had turned his well ordered, (albeit dull and rather lonely,) life happily on end. It still amazed him that she, a doctorate in American History, a professor of American Studies at Georgetown University, who was as beautiful, as intelligent, as wonderful a woman as she was, would want to spend time with him. For some strange reason, though, she did. The fact left him a little breathless, but he was not about to question his luck. And she was still waiting on line three. He picked up the receiver. "Hello," he said. "Hi," Lucinda Carey answered. And he could hear the tension in her voice. "What's up," Skinner frowned at the phone. "Is everything all right?" Hesitation. And the voice, again, this time sounding close to tears. "No, actually. I've... I just got home. Walt, my apartment was broken into. It's ... everything's a mess." Skinner sat up straight. "Are you all right? Where are you?" he asked. "I'm home," she repeated. "I came in and saw what happened, and I... I just called you." "You went inside?" Concern made him bark a little. "Lu, never go into a building that's been violated! Whoever broke in could still be in there." "I know, I didn't think," she replied forelornly. "There's no one here, though. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you at work. I didn't know what to do." Skinner felt her retreat, and went after her. "No, it's all right, I'm glad you called me." He looked at his watch "Look, I'm on my way. Have you notified the police?" There was silence for a moment, then a giggle. "No. I didn't even think of it. I called you." Skinner smiled to himself. "Well, wait till I get there. I won't be long." He told her to sit tight, then punched the phone and told Muriel to cancel whatever was left of his afternoon appointments. She answered him with a simple "yes, sir," but he could hear the concern in her voice. He ignored it. Opening a drawer in his desk, he took out his gun. He rarely wore it, the job no longer required that he be armed, at least not often. But he still liked to keep it near, and he practiced regularly on the Bureau range. His marksmanship was a point of personal pride with him. He loaded it, checked the action, then slammed it into its holster, and clipped the holster onto his belt. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, and barreled out the door, barely registering Muriel's "good bye, sir." The airy living room of Lucinda Carey's townhouse apartment had been completely ransacked. Furniture was overturned, desk drawers pulled out and dumped on the floor, plants toppled. Skinner reached out to her as he came through her door, and she went into his arms, hugging him tightly, and burying her face against his chest. He could feel her shaking, struggling hard not to cry. "Shhh," he comforted, "It's all right, sweet, I'm here, now." He held her against his shoulder with one hand, and surveyed the mess over the top of her head. It was awful. As he looked at all of her lovely things tossed so heedlessly around the room, Skinner felt a sudden surge of hot, raw anger. Anger at what had been done to her, and anger that anyone could do such a thing to someone he cared about. He was an Assistant Director of the FBI! And although he knew it was absurd for him to feel that any of this was more than a random, undirected assault, he simply could not help but take it personally. This woman meant something to him. And some bastard had done this to her. He rested him mouth against her hair, murmuring softly, and forced himself to be calm. He did not want to upset her any more than she already was. After a moment, Carey straightened up again, and took a deep breath. "I haven't even looked around, yet," she said. " I guess I'd better check and see if anything's missing." Skinner kissed her, then let her go. The living room had taken the worst of the damage, the kitchen/dinning area behind it seemed relatively unscathed. "Anything?" Skinner asked gently, and she peered around the rubble. Carey shook her head. "I don't think so," she said, sounding bewildered. "Just vandalized." She started up the staircase to her bedroom, but Skinner stopped her with a hand. "Let me go first," he insisted. Carey smiled, amused, and secretly grateful for his willingness to take charge. She stepped aside and let him mount the stairs ahead of her. Skinner did not draw his gun, but he wanted to. He looked into Lucinda's bedroom, at the bed where they had first made love. The mattress was torn and dragged to the floor; the dresser was toppled over it. He felt, again, a hot, white fury surging through him. Carey was too stunned to take it all in, however, and once she had determined that nothing of value seemed to be missing, she moved on to the second bedroom, which was set up as a work room. She stopped just inside the door. "What's that?" She looked at Skinner's puzzled expression. "On my computer monitor." Skinner looked at the monitor. A piece of paper was taped to it. "You didn't put this here?" Carey shook her head. Skinner stooped to read the note. "It's not very clear... Looks like 'sic sem... maybe a 't'something'." "Sic semper tyrannis," Carey finished under her breath. Skinner turned to the woman in surprise. "Does that mean something to you?" he asked. Carey nodded. "Sic semper tyrannis. 'Thus always to tyrants.' It's what John Wilkes Booth shouted as he jumped down onto the stage of the Ford Theater after assassinating Abraham Lincoln. It's allegedly what Brutus cried as he stabbed Julius Caesar. But that's very strange." "Why?" "Because the book that I'm currently working on is a cultural analysis of assassination in America," she glanced at him, and he nodded that he remembered she had told him this fact. He looked at her expectantly. "It's just that I've been playing with the idea lately of using 'sic Semper Tyrannis' as a possible title. But nobody knew that. I really only thought of it today, while I was giving my finals." She shook her head, and looked a little gray, finally. She sat down on the chair by her desk. "Well, you can't stay here tonight, anyway," Skinner said, kicking into practical mode, and recognizing that she was too upset to deal with the wreckage right then. "Why don't you get a few things together, and come out to the house with me." "What about all this?" she asked, waving a vague hand. "We can tackle this mess tomorrow," Skinner replied. "I'll help you." He held out a hand to her. Carey smiled wanly, and took it, letting him pull her to her feet. "I guess I'd better call the police, too," she sighed. "I know there's nothing they can do, but I'll need their report for the insurance."
Ford Theater The moon was waxing to full. Other areas of Washington, D.C. still bustled with activity, but 10th Street between E and F was very quiet. The boy turned his jacket collar up against the slight chill that had invaded the May air as soon as the sun had gone down. He leaned in the doorway across the street from Number 511, and stared at the stolid facade of the Ford Theater. John Sterling found the building squat and uninspired looking even in the light of day. There, in the reflected light of the street lamps, it looked positively ugly, and a little menacing. He knew the brick facade with it's keyed roof line and it's mock columns merely hid a plain drab box of a building behind, and he considered the extent to which the building mirrored its period in history. Perhaps mirrored life, itself; a poorly executed attempt at grandeur, hiding a mundane existence. That night, the pretentious little theater was even more pretentious for the bright cordon tape wrapped across its doorways. A crime had been committed there, and the symbolic plastic ribbon warned passers-by away. The boy watched the building carefully, waiting. There did not seem to be anyone around. The beat cop had driven by fifteen minutes early. He knew he had at least half an hour before the cruiser would come back. Sterling knew he was wanted inside, that he was awaited, but he was afraid. There was time, certainly, he did not need to go there right away. Then, as he watched the upper windows of the building across the street, he saw it, that light that was not a light. The vague shimmer that was somehow connected to the ringing in his head. He knew that he must go to it. He really had no choice. He crossed the street. The theater was bordered on either side by storefronts. Cameras, novelties, tourist junk galore. There was an alley behind the building, he knew that, too, but it was not apparent from the street. So much the better. Cutting down the sidewalk, he jogged down the street a bit, then slipped through a narrow break between buildings, and into the alley behind the shops. He had found the passageway between the camera shop and the theater several weeks earlier, when he had first visited the place. He had never been particularly interested in Civil War history, nor had he liked, in the least, Professor Lucinda Carey's class, so it struck Sterling as ironic that it had been a random, off hand discussion in class of a book Carey was writing on assassination in America that had first peaked his interest in the events that had transpired at the Ford Theater on the evening of April 14, 1865. He had come to the theater then next day, as if drawn by some perverse curiosity; had come and been struck by the sheer magnitude of the act of assassinating a President. He had been awed, frankly. What kind of man was it, he had wondered, who would have the sheer balls to attempt a thing like that? It had been while he was staring down at the Derringer that had ended Abraham Lincoln's life, thinking those thoughts, that the desire had come into his head to explore. He had known he would not be seen, somehow, as he went back up the stairs and onto the stage. He had wandered into the back and found the opening, boarded over, but loosely, that lead to the narrow hallway, which lead, in turn, into the basement of the camera shop next door. And from there, out into the alley. Since finding that passage, Sterling had returned to the Ford Theater many times, always at night, always alone. Always draw by some strange compunction. Some feeling of tasks left undone, or deeds left to fulfill. If he thought about it, he might have connected these desires with the birth of that strange ringing in his head. But he did not think about it. He did not come for the ringing. He came for the voice. Sterling pushed aside a metal grate and lowered himself into the camera shop basement. The alarms, he knew, were set on the stairs, but it wasn't stairs he was looking for. He found the entrance to the passage he sought, and emerged, moments later on the Ford Theater stage. He crossed the boards, and hopped to the floor below. Sitting down in one of the plush red seats near the stage, he looked up at the Presidential box overhead to his right. Then he folded his hands together and leaned forward as if in prayer. - Hello, Johnny, the voice said in his head, a gentle southern drawl, soft and sweet to hear. Comforting. - I was afraid you wouldn't come tonight. That you might be tired, after all the excitement today. You did well today, Johnny. You made me very happy. I told you that you must prove yourself, and you proved it today, Johnny, what a true friend you are to the Southern cause. You struck a blow for yourself, that is true, but you struck it in my name. That pleases me, Johnny, that you would strike for yourself through me. - Historians. How I hate them. They have never understood me. They have never even tried. They call me mad, and point to my father. Jealous, they say and it is Edwin they sight. They never consider that I did what I did for a noble cause, and for that reason alone. I did it to remove a tyrant, but they are so enamored with their little Union that they simply cannot stand the thought that a tyrant might truly spring up in their midst. Democracy! They think they have democracy. They have blindness. And complacency. That is all. You struck for me, today, Johnny, when you struck against one who teaches those lies, even if that was not your original intention. And then you struck a second time, Johnny, and you struck for me, alone. - Johnny. How I love your name. John Robert Sterling the Third. It is a perfect name, for you, for the instrument that you will be. John, of course, because it is also my name. And Robert for our beloved Robert E. Sterling for all the sterling qualities that make a man a gentlemen. And the Third for the third part of the kingdom. The Bible promises us that, Johnny, if we have but the courage to take it. - You did well today, Johnny. You cleared my shrine. You cast the moneychangers from my temple, the only temple I have. They will not hurry back, now, to gawk and wonder. No longer will they treat my memory like I was some animal in a zoo. No longer will they come here to perpetuate the lie. I declare, this is a banner day, Johnny. A banner day. Sterling looked up from his hands. "They were innocent people," he said softly. "They didn't mean any harm." - Innocent people often get hurt in war, Johnny, and this is war. It is war against the tyrant. You know that. "I know, but..." - There are no 'buts' Johnny. We must defeat the tyrant. I tried. But history did not understand. Now, you must do it for me. Sterling looked around. "What do you mean?" - You know what I mean. You know what free men do with tyrants. "I won't kill any more innocent people," Sterling insisted. - You *won't* kill any more innocent people, Johnny. The tyrant is never innocent. There was silence for a little while, and the boy thought the voice had gone. Then it started again. - You liked it, didn't you, Johnny. The power. The ability to affect change. It gave you a thrill. John Robert Sterling the Third. Misunderstood. Disrespected. Unnoticed. Well, they'll notice now, won't they. And they will notice you even more, once you complete this task that is set before you. You will be a hero, Johnny, think of it.. "I don't want to," the boy whined. - But you will, won't you. You must. You have no choice, really. Sic semper tyrannis, Johnny, it is your fate. It is the law, Johnny, the only law worth obeying. Sic semper tyrannis. You are the instrument of God.
May 16 Special Agent Dana Scully was a little surprised to find her partner in the office when she got in that morning. "Mulder, what are you doing here?" Fox Mulder smiled at her from his desk. "Specifically? I just finished e-mailing Skinner a 302 requesting assignment. Why?" But Scully was not having it. "You know what I mean. Unless I dreamed it, you got shot Friday. When we talked last night, you were still in a lot of discomfort. You shouldn't be here." "Oh, I just got winged. Besides, I'm not sure I can stand another day staring at four walls. If I'm gonna be uncomfortable, anyway, I'd just as soon be here." Scully relented. Actually, she understood. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Better," he said. "I slept most of the night. I think I'm on the mend." Scully nodded. "What's the case you 302'd?" she asked, curiously. "This 'sic semper tyrannis' thing," Mulder replied. Scully frowned. " 'sic semper tyrannis?' Isn't that what was written on that note you found at the Ford Theater after the shootings? Mulder, Skinner will never give that case to you. It's not even a Bureau matter. And you're too intimately involved, even if it was. You know that." Mulder just shrugged. "What's your interest anyway? It was a shooting. Tragic, but hardly unusual. Or unexplainable. It's a local MPD problem, not ours." "I don't know, Scully, I guess getting shot just pisses me off. Whoever the shooter was, he ruined my suit. I really liked that suit." Scully rolled her eyes. "What makes you so sure it's a he?" she gibed. "Impersonal pronoun, Agent Scully," Mulder laughed. It was a familiar exchange between them. "Don't get your Irish up." The phone rang, effectively cutting off Scully's response. She reached for it absently. "Scully... Okay, I'll tell him." She hung up. "That was Skinner's office. He wants to see you." Mulder pursed his lips in surprise. "That was fast," he said. "You wanted to see me, sir?" The Assistant Director gestured toward a chair. "Yes, Agent Mulder. Please have a seat," he invited. He watched as the younger man sat down. "I heard about the shooting incident on Friday" he said conversationally, once Mulder was seated. "I trust you were not badly injured?" If Mulder was surprised by the solicitousness of this inquiry, his face did not show it. "No sir," he replied, "it's just a flesh wound. Nothing serious. Did ruin my favorite suit, though," he added with a grimace. Skinner graced him with a hint of a smile. Then the smile disappeared. "I'm curious," Skinner went on, "as to how you happened to be at the Ford Theater at the particular time of the shooting. Was there some reason?" Mulder shrugged, baffled by the question. "Just curiosity," he replied. "I took a late lunch, and it was a nice day, so I went for a walk. I wound up at the theater, and I realized that I'd never been inside. So I just went in, like any other tourist, I guess." He frowned at the AD. "Why, is there some problem?" Skinner shook his head. "No, no problem, Agent Mulder. So it was just a coincidence, then. Your presence there had nothing to do with a case? With an X-File, perhaps?" Mulder just shook his head warily. "No, sir." Skinner looked down at a piece of paper on his desk. "I received your 302 requesting that we open a file on the Ford Theater incident, and requesting assignment to the case," he said. He looked up at Mulder hard. "May I ask why?" Mulder took a mental step back. He had the distinct feeling that there was something going on, here, that he did not know about. "The shooting took place on Federal property. Three people were killed. It seemed like a matter in which the Bureau should interest itself," he replied guardedly. "Nonetheless, Agent Mulder," Skinner countered mildly, "this is a murder case, within city precincts. It is technically a police matter." Technically? Mulder thought, getting more confused by the minute. Skinner gave his subordinate a bland look. "I don't suppose your interest could have anything to do with a strange distortion, a certain shimmering, that was described as having been seen by several of the witnesses at the time of the shooting?" he asked. Mulder felt like the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookie jar. However, Skinner did not seem too annoyed. Yet, anyway. "I don't know what I saw, for certain," he admitted. "There did seem to be a 'distortion' as you say, over the display cases, at the moment of the shooting, and it seemed to move, almost purposefully, as people scattered and the victims fell. "However," Mulder continued, "I had already been hit when I saw it. I can't say how much of what I thought I saw was the product of pain." That was a lie, he *knew* he had seen something, but the "admission" would ease Skinner's mind. "By the time I stood up," he concluded, "the shimmer was gone." Skinner nodded thoughtfully. "Four other witness apparently admit to seeing this 'shimmer'," he said. "Since you have already expressed an interest in this case, and because of certain other considerations, the Metropolitan Police Department has agreed to turn it over to the Bureau." Mulder contained his desire to turn handsprings. What 'other considerations'? he thought. Skinner stood up from his desk, and turned to look out the window. He removed his glasses; a nervous habit he had when he was troubled, or thinking. Or pissed off. Mulder braced himself. "This note that was found at the scene of the shooting," Skinner began, "that contained the words 'sic semper tyrannis.' There was another incident involving a note containing those same words, Agent Mulder, on the same day as the Ford Theater incident, although it was probably earlier in the morning. An apartment north of Georgetown was broken into and ransacked. Nothing was stolen, apparently, but a note with those words on it was found taped to a computer monitor. "The, uh, apartment belongs to a personal friend of mine. She called me shortly after she discovered the break in. I found the note, myself." The words were ordinary enough, but the tone of Skinner's voice was not. Mulder sat back in his chair and stared at his AD's broad back, a look of bemused wonder on his face. Well, I'll be goddammed! he thought. So, *that's* why you wrestled this thing away from MPD! Will wonders never cease. He sucked in a smile and kept his face very still as Skinner turned back around. The AD slipped his glasses back on, then reached down and picked up two small evidence bags from his desk. He handed them to Mulder. "I'm going to approve your 302, Agent Mulder," he said simply. "The rest of the evidence in on its way over from the MPD." Mulder looked down at the two plastic encased notes in his hand. "Thank you, sir." he replied. Skinner nodded. "That will be all, Agent Mulder." Assistant Director Walter Skinner watched his agent leave. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, under his glasses. He was worried, not about Mulder, this time, but about whether or not he, Walter Skinner, was doing the right thing in *not* telling Lucinda Carey about this second note. "He gave you the case? Just like that? Why?" Scully asked, incredulously, when Mulder returned to the office. He looked shocked at her question. "Scully, you have no faith in my powers of persuasion!" "Oh, I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Mulder. I'm still following you around on these cases after all this time, aren't I? But that still doesn't explain why Skinner gave you *this* case." Mulder smiled. "You hardly 'follow me around'," he chided affectionately. Then he sighed. "Apparently, this may be a little more complicated than we originally thought. There was another note, same words, left at a second crime scene on Friday. It seems that Skinner's girlfriend had her apartment broken into sometime Friday morning or early afternoon. Nothing was taken, but a note with the words 'sic semper tryrannis' was taped to her computer monitor. Although I can't imagine what the connection might be." He passed the notes in his hand to Scully. She took them absently, still staring at his face. "Skinner's what?" Mulder laughed outright at her expression. "The man *is* human, Scully," he admonished her playfully. She screwed her face up at him. "I suppose," she agreed, gathering her composure. She shook her head, and cleared her throat. Then she frowned at him, and looked down at the notes, in their plastic evidence bags, in her hand. "These words, 'thus always to tyrants'. Is there some significance?" "Very good," Mulder said, nodding. "I had to look it up." Scully shrugged. "After Catholic school and medical school, I can hold my own with the Latin language," she replied. She continued to eye him, waiting. "According to what I've read, 'sic semper tryannis' - 'thus always to tyrants,' is what Brutus is supposed to have said as he stuck his knife into Julius Caesar. And what John Wilkes Booth shouted after he killed Lincoln. To answer your question, I don't know what the significance is. Yet. I'm going to take these down to Handwriting and get Henderson's opinion." Scully nodded. "You want me to do anything?" Mulder smiled. "I don't know. Yeah, but it might be pretty boring." Scully put her hand on her hip and cocked her head at him. "Working with you can be many things, Fox Mulder," she told him fondly, "but it's *never* boring." Mulder laughed. "Someone should be bringing down the rest of the evidence from the Metropolitan Police Department. Could you start reading through the witness statements from the shooting? I don't want to do it, I'll bring too many of my own memories to the accounts." Scully agreed, recognizing the validity of that.
Mulder walked through the door of the F.B.I's Handwriting Analysis department and looked around. He caught the eye of Special Agent Diana Henderson, the Bureau's top handwriting analyst, and smiled. She smiled back at him warmly, and Mulder felt a small rush of affection. Diana Henderson was one of the few people in the Bureau who accepted Fox Mulder for what he was, who did not look at him like he was some weird species of creature whenever she saw him. She was one of the few friends he actually had in the Bureau. Once, for one night, anyway, they had been a little bit more than friends. It had been a New Year's Eve, and it had been at her house. A little too much celebrating had lead Mulder to fall asleep on her couch, and when he finally awoke, they were all alone, just the two of them. Henderson had been willing, the mood had been right, and, well, things just lead to things, as they say. It was actually a very special memory for him, and the reason for that, he knew, had a lot to do with Henderson's attitude afterward. The incident had been isolated, they never repeated it. Mulder had not wanted to continue that kind of relationship with her, frankly. He liked Henderson very much as a friend, but he had no romantic feelings toward her, and he had felt extremely awkward dealing with the aftermath. But Henderson had sensed this, and had handled the situation with singular aplomb. Basically, she treated Mulder just the way she always had. Warm, friendly, but no big deal. No scenes, and no 'heavy discussions.' They had talked a little over drinks, agreed that it had been wonderful, but was not to be repeated, and had just gone on. In no time, all awkwardness disappeared, and Mulder found himself bound to her in friendship with a sense of loyalty and affection that was twice as strong as it had been before. "Hey, stranger," Henderson greeted as Mulder walked up to her. "Long time no see." "It has been, hasn't it," Mulder agreed leaning back against her desk and smiling down at her. Henderson nodded. "You still owe me lunch, by the way," she reminded him. Mulder gave her a sheepish grin. "I know, I haven't forgotten. As soon as this case is closed. I promise." Henderson smiled, and looked at the evidence bags in his hand. "Are those for me?" He nodded and handed them to her. She read the note on top, then looked up at him sharply. "I heard about this one," she said. "I heard you'd been hit, actually. You okay?" "Fine," Mulder assured her. "I need you tell me everything you can about the writer. Including if both notes are by the same person." Henderson nodded and stood up. "Come on." When Mulder walked back into his office later, Scully was hunched busily over a file. "What did Henderson have to say?" she asked, looking up. "Not a whole lot. It's the same writer in both instances. Right handed. Probably male. Probably young, too, judging by the cursive style, she says. Early to mid twenties. Maybe even a little younger. " He nodded at the file in front of her. "How's it going?" "Well," she said, "there was a lot of confusion, and the space was very cramped, so no one seems to have a really clear memory of what happened. And no one really saw anything. Except for one thing." She leaned forward, put her chin in her hand and smiled up at him prettily. "So. You want to tell me about the shimmer?" Mulder looked a little embarrassed. He dropped into the chair across from her and smiled. "What do the other witnesses say?" Scully looked down at the sheets before her. "The accounts are all remarkably similar, and remarkably lucid, given the degree of confusion at the time. Even MPD comments that is has rarely seen this kind of confusion. Apparently no one can even venture a guess as to where the shooter might have been, or how many shots were fired." "Well, the space was pretty small for the number of people in it," Mulder countered. "And it is a basement; sound can do some funky things, underground. It might be hard to pinpoint were the shots came from. People tend panic and just generally hit the ground when the shooting starts." Scully nodded. "It was a pretty big gun, for a hand gun. An antique, actually, probably World War II vintage, according to analysis of the bullets recovered from the bodies. I would imagine it was pretty loud and distinctive sounding. Not the sort of thing to go unnoticed, anyway." She shrugged. "It just seemed a little strange that no one in that room can do more than shrug and say "I don't know." Especially considering how clearly a few of them remember this shimmering." "Okay," Mulder agreed. "Then what about the shimmering?" Scully smiled at him. "Five witnesses, including a certain FBI agent..." Mulder grinned and Scully smiled back at him, "report having seen a distortion of some kind over one of the display cases. The accounts are almost identical. Eerily so." Mulder nodded, serious now. "What do they say?" Scully glanced at her notes again. "That a strange shimmer or distortion appeared in the air over one of the display cases toward the back of the museum room. Three of the five witnesses specified that the distortion was similar to the kind of thing you might see when heat rises off a pavement on a Summer day." Mulder nodded. "Anything else?" he asked. "Yeah. All of the witnesses indicate that this 'shimmer' seemed to be moving, almost purposefully, as if it was responding to the chaos, somehow." Mulder leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He looked at Scully over the tops of them. "What do you think?" Scully eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, considering her words. Then she blew out a breath. "Pain and fear can do strange things to the mind, Mulder," she began carefully. "Even a trained mind." Mulder nodded. "Five people report seeing *exactly* the same thing, Scully. It wasn't just me," he countered. "That seems like more than just a coincidence to me." Scully sighed. "I know," she agreed. "That's why I think one of the first things we need to do is re-interview these witnesses." She smiled at him. "Starting with you." Mulder smiled back. "I would also like to go over the crime scene," Scully concluded. "No reason why we can't do both," Mulder replied. "Feel like taking a walk, Scully?" "I haven't been here in years," Scully said as they climbed over the cordon tape that identified the Ford Theater as out of bounds. There were no guards at the site, but the theater was still closed to the public, and would be until the law enforcement agencies involved decided that they were through with it. "I think I was in seventh grade." "I'd never been in it at all, until Friday," Mulder replied. "It's funny, isn't it, how you can live and work so close to a place, and never really see it." He unlocked a door, then picked up the investigation 'print' kit and followed Scully in. "The shootings happened downstairs, right?" Scully asked as she stepped into the theater proper and looked around. "Yeah. The stairs are over here." Mulder followed Scully down the stairs, and tried to recreate his feelings on the day of the shooting. Was there anything he saw that he did not acknowledge, any feeling of foreboding, any sense that something was not right? Some sixth sense that he had simply ignored because there was no apparent reason for it? He could not be positive. The only thing he could remember, for sure, was the vague feeling of unease he had felt outside of Box Seven, where Lincoln had been shot. His memory was too tangled up with the feelings of dread that nagged at him now, as a victim of the incident, for him to be certain of anything else. No matter how well trained, how stable, the mind, and no matter how minor the injury, some degree of post traumatic response was to be expected in the wake of every accident, every assault. Mulder knew he was feeling those effects now, as he walked down the narrow stairway. He had been hurt in that room below. He had watched people die there, people he had been helpless to protect. The knowledge sat in his stomach like a cold stone. But part of his FBI training had included techniques to deal with just such reactions. He understood these feelings, they did not concern him particularly, but they were still an interference with his investigative abilities. He knew he was going to have to rely on his partner in this one, a lot. He focused his attention on the back of Scully's head, and willed himself to be calm. Scully reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to watch Mulder's reaction as he stepped into the room. She, too, understood what he would be feeling, and knew that he would need her to get through those first rough few minutes before professional detachment fully kicked in. She watched him set the print kit on a table and look around. He seemed all right, so far. She walked into the middle of the room. "The report says there were twenty people in this room," she said, walking slowly, "including the museum attendants, at the time of the shooting." Mulder grunted an affirmative. Scully turned to look at him, and saw him staring at a spot on the wall where blood was smeared. More blood stained the carpet below. She felt a sickening dread, herself, suddenly realizing how close she had come to losing him here. But that was not going to help him. "Is that where you were?" she asked matter-of-factly. Mulder blew out a breath, collecting himself. "Yeah," he confirmed. He turned and faced the 'Conspirator's Corner'. "The rest of the victims were scattered around in front of this display. The three dead bodies were right in front of it." Scully looked down at the white chalk outlines on the carpet, and at the blood. Then she turned slowly. "Judging from the splash patterns, and the way the bodies fell, I would say the shots probably came from somewhere in this direction," she walked about half way across the room, "but there is no place for a shooter to hide, here, and escape undetected." She looked back at Mulder. "I don't get it." He joined her, and looked up. His eyes settled on a narrow ceiling vent. "What's over our heads, here?" asked Mulder, whose sense of direction was not the best. Scully frowned at the ceiling and thought. "Stage, I think. And the box seats. Mulder grabbed a pair of gloves from the print kit, and pulled a chair over from the corner. He dragged it under the vent, and climbed up on the seat. "I hope that's not an antique," Scully cautioned. "Hey, maybe Abraham Lincoln stood on this chair to change his light bulbs," Mulder joked, as he pulled on a glove. "Mulder, they didn't use light bulbs in 1865." "Well, trim his wicks, then," he rejoined, running his finger along the outside of the vent. "Can you hand me the brush?" "What?" Scully queried. Then, "Forget it, Mulder. It's been done." Mulder looked down at her, and saw her grin. He laughed, but held out his hand anyway. "Seriously," he insisted. "This grate's been moved." Scully handed the equipment up to him a piece at a time, and watched him recover an index, at least, and possibly more. He handed them down to her, and she set them carefully in their appropriate receptacles. "Looks like it lifts up from above," Mulder mused, examining the vent more carefully. He hit it with the heel of his hand, then lifted the grate away. "Huh." He stuck his hand up into the hole in the ceiling. "What's up there?" Scully asked. "Crawl space, I think," he said. He climbed down off the chair. "Wait here a minute." Scully watched him bound back up the stairs, two at a time. Then she walked slowly around the room, trying to get a feel for the scene on the day of the shooting. She walked over to the Conspirator's Corner, and looked down, again, at the outlines on the floor. She felt a pang at the sight of the two overlapping; Mulder had mentioned that two of the victims had seemed to be a couple. She glanced overhead. All of the witnesses who claimed to have seen the shimmer, including Mulder, had placed it in the vicinity of this display. Well, there were two air vents overhead, it was possible that the distortion could have been caused by some effect of the air conditioning. "Yoo hoo." Scully turned to see a hand dangling from the ceiling. She walked underneath it and smiled up at Mulder's face peering down at her. "There's a pretty big crawl space here under the stage," he said. "Mulder, you shouldn't be climbing around in there," Scully scolded. "You're going to tear your arm open again." "Yes, mom," Mulder quipped, trying to turn his face so that he could see into the room below. Scully sighed. "You think that's were the shooter was?" she asked. "Maybe," Mulder concurred. "But unless our buddy Eugene has a sibling, he just stuck his hand down and started shooting randomly. I can't see a thing, this hole is way too small." "Still, I don't see any other possibility. There's really no place else in this room to hide. But why do you think no one noticed him?" "People rarely look up," Mulder replied, "without a reason. And once the shooting started, everyone just dove for cover. Come up here a minute, there's something else I want to show you." Moments later, Scully joined him in the narrow crawl space. "Look," Mulder said, pointed to an opening in the wall. "Where do you think that goes?" "I don't know," said Scully. Mulder started toward it, and Scully put her hand on his arm to stop him. "Stay here, Mulder, before you really do rip those stitches." She pulled out her gun and stepped into the passage herself. "I'll go see." She disappeared from sight, only to return a few minutes later. "Well?" "Well, I think we found out how the shooter got in and out without being seen. That passage leads into the basement of the building next door, which exits into the alley behind the theater." She brushed her hands together. "And I think I can also explain the shimmer." Mulder frowned. "What do you mean?" "I mean that this crawl space is loaded with dust. If that shooter was, in fact, up here crawling around, he must have stirred up a lot of it. There are two air vents in the ceiling directly over that display case where everyone places the shimmer. They open into a narrow duct, which in turn opens into this crawl space. I just checked. Conceivably, dust could have filtered down through the grates, and appeared as a shimmering in the light below. In all the confusion, it could have appeared that the effect was shifting back and forth between the two vents." Mulder was about to protest, to insist that he knew the difference between the shimmering he had seen, and air filled with dust. Then he stopped himself. Scully's explanation *was* plausible, as far as it went. He needed to think about it some more. "Conceivably," he agreed, "you could be right. There's only one thing wrong with this whole scenario." "What's that?" "Where did that note come from? If the shooter was up here, there is no way he or she could have gotten that note half way across the room." Scully pursed her lips. He had a point. "And even if we're right, and the shooter *was* up here," Mulder went on, "that still only gives us the 'how'. We still have no idea 'who'. Or 'why'." Suddenly Mulder sneezed, pulling his wound painfully. He grimaced. "Come on, let's get out of here," he said. "We've gotten all we can, I think, and this dust is making me allergic."
Lucinda Carey's Apartment It was late, but Lucinda Carey could not sleep, so she decided to finally tackle correcting the last group of final exams. She had taken the weekend to put her apartment back in order, with Walter's help, disposed of the wreckage that could not be reclaimed, and had moved back home on Sunday, over Walter Skinner's protests. As grateful as she was for his concern, and more moved by it than she cared to admit, she still knew that if she did not stay in her own place, alone, right away, she might never be able to do it. So she had done her best to reassure him, then had kissed him and gone home. Carey made a face at the small pile of blue books. She had left this stack until last for a reason. These were her problem students, the ones who would take the most work, and generate the least pleasure in reading. She had a few besides John Sterling, a few who either just did not get it, no matter how hard she tried, or who just did not care. Sterling was the worst of them, though, and she pulled his blue book out of the pile, first, determined to get it over with. As always, Sterling proved the most frustrating of her challenges. What he did write was extremely well done, if the only thing she was judging was his ability to create a sentence. It was witty, well constructed and elaborately presented. Unfortunately, he simply had nothing worthwhile to say. There were few things Lucinda Carey hated more than being played for a fool. She turned to the last page, ready to scribe some pithy remark and present Mr. Sterling with his well earned 'F', and found the last page was already filled. Staring back at her from the blue lined white sheet were lines after repeated lines of three simple words. Latin words: "Sic semper tryannis." She closed the blue book with a quick motion, and took a deep breath. So it had been Sterling who had broken into her place and ransacked her belongs, probably in some fit of adolescent pique. On the one hand, it almost made her feel better, knowing. It had been just a kid, after all, and someone she knew, not some raving psychopath roaming the streets. But on the other hand, she felt violated in a way she never had before. She *knew* this boy, had taught him, had looked at his face three times a week, for a hour and a half a day for eighteen weeks. Had struggled with her inability to reach his fine but troubled mind. And he had done this. She felt a little like she had been physically assaulted. She tossed the blue book onto the sofa beside her, and thought about what to do. She knew she should probably call the police, but the truth was, she really did not want to. There was little they could do, anyway. It was true that the investigating officers had been more solicitous then they probably would have been had not an FBI Assistant Director been on the scene. Still she doubted they would bother with the details of a finger printing and handwriting analysis just to confirm the perpetrator of an act of vandalism in which nothing was stolen and nothing of significant monetary value was destroyed. Besides, the term was over and by now the students were on their ways home. Sterling lived in Connecticut, if she remembered correctly. She did not think for one minute that any self respecting law enforcement agency was going to begin extradition proceedings over an incident of breaking and entering. She thought about calling Walter, rejected the idea, and thought about it again. And rejected it again. She would only serve to worry him, there was not a damn thing he could do about it, and he was already upset enough over her insistence that she would be all right at home alone. True, it might reassure him to know the identity of the person who had broken into her apartment, and to know that the kid was now probably five hundred miles away. And he could probably also tell her what the best thing was to do. It was his job, after all. But she was not going to bother him that late, and have him drag all the way back into Washington for nothing. Which he would probably do. Or maybe not, which bothered her, too, perversely, and that decided her. She would call him and tell him about it in the morning. She sighed and got to her feet. In any case, she was no longer in the mood to correct blue book exams. She went into her kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. She may as well just settle in with a movie. Or see what was on the tube.
May 17 Walter Skinner punched line three. "Hello?" "Hi," Lucinda Carey's voice came over the line, "it's just me. I just called to see if you might be free for lunch, today." Skinner glanced over at his calendar as a warm rush of feeling filled him. He had spoken to Carey a couple of times on the phone since she had moved back home on Sunday, but he had not actually seen her since then. He was a little afraid, frankly, of intruding too far on her personal space. She had let him know, gently but firmly, that she did not appreciate being crowded, and he was worried that his desire to protect her would cause him to overstep. Besides, he still was uneasy over not telling her about the note found at the Ford Theater, and Agent Mulder's case. So the fact that she was coming to him was a relief on many levels. "This is unexpected," he replied, pleased. "I *am* free, as a matter of fact. What's the occasion?" "Oh, no occasion. I just wanted to see you," Carey replied. "And, well, I need your advice on something, actually. I think I might know who it was who broke into my apartment the other day. I'm not sure what's the best thing to do." Skinner came bolt upright in his chair. "Who!" he barked into the telephone. Carey hesitated, startled by the force of his question. "Ummm, one of my students..." she began. "What makes you think so?" Skinner pressed, trying hard to contain himself. She did not know everything, yet, after all. "I was correcting his exam last night, and I found the words 'sic semper tryannis' written all over the last page of his blue book," Carey answered quickly. "Walt, what's wrong, what's going on?" "Where are you?" Skinner pressed one more time, not answering her question. "I'm at school, I'm in my office," Carey replied, a little take aback. "What is it?" Skinner took a deep breath. "Lu, I did not want to alarm you, but there is more to this than you know. I want you to stay where you are. Lock the door to your office, and wait for me. I'm on my way." Well, he had certainly alarmed her now. Lucinda swallowed her sudden fear, hearing the urgency in his voice, and said okay. "What is going on?" Carey asked as she let Skinner into her office. He held up his hand to stop her questions, and asked her for the blue book. His manner was tight, urgent, forceful, frightening her. He was completely the Assistant Director of the F.B.I. She did not know him. She handed him the blue book. "Last page," she said. He opened the booklet, looked, sagged, and closed it, looking at the name on the cover page. "Who is this kid?" he asked her. Carey smiled a little. "Actually, you've met him, sort of." He looked at her in surprise. "Do you remember the boy in that pub who was trying to pick me up the night we met?" Skinner nodded. "The one you said was failing your class." "That's him," Carey agreed. "I assume the break-in was some foolish act of revenge." "I hope to God not," Skinner replied. He took a deep breath. "I didn't tell you this before because I did not want to frighten you, but your note was not the only one left at a crime scene last Friday," he told her. "There was another. You heard about the shootings at the Ford Theater Friday afternoon?" Carey nodded warily. "Three people were killed and several injured," she replied. Skinner nodded. "Including one of my agents, who just happened to be there site seeing on his lunch hour. It's not public knowledge, but a note with the words 'sic semper tryannis' was found lying on one of the display cases, after things had quieted down." Carey paled and fell back against her desk. "Oh, my God." Then she swallowed hard, and took a deep breath. "And you think it might be the same person who broke into my place who is responsible for those murders?" "I don't know," Skinner admitted. "The handwriting on the two notes matches. And the prints taken from each match prints recovered from the scene of the shootings." He lifted the blue book. "I'll have to have this analyzed, and have a comparison run. We won't know for sure until then." Carey looked at him hard. "You should have told me." Skinner did not deny it. He nodded slowly, not backing down from her gaze. "I know," he said simply. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to frighten you." Carey closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Skinner was watching her. "Lu, I don't want to tread on your independence," he began carefully, "but I really don't want you to go back to your apartment. I don't want you to be alone. Please come back out to the house with me tonight." She smiled, a little, at the appeal, and dropped her eyes. Many feelings, some of them contradictory, most of them confused, raced through her mind. But mostly she knew that she needed this man, right now. Needed his protection, and, perhaps, wanted more. She looked back up at him. "This is getting to be a habit," she suggested mildly. Skinner looked down into her eyes. "Maybe," he admitted, meaningfully. Then he reached out, and touched her face. "But at least come and stay with me until this is over. I don't know what's driving this kid, or how you're involved in his psychosis. But I'll feel a lot better if I know you're safe." Carey nodded slowly, acquiescing. She reached for him and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight.
Ford Theater The cordon tape was beginning to tatter. John Sterling walked past the theater three times before he worked up the nerve to stop. Five days had past since the shootings there, and he still found it hard to believe that no one had come for him, arrested him for the deed. He could not possibility have gotten *away* with it! Shit, he killed had three people according to the newspaper, and wounded several more, including some FBI agent for God's sake, and *still* nobody paid any attention to him. He really was just a great big nothing. He kicked at the sidewalk sourly, and paced the front of the building, letting the strips of plastic tape run through his fingers as he did. He tried the doors, all five of them. They were all locked. Nothing he did mattered. It was scorching hot out on the sidewalk, and Sterling longed to be inside the theater where it was cool and dark. He had been too afraid to return to his dorm room after Friday, and so had been living out in the open with the addicts and the homeless up in Rock Creek Park. He knew he must look like one of them by now, with five days growth of beard, and his clothes a mess from sleeping under the bushes. His grandfather's gun he had buried under the roots of an old tree. Sterling longed to hear the voice, he needed the reassurance that this was all going to be worth it in the end. He wanted a shower and a shave, and to sleep in a bed. He wanted none of this to have happened. But it had happened, and there he was. He needed to know that it was right. He longed to here the voice again, telling him again that his act was good. He needed to feel justified in what he had done. He needed to believe that it was important. That *he* was important. That he was loved. He wanted to be loved, perhaps more than anything else he could think of in that moment. He wondered if the voice loved him. The voice belonged to a great man. He *knew* this. At first it had seemed crazy, insane, but now he knew that it was not. It was right. Great men lived forever. One way or the other. And this was a man who no one would ever forget. It did not really matter that they got it wrong. That they would never understand or accept the reasons behind the act. What mattered is that they remembered the act. And that they would never forget the man. - But it does matter, Johnny. It matters that they get it wrong. Sterling looked up. - What good is posterity, Johnny, if the reasons are a lie? "It doesn't matter," Sterling said. "What matters is that they will always know who you are. What you did. They will never forget your name." - Johnny, Johnny, who are you, Johnny? "You know who I am," Sterling said. He sank down onto the step in front of one of the doors, and leaned back into the recess, cordon tape ruffling his hair. "You know me." - Do I? And what do I know? I know you are a boy who has failed out of his school. A boy who has failed everything to which he has turned his hand, until a few days ago. A boy, a bright boy, Johnny who until a few days ago had accomplished nothing of note. Won a few wagers, seduced a few women, and precious few of those, too. Nothing to be remembered for. And then, a few short days ago, you killed three people, Johnny, and walked away free. Now *that* was an act. - What will they do if they catch you, Johnny, do you know? They'll hang you. Or whatever it is they do to murderers these days. Gas chamber. What a sad, sorry, hidey-hole way to die. In my day, they hung murderers in the public square and the whole town turned out to watch. No dignity in it, but at least there was spectacle. At least, for a little while, people remembered. But the gas chamber, Johnny. You'll be news for a day. Maybe a week. Then no more. "But they didn't hang you," Sterling protested. "They shot you in some barn." - That's not true! The voice was angry suddenly. - That is just another one of their lies. That damned castratto never shot me! Imagine doing that to yourself, Johnny, cutting off your own balls in a fit of religious fervor. As if God would give two pins for Boston Corbett's balls. And they call *me* a madman! - Corbett did not shoot me, like some cornered animal, Johnny. I could never allow that to happen. I did the only thing a man could do under the circumstances. I took my *own* life! Their stories are nothing but lies! - It's all the fault of the tyrant, Johnny. The tyrant and his minions allow these lies to continue. And you know what you have to do. "No," said Sterling. "I've done enough, already. You've said it yourself, I'll get the gas chamber for what I've done already, for what you made me do." - You did it yourself, Johnny. In my name, yes. To please me, perhaps. And it did please me, Johnny. But you pleased yourself as well. You know you did. The voice became softer, cajoling. - Didn't you, Johnny? It pleased you. It was a little like going off inside a woman, wasn't it, Johnny. That feeling. The power in it. The sheer thrill. Sterling ran his fingers through his hair in distress, tugging the cordon tape away and snapping it in half. "What do you want from me!" he cried out loud. Passers-by, who to this point had ignored the young derelict slumped in the doorway of the deserted theater, now began looking for a policeman to inform. They moved away from him purposefully. - You know, Johnny. Sterling put his face in his hands. "No," he pleaded softly. " I can't. It's insane. I could never pull it off." - You can, Johnny, if you want to. If your faith is strong. "But he's surrounded by guards all the time. I'll never be able to get near him." - I'll help you, Johnny. Like I helped you before. No one saw you, no one came after you. I'll baffle and confuse them, you know that I can. And then you will be able to get right up to him, Johnny, right next to the tyrant, as I did, and finish my work for me. - I love you, Johnny. But you must prove yourself worthy. You must prove yourself faithful to the cause. Sterling began to sob. "Okay!" he cried. "Okay. I'll do it." - Good boy, Johnny. "All right, son, move along." Sterling looked up, and saw the beat cop standing over him. He froze, paralyzed with fear. "Come on, now. Let's go. Find someplace else to sober up. I don't want to have to run you in." Sterling got to his feet, trembling wildly, sure his guilt must show all over his face. He backed away from the officer slowly. "I'm sorry, officer," he mumbled. "Just move along, now," the cop said, not particularly interested in the bedraggled young man. Washington was full of them, after all, the homeless and the hopeless. Poor kid was probably some AIDS victim, living off the streets. They were everywhere these days. Sterling held up his hands. "I'm going," he said, "I'm going right now." He turned and left as quickly as he could without actually running. He could not believe the cop did not know who he was, that he was actually going to let him go. He got half way down the block and his panic began to fade, to be replaced by a heady sense of omnipotence. He really was walking away. Nobody knew, he had gotten away with it. The voice was right. The voice was always right. He needed to get back to the park and clean his gun, it would be filled with dirt from being buried under that tree. The cop watched him go, shaking his head sadly. Even after twenty-five years on the force, such sights made him sad. These poor sick, homeless kids. Even the girls turning tricks up on 14th Street could generate a bit of compassion in him. He understood that life dealt that hand to some, sometimes. He did what he could. He even volunteered in the soup kitchen a couple of days a month. It helped them out, and it helped him get to know the regulars, too. But there was little else he could do, he felt, and he could not have them here. The kid was welcome to come the shelter, and he would feed the boy, gladly. But in the mean time, he could go clutter up somebody else's beat.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Scully put down the telephone and looked at Mulder. "Skinner wants us." "Both?" Mulder asked. That was not a good sign. Scully nodded. "I wonder what we did, now," Mulder speculated as they headed for the door. Skinner was in his outer office, talking to Duncker, when the agents walked in. He nodded them toward his doorway. Scully took a quick moment to catch Muriel's eye. Mulder might be willing to shrug it all off, but Dana Scully was not about to ignore the warnings so tactfully supplied by "Asbestos Duncker." She really had no idea what was going on, and she wanted a feel for Skinner's mood before they walked into the lion's den. Duncker smiled reassuringly, then nodded at her boss and frowned. Okay, it was bad, but the bad was not them, directly. Scully could live with that. She followed Mulder into the inner office, the AD at her heels. Skinner did not invite them to sit. He walked abruptly to his desk, picked up something from it, and turned. He handed a light blue, paperbound essay book to Mulder. Scully recognized the type, they were used universally for school exams. "Last page," Skinner said brusquely. Mulder gave Scully a quick glance, and opened the booklet to the last page. He scrutinized it for a second, then his eyes got huge and he closed it. "Jesus!" He looked at the cover of the blue book, then at Skinner. "Who is this?" Scully took the blue book from Mulder. Skinner took a deep breath. "One of Professor Carey's students," he replied flatly. Mulder recognized the name from the police report. He knew who the woman was. "The woman who had her apartment broken into," he glossed tactfully, knowing she was a lot more than that. Skinner eyed him for a moment, then nodded back, a slight smile touching his face, thanking Mulder silently for this consideration. Scully looked up from her scrutiny of the blue book. "Mulder, look at this, " she interjected. "This is weird." The two men looked at her. She pointed to the rows of writing. "This writing. See how it changes? The top half, almost two thirds, really, of this page is covered with this almost backhanded slant. Then right here, right in the middle of this line, it changes. Same words, and it seems to be flowing from the same pen, but the writing becomes more forward and spidery, and, I don't know, just really different. It doesn't even look like the same hand." Mulder took the book from her and looked at it. "Well, we know that certain kinds of stress related illnesses and certain psychoses can significantly alter a person's cursive standard," he mused, "but you're right, it's strange the way it changes, right in the middle of the page like that..." he shook his head. He looked up at Skinner. "When was this written?" Skinner nodded, understanding the importance of the question. "Friday morning. Sometime between 10:00 a.m. and 11:00. During a final exam." Mulder frowned thoughtfully. "Probably prior to the commissions of the crimes," he speculated. "Definitely before the Ford Theater shooting, and possibly before the break in." He looked down at Scully. "We may be looking at a nervous breakdown, as it happened." "Well, we don't even know, for sure, that it *was* this boy who committed those crimes," Scully reminded them. "Won't, until we get this analyzed." But even as she said it, she knew that the chances were very good. The existence of the notes, and their texts, had not been released to the press. No one would know, unless they were directly involved. And if this page was completed *before* those crimes were even committed... She glanced at Skinner. "I suppose it's pointless to try to "print" this?" It was a rhetorical question, really. If there were prints worth preserving, the book would be bagged. Skinner nodded. "Several people handled it before the evidence was discovered." Mulder sighed. "Well, Scully's right, we need to see what Handwriting thinks, before we do anything." But it was obvious that he, too, was already fairly confident of what Henderson was going to tell him. Skinner turned to his desk again. He picked up another sheet of paper, and handed it to Mulder. "This is a list of the boy's known associates. And his parents' address. Most of these associates are classmates. Since the school term has already ended, we can only hope that some of these students are still in the area." Mulder looked down at the list. It was pitifully short. He nodded at Skinner. Well, he thought, the good news is, he and Skinner seemed to be on the same side for a change. That was nice. Skinner sat down at his desk, and picked up a pen. "I would like your preliminary findings on my desk in the morning, Agent Mulder," he said, dismissing them. "That will be all, thank you." And the bad news is, Mulder thought sourly as they left, the AD had a personal interest in this one and would likely be breathing down his neck the entire time, watching every step like a hawk. Out in the hall, Mulder handed the list to Scully. "See if any of the kids on this list are still around. I'm gonna take this blue book down to Handwriting and see what Henderson has to say." Scully nodded. "What about Dr. Carey? We'll want to talk to her, too." "Leave her until last," Mulder replied. "I don't think she's going anywhere. I want to get to those classmates first, before they all disappear."
"This is weird, Mulder," Henderson said, peering at the blue book page that Mulder had presented her. She looked up from her viewer. The expression on her face made Mulder's stomach hurt. "This top portion, the back slant, that appears to be the same as the notes you brought me yesterday. I can give you a very near positive match on that. But this on the lower half... the handwriting here is not a match. Not to the notes, and not to the writing on the top half of this page." She leaned back in her chair, and frowned. "Frankly, Mulder, I've never seen anything like this. Based strictly on the ink flow, apparent aging, and the smoothness of the writing, I would conclude that both the top and bottom of this blue book were written by the same hand, in one continuous effort. But this is not the same person. I'm sure of it. If I was to guess, I would have to say that it was some sort of very elaborate, very skillful hoax. Two people, using the same pen, completed this page, one immediately following the other. And they did a damn good job of it, too. There is no change in flow, or in pressure. This would be nearly impossible to do. If I wasn't looking at it, myself, I would have to say that it *was* impossible." "It is impossible," Mulder replied. "At least, what you are suggesting didn't happen. This page was completed during a proctored exam. The boy was under eyes the entire time this blue book was in his possession. If someone else had written in it, immediately following him, it would have been noticed. And stopped." Henderson just shook her head. "I don't know what to tell you," she said helplessly. "Leave this with me, I'll run a couple of other tests. But I don't think they're gonna help you much. I'm not usually wrong about this kind of thing, Mulder. What you have here could not have happened." Yeah, that figures, Mulder sighed wearily to himself. To Henderson, he just smiled. "Thanks, Diana. Let me know what you find." "How'd you make out with that list?" Mulder asked Scully as he came back into his office. She looked up from the telephone. "Okay, actually," she replied. "Sterling's parents can't be reached. The housekeeper told me they were someplace in Europe. And most of these kids have already left. But I did find Sterling's girlfriend. She's staying in Washington for the Summer, working for the Budget Office. She's agreed to meet us after she gets off work. "I also ran down campus security at the university. They checked Sterling's room, and it looks like he hasn't been back there in days. And nothing is packed to be moved home. I sent a tech team down there to print the room." Mulder nodded. "Where are we meeting the girl?" "The Market Inn, at 3:30." Mulder made a face. "Why the Market?" Scully shrugged. "It was her suggestion. It's dark, and quiet, and well set up for private conversation." She grinned at him. "Come on, Mulder. We can test you powers of concentration."
The Market Inn & Restaurant The Market Inn was one of the best kept non-secrets in Washington, D.C. Tucked away under the 395 overpass, it was unprepossessing, from the outside, to say the least. Inside, the lighting was dim, discrete some restaurant reviewer had once suggested, with a dining room to the left of the entrance and a bar to the right. The bar also boasted a number of narrow, highbacked booths, of the kind that lent themselves well to clandestine conversations. Scully suspected that more policy was probably made there in those dark environs than ever was drawn up in the halls of Congress. It was a great place to talk privately, at certain times of the day. Besides that, the Market had a *great* she-crab soup. But the single most memorable aspect of the Market Inn was it's "decor," as every last inch of wall and ceiling space was covered with reproductions of paintings of nude women. Too camp to be anything but amusing, the effect was more cluttered than erotic. Nonetheless, Mulder made the requisite wisecrack, and got the requisite poke in the ribs for his trouble. "You know, Mulder," Scully bantered as they walked into the bar, "regardless of what happens to the Equal Rights Amendment up on the Hill, I don't think I will truly believe that women's equality has been completely accepted until I see pictures of naked men on these walls." Mulder grinned. "I think you've got a long wait," he teased back. "Besides, naked men are aesthetically unappealing." "Oh, I don't know about *that*," Scully rolled her eyes at him. Mulder laughed out loud. Then he stopped for a moment to look around the bar. In a couple of hours the place would be packed, but at that moment it was fairly deserted. An oriental kid dressed in a "gay '90's" boater and a striped jacket sat at the bar playing Dixieland on a banjo; warming up for the happy-hour crowd soon to converge. But other than a bored looking waitress and an even more bored looking bartender, there was no one else in the room accept a a slight blonde young woman sitting at a booth in the farthest corner from the bar. Mulder glanced at Scully, who nodded. That had to be Trisha Marin. They walked on over. "Ms. Marin?" Scully queried. "I'm Agent Scully, we spoke earlier on the phone?" The girl nodded. "Hi" she said, gesturing for them to sit down. "This is Agent Fox Mulder," Scully continued as Mulder slid into the booth. She sat down beside him. "We'd like to ask you some questions about John Sterling, if that's all right?" The girl nodded again. She focused on Scully, and seemed to have a difficult time meeting Mulder's eye. He was not sure, though, if the subject at hand disturbed her, or if she was just uncomfortable with the naked nymph thrusting her bosom at them from the painting over the booth. He smiled to himself, and leaned back into the corner, making himself as unobtrusive as possible. Scully caught his eye, and nodded subtly. She would handle the questioning. "Is John in some kind of trouble," the girl asked. She sounded like she would not have been surprised is he was. Scully smiled reassuringly. "We don't really know, yet, Ms. Marin," she said. "May I call you Trisha?" "Yeah, sure," the girl agreed, nervously. "John is wanted for questioning concerning a break in at the apartment of a Dr. Lucinda Carey." Scully and Mulder had decided earlier to keep Sterling's suspected involvement in the Ford Theater shootings a secret, at least initially. "Do you know her?" Trisha nodded. "Sure. Professor Carey. She teaches up at school." "Well, her apartment was ransacked on Friday, and we have reason to believe that John may have some information about the incident. Campus security has informed us, however, that he has not been back to his room in several days, and none of his things have been pack. He does not seem to have returned home, to Connecticut, either. Do you know where he is, by any chance?" The girl shook her head. "I haven't seen John to talk to in weeks. We, uh, broke up three weeks ago," she said, the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. "I haven't seen him since then, accept across campus." "Have you known each other long?" "Since freshman year," said Marin. "We met at orientation. We started going out together second semester sophomore year. We were even kinda talking about getting married after graduation, for a while." She wiped at her eyes, the memory obviously still raw. Scully leaned forward and looked at the girl compassionately. "What happened?" Trisha Marin shook her head. "I don't really know," she said. "John just... changed. I mean, he always had kind of a negative attitude. I always thought it was just because he didn't know what he really wanted. You know? John comes from a pretty wealthy family, his father owns a chain of shoes stores or something, and is into real estate on the side. His mother is into clubs and things, very proper, I guess. I never met them, they never came down here. John is an only child, though, and I guess they had his life pretty much mapped out for him, what he would do, what he would be, and they never really asked John what he wanted, or anything. At least that's what he said, anyway. So it got him down and made him pretty restless and stuff. He hated his classes, said they were all bogus and stupid and had nothing to do with the real world. Nothing to do with getting things done. He could get kind of bad tempered sometimes. But he was never, like, violent or anything. Until about six or seven weeks ago." Scully frowned. "What happened then?" The girl focused on Scully, and the words just poured from her like a stream. From his corner, Mulder had the impression that the poor kid was just desperate for someone to tell this story to. "John was flunking out," Trisha said. "He knew it. He used to laugh about it. I really think he did it on purpose. He really wanted to quit school, but he knew his parents would never let him, so I think he was flunking out as a way to get out of school, anyway. "Then about six weeks ago, he sort of changed. He started acting really strange about it, like it wasn't his fault or something. He would rant and rave all night about how the teachers were all cheats, and all out to get him, how they didn't grade fair. Or about how nobody took anything he had to say seriously anyway, so what was the point. Everybody was against him. I'd seen him in bad moods before, but nothing like this. He said he couldn't sleep, and he told me there was a weird ringing in his ears that wouldn't go away. He said it drove him crazy, sometimes." Scully pursed her lips, and glanced at Mulder. Then she nodded to Marin to go on. "He would pick fights with my house mates, too," the girl continued. "I almost thought he was doing coke or something, it was that bizarre, but I never saw anything when we were together. And he was really mad at Professor Carey. I don't know why her particularly, everybody was flunking him, but he was really worked up about her class, and about some book she is supposed to be writing. He called her a liar. Said all historians were liars. He'd get on about how she thought she could put people in little boxes and explain them away, but that she didn't understand a thing about why they did things. What their *motives* were. That was the word he used, motives. Like somebody had committed some kind of crime. I couldn't figure out what he was talking about, half the time. I mean, I kind of liked Ms. Carey, you know? I had a class with her last year. She's really tough about deadlines and things, and I didn't really do very well, but she was, like, really interesting. And she always took the time to answer questions and stuff. In fact, I was the one who suggested to John that he take her. I thought he'd really like her, you know. Maybe get interested in school or something." "Did John ever say anything about her in a threatening way?" Scully asked. The girl shook her head. "No, not really, not specifically. He was just pissed off all the time." "Why did the two of you break up?" "I just couldn't take it anymore, you know?" Trisha said. "Like he was always so negative. I never knew from one minute to the next what he was gonna be like. I couldn't get my own work done. My friends were getting on me because John was so confrontational, all the time. And he was starting to do really bad things to my head. So I told him I thought it would be better if we didn't see each other for a little while." "And what did he say?" Scully asked. Trisha looked at her suddenly, her eyes hard. "He got really mad. He hit me, so I threw him out." "Good girl," Scully said forcefully, almost without thinking. From his corner, Mulder smiled. Then he leaned forward. "Trisha, you said that John didn't seem to be enjoying Professor Carey's class. This was a class in American culture, wasn't it? Trisha nodded. "Was John interested at all in American History?" "His major was American Studies," she replied, "I guess he liked history okay, he knew a lot about it, anyway. But I really think he picked American Studies because he thought it would be a gut." Mulder smiled. He had chosen a few courses for that reason, himself. "Did John ever show any particular interest in Civil War history?" The girl shrugged. "Not really, I don't think. We didn't talk about it much, anyway." "Do you know if he had ever been to the Ford Theater? Or any of the other historical sites in town?" The girl frowned. "Yeah, I think so. He took me to the Ford Theater once, just before we broke up, and he seemed to know a lot about it. I don't know about anyplace else." "Was he interested, then , in Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth?" Scully glanced at Mulder out of the corned of her eye. The girl just shrugged again. "I guess so. I don't really know." "Trisha," Mulder asked, "when we first sat down, you asked if John was in some kind of trouble. You seemed to think he might be. Can I ask you why?" The girl eyed him warily. "Well, you're cops, right? FBI?" Mulder nodded, but kept looking at her, letting her know that he did not accept that as the only reason. Trisha dropped her eyes. "Look, I probably shouldn't even tell you this, and I'm sure it doesn't mean anything, but John has a gun. He keeps it in his desk at school." Mulder sat up suddenly. "What kind of gun?" "I don't know what it was called. It was some kind of antique, though, I think," the girl replied. "But John said it worked. He's not supposed to have it at school, but it was a gift from his grandfather who got it in World War II. He's got bullets for it, too, he showed me once." She hesitated, then looked back at the agents imploringly. "When Agent Scully called earlier, I just got scared. That's all."
Federal Bureau of Investigation Mulder was still in his office when Scully found him, late in the evening, hunched over John Sterling's blue book, and a few other documents. She touched him on the shoulder to let him know she was there, then pressed the cold soda can in her hand against the hollow at the back of his head, where the spine enters the skull. Mulder sighed, and leaned back into the cool comfort. "Ah, that's good," he moaned. "If that's a beer, I might just be compelled to propose." Behind him, Scully snorted. "Well, *I'm* safe for another day," she quipped, dangling the can over his shoulder. "It's a cola." Mulder turned and smiled up at her. "You know, Mulder," Scully continued conversationally, "that's the second time I've lost out because of the wrong choice of beverage." Mulder nodded. "Yep," he agreed. "Your luck definitely seems to be holding." Scully chuckled deep in her throat and sat down next to him. "What are you still doing here?" Mulder asked her. "Just some reading over in the archives. I was ready to call it a night and I thought I'd come down and see if you were still here. What are you working on?" Mulder sighed and shook his head. "Just trying to get it all straight in my head," he replied. He leaned back in his chair and recited. "What to we know about this case? We know that three people were killed in the basement museum of the Ford Theater on Friday, May 12, at approximately 2:00 P.M. and that a note with the words 'sic semper tyrannis' was left on a display case at that site, at the time of the shootings. We also that an apartment north of Georgetown was broken into, probably before the shootings, and a note with the same words was left at that scene, as well. We know we have a probable suspect in John Robert Sterling the Third, and we know that because a blue book exam book with his name and fingerprints contains the words 'sic semper tyrannis' written over and over again on the back page. We also know that the handwriting in his blue book matches the handwriting on the two notes, and that fingerprints taken from the notes match fingerprints taken in Sterling's room, and fingerprints taken from an air vent in the Ford Theater. And we know that he possesses a gun that may match the description of the murder weapon." He sighed deeply. "Did I leave anything out?" Scully smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so," she replied. Mulder pursed his lips. "We know a lot," he groused, "but we don't have much, do we? Like for instance, where the hell is this kid, anyway? Where did he disappear to? And what, in God's name, is his motive in all of this?" He looked back at the paperwork in front of him, and tapped the blue book in irritation. "And then there's this. This change of handwriting in Sterling's blue book is so problematic, Scully. I just can't figure it out. Henderson is completely baffled, and I've never seen her thrown like this before. The cursive styles are too dissimilar to have been made by the same person, and yet Henderson is sure that it's the same pen, and that the pressure and flow is exactly the same, with no breaks. It's the same hand, and yet not the same hand." He glared at the page before him. "Every road I go down brings me to the same place," he concluded, almost to himself. Scully smiled a little, watching his face. "You have a theory." It was not a question. Mulder glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, said nothing. "Talk to me," Scully prodded him gently. He turned and looked at her fully, warmly but warily. "It's pretty wild," he warned. Scully laughed. "I would expect nothing less," she assured him. Mulder smiled. "Think about it," he began. "We have two totally unrelated crimes, linked only by these two notes, with this ancient curse written them. We know, because the writing matches the writing found in this blue book, that a boy named John Robert Sterling III wrote them. We propose that he may have also committed these crimes. But what else connects these two otherwise unconnected incidences? Follow the bouncing ball, Scully. "John Sterling is connected to Lucinda Carey because he is her student, and he has been identified as having had a grudge against her because of his poor grades in her class. Professor Carey is connected to 'sic semper tryannis' because they are words shouted by assassins, and we know from her signed statement that she is writing a book about assassins, which is why she was so disturbed to find those *specific* words on that note. The murders took place in the Ford Theater, the site of one of the most famous assassinations in American history. Committed by the assassin John Wilkes Booth. Who shouted the words 'sic semper tyrannis' as he killed President Lincoln. What if *that's* the connection?" Scully frowned. "Go on," was all she said. "What if..." Mulder hesitated then plunged ahead. "What if it was John Sterling who committed those crimes, but it was also someone else? What if John Sterling completed the top half of this blue book page, and someone else completed the bottom half *through him*? The same hand, but different people? What if this is actually the handwriting of John Wilkes Booth at the bottom of this page, Scully? What if was Booth, in Sterling's body, and not Sterling himself, who actually committed those crimes? Maybe the answer to John Robert Sterling the Third lies with the legend of John Wilkes Booth." Scully just looked at him. "So, you're suggesting, what, that John Sterling has been possessed by the ghost of John Wilkes Booth?" she finally asked him, mildly. "I warned you," he reminded. Scully acknowledged that indeed he had. "I'll grant you, the connections are tempting," she admitted. "It could be that the boy may be convinced that he is operating under the influence of John Wilkes Booth... Trisha did indicate that he has been acting very out of character in the last few weeks. And he's about the right age for juvenile schizophrenia. It's possible that he could be delusional, even psychotic." "But that wouldn't account for the change in handwriting. Even psychologically induced changes in cursive standards can be traced back to the original hand through analysis. Henderson is convinced this is not the case. And I've never know her to be wrong about something like that." "Well, yes and no," Scully countered. "I would agree with you concerning many forms of psychosis, but there have been documented cases of multiple personality disorders where the different personalities will have had separate and distinctive cursive standards, and sometimes even different handedness." Mulder nodded. "That's true. But there is no evidence to suggest that John Sterling is suffering from a multiple personality disorder." "There's no evidence to suggest that he's possessed, either," Scully reminded him. Mulder's face tightened into that belligerent expression that Scully knew so well, and she hurried to head him off. "Mulder, look, there are all kinds of things we *don't* know about this whole business, let's not go running of on a wild goose chase, just yet, okay? I mean, look at the note in the Ford Theater. We still don't know how Sterling even got it onto that display case," Scully protested. "Are you suggesting that a ghost wrote it?" "No, I'm sure Sterling wrote the note," Mulder replied. "The handwriting matches the top part of his blue book page, and the writing in the rest of the blue book, as well. However, it may have been a ghost who put it on the display case." "A ghost put it there." "Sure. We've seen evidence of this kind of spectral activity before. And the X-Files are full of accounts of spirits moving objects around." "Mulder..." "I know, I know, Scully. You don't believe in ghosts." Scully sighed. "Mulder, even if I did. It still doesn't work. Ghosts haunt. They don't possess." Mulder looked at her in surprise. "Oh ho! And when did you become an expert?" Scully looked at her thumbs. "I've read some things," she replied, somewhat defensively. Mulder just raised an eyebrow at her, containing his smile. Scully sighed. "Okay," she admitted. "The possibility occurred to me, too." Mulder laughed with delight. "*You've* been working with me for * much* too long," he shook an accusatory finger at her. "That occurred to me, as well," Scully grumped, batting it playfully away. Mulder looked at her more seriously. "What if it's some kind of personality transference?" he asked. "We've seen it before." Scully shook her head. "Whatever we may or may not have seen before," she countered, "it occurred at the moment of death. John Wilkes Booth has been dead for a hundred and thirty years. Whatever 'personality' his ghost might have had, it's got to be about as potent as Casper, by now." Mulder sighed. "Well, what if it's not a ghost? What if it's some malevolency masquerading as the ghost of John Wilkes Booth?" "And so we have what, then? An evil spirit pretending to be the ghost of John Wilkes Booth possessing the body of John Robert Sterling the Third?" Mulder just looked at her. Then he sagged in his chair, chuckling. "You're right. That's pretty crazy," he admitted. He rubbed his face with his palms tiredly. Scully laughed a little. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "I'm going to go down to the Ford Theater in the morning as see if I can't pry loose Booth's diary for a couple of hours and have Henderson take a look at it." He looked at her quickly. "If nothing else, it will effectively eliminate the possibility." But Scully just nodded at him. The she reached over and closed her hand over his wrist, squeezing affectionately. "Why don't you call it a night," she suggested. "There's nothing more you can do tonight, anyway, and you need to get some sleep. If you push yourself too hard, Mulder, you're going to get sick. You're still healing, remember." Mulder nodded agreement. "Good advice, Dr. Scully," he replied, reaching up and clicking off the light.
May 18 "Absolutely not," insisted the Assistant Curator of the Ford Theater. "I cannot, under any circumstances, allow you to take the Booth diary from the display." "I know this is highly irregular," Mulder placated. "But three people were murdered here less than a week ago. That diary is a necessary part of the investigation. I'll have it back in two hours. I promise." "No," the young man replied. "I can't do it. Besides," he continued slyly, "what could a hundred and thirty year old diary possibly have to do with the investigation of a murder that happened six days ago?' There was nothing Mulder could tell him, of course, so he fell back on the standard hedge. "That's privileged information." The Assistant Curator did not look particularly impressed. Mulder tried a different tack. "Look," he said. "I know this diary must get used in research, sometimes. Don't historians and those kinds of people regularly gain access to things like this?" The young man practically looked down his nose. " 'Those kinds of people' " he fairly sneered, "go through proper channels." Mulder sighed. "And what might those be? Who oversees this museum anyway, the Smithsonian?" He had contacts at the Smithsonian. The young man looked shocked. "We are under the aegis of the National Parks Service," he huffed. Mulder nodded. That figured. "And how do I go about requesting permission from the National Parks Service?" he sighed, knowing he really did not want to know. "You file a brief describing your research, and your needs. If it is deemed a worthy project, then permission may be granted for access under close supervision. The process can take anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, depending." Mulder closed his eyes, nodding slightly. He just bet, 'depending'. He opened his eyes again. "There has to be something you can do for me," he pleaded winningly. "What do you do to satisfy the curious or the amateur historian. Isn't there something?" The Assistant Curator considered this. "Well," he agreed, reluctantly, it seemed to Mulder, "we do keep some of the pages in photocopy. I suppose I could let you have some of those..." Photocopies. Mulder groaned inwardly. Henderson would have his head. But it was better than nothing, he supposed. "I'll take whatever you've got." he said.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Diana Henderson looked up at him, and made a face. "As far as I can tell," she said, "it looks like a match. But I can't be sure with a photocopy, Mulder, you know that. You can't get the original document?" Mulder pursed his lips. "Not easily. It's gonna have to go higher." "Who is this, who wrote the original script, anyway? It wasn't written with a ball point, I can tell you that much, for sure." Mulder snorted humorlessly. "Believe me, you don't want to know," he said. Then he reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it an absentminded squeeze. "Thanks." Henderson watched him leave, her expression poignant with concern. Mulder took the evidence back up to Skinner's office. Skinner saw him right away. "What is it, Agent Mulder?" Mulder took a deep breath. Then he handed Skinner the blue book, and the photocopy of the letter from Booth. "I know this is going to sound wild," he started. Skinner just raised an eyebrow at him. "I tried something on a hunch," Mulder went on. "Agent Henderson, down in Handwriting, has already confirmed that the 'sic semper tyrannis' written on the top half of this blue book page matches the two notes found at the crime scenes; Dr. Carey's apartment, and the Ford Theater murder site. We already know it is John Sterling's handwriting. And we have a match among prints taken from Sterling's dorm room, prints taken from the notes, and prints taken from the crime scene. But we still have no motive, no idea what's driving this kid, and no idea where he might be. " Skinner nodded a trifle impatiently, indicating that he already knew all these things. Mulder went on. "This changed handwriting at the bottom of the blue book is problematic, though. Henderson says she's never seen anything like it. That it is made by the same hand, and yet is not the same hand. It's too significantly different to be the same person, even though it seemed to flow from the same pen, with no stops." Mulder pointed at the photocopy in Skinner's hands. "That is a photocopy of a page taken from the diary of John Wilkes Booth. It was written on April 14, 1865, the night of Lincoln's assassination, while Booth was in hiding. It contains the words 'sic semper tyrannis'. I had Agent Henderson check the bottom half of the blue book page against the writing here. "Now, she can't be positive without the original diary page to go on, and that will take an act of God to spring loose, but she has strongly suggested that these are a match. The bottom half of John Sterling's blue book page appears to have been written by John Wilkes Booth." Skinner looked at him stonily. Then he nodded once. Mulder took that as encouragement, and went on. "There is something else, sir," he said. "This diary, it was in that display case, right next to where those people were killed. The note was found right on top of it." "What are you suggesting, Agent Mulder," Skinner asked with deceptive calm. Mulder gave it to him straight. "I'm suggesting that perhaps John Robert Sterling the Third is not acting alone. That perhaps he has an 'accomplice' of sorts. I'm suggesting that John Sterling may be acting under the direct influence of the assassin, John Wilkes Booth. "Sir? I think we need to talk to Dr. Carey. We need to know more about this boy, and she is one of the few people left in town who knows him. And she is also an expert on American assassins. We need to know more about John Wilkes Booth." Mulder knew he was stepping pretty close to the edge of Skinner's tolerance, asking to involve Lucinda Carey in what looked like just another one of his harebrained theories. But he knew, just as surely, that this request was a necessary step. Perhaps a vital one. For a moment, Skinner did nothing. Then he looked back at the photocopy and sighed. "I agree, Agent Mulder," he said quietly. "I'll give her a call." Agent Mulder was not especially happy. He had gotten his meeting with Lucinda Carey, she was on her way at that moment, but it was not the private discussion for which he had hoped. He looked around the conference table in Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office. Besides himself, and Scully, two other agents previously unassociated with the case sat across from him: Agent Jerry Larsen, who Mulder knew in passing and had no real opinion about, and Agent Steve Agnoli, who Mulder knew rather well, and did not like, particularly. The feeling was more or less mutual, and had to do with a case that Mulder had solved out from under Agnoli a couple of years earlier. Mulder had opted not to fight the man for credit, frankly it had not mattered that much to him at the time, but Agnoli still had not forgiven him for it. Perhaps Agnoli had not forgiven him *because* Mulder had not fought for credit in the case; the truth was, Mulder, for all of his training in psychology, had the worst time making these political calls. But, whatever the reasons, Mulder knew he was on Agnoli's short list. It was not likely to make the management of this case any easier, if Agnoli was to become actively involved. Skinner had not explained what the two extra agents were doing there, except to indicate that a larger task force would need to be established, now that a suspect had been positively identified. Personally, Mulder had a suspicion that this was a not very subtle attempt at defusing what Skinner was likely to fear was another crazy X-File theory. Mulder had no choice but to accept it. He could fight his AD on matters of interpretation, and even win, occasionally, but where protocol or personnel were concerned, he knew he was just going to have to live with it. He looked down at the folder before him, and waited for Lucinda Carey to arrive. He spent his time wondering what sort of woman it was who could catch and hold Walter Skinner's attention. The speculation was not necessarily productive, or useful, but it did keep him from worrying about what Agnoli might do. He did not have long to wait. A knock sounded on the door to Skinner's office, and Muriel Duncker stepped into the room, followed by a tall, slender woman with short dark hair, and eyes so blue Mulder could see the color from all the way across the room. "Sir? Ms. Carey is here." She was very attractive, but it was not her physical appearance that impressed Mulder most. This woman had presence. She walked into the room with a quiet confidence that did not diminish as she took in the austere surroundings or the faces of strangers. Of course, some of that might have had to do with her relationship with Skinner, with the assumption that he would defend her, if necessary, but Mulder doubted it. Lucinda Carey was a natural born teacher, and this was just one more classroom. Carey made brief eye contact with Skinner, smiled discretely, and turned to the room. Skinner's eyes softened momentarily, looking at her, then his face solidified, once again, into it's usual, impassive expression. Yet, while his face might not be giving him away, his body language was; he did not hover, quite, but it was pretty obvious to Mulder that he was struggling to find a way to protect this woman as unobtrusively as possible. "Gentlemen, Agent Scully, this is Professor Lucinda Carey, from Georgetown University," Skinner began. "As you already know, Dr. Carey has some involvement with this case concerning the shooting deaths of three tourists in the Ford Theater last Friday, and with the note containing the words 'sic semper tyrannis,' found at that site. A similar note was found in her apartment on the same day, after an apparent break in, and the words 'sic semper tryannis' were also found in the exam papers of one of her students. We have reason to believe that this student may be responsible for these crimes. "Dr. Carey, ..." and Skinner went around the table, making introductions. Carey nodded pleasantly, then took a seat. Skinner, as was his habit, did not sit, but remained standing to one side of Carey's chair. Carey leaned forward comfortably, and looked at Mulder. "How can I help you?" she asked. By prearrangement, it was actually Scully who asked the first question. She had been a little annoyed at the unspoken reasoning for this; she knew what it was like to feel like the only girl on the football team, and she also knew that the rest of the group assumed questions from another woman would make Carey feel more comfortable, and, therefore, more tractable. Scully took one look at the woman, though, and knew that all that careful planning was a waste; this woman was not going to be intimidated, or beguiled. She had her act together, and she was going to cooperate, but on her own terms. Scully found herself liking Carey immediately. "Dr. Carey, the suspect, John Sterling is a student of yours, is that correct?" Scully began. Carey nodded. "Is he a good student?" Carey smiled a little. "He has a good mind, and considerable potential. Unfortunately, he seems to have some trouble applying himself. He is not a very good student. If fact, he failed my class rather miserably. And, I believe, has also flunked out of school altogether." "You failed him. Was it the fact that he failed your class that put him over the edge for dismissal from school?" Carey nodded. "It certainly would have contributed to his dismissal. Although I know from talking to his advisor that he wasn't doing any better in any of this other classes, and probably would have flunked out anyway." "Do you think it's possible that Sterling could have broken into your apartment as an act of vengeance?" Carey shrugged a little. "Certainly. It was my first thought, when I found 'sic semper tyrannis' written all over the back of his blue book," she agreed. "Dr. Carey," Skinner interjected. "You are aware that a second note containing the words 'sic semper tyrannis' was found at the at the Ford Theater moments after three people were shot and killed there. The handwriting on both notes matches John Sterling's. What can you tell us about Sterling? Are you aware of anything in his behavior that may have indicated an potential for him to act out in such a way?" Carey glanced up at Skinner thoughtfully, and shook her head. "The truth of the matter is, I did not know the boy very well. He came to class most of the time, but he did not participate. I ran into him once or twice on and off campus, but we did not discuss anything that might lead me to understand his interests or his problems. Basically, the only prolonged conversation I ever had with Sterling involved an attempt on his part to charm me into giving him a passing grade..." A sudden look passed between Carey and Skinner, and Mulder saw the AD's eyes sparkle with amusement. He wondered what that was all about. He glanced at Scully out of the corner of his eye, and saw her swallowing a smile. Then Skinner's expression became impassive once again, and Carey continued. "I really don't have any idea. I can't say that I found him particularly aggressive, or antisocial in class. Just unresponsive." "Dr. Carey," Mulder spoke up, finally. "These words, 'sic semper tryannis'. These are the words that John Wilkes Booth is supposed to have cried when he assassinated President Lincoln, isn't that true?" Carey nodded. "That's correct. They mean 'thus always to tyrants'. They are also allegedly what Brutus said when he stabbed Julius Caesar." "Do you think there may be some connection? Do you think it's possible that Sterling may be deluded into thinking he is Booth, or is somehow being influence by him?" Carey eyed him warily. "I really can't say, Agent Mulder," she replied. "I, myself, had not noticed a particular interest in Sterling concerning Booth. Or of the South, or politics, for that matter. But I only had the boy in one class for one term. And he did not confide in me." She paused, and seemed to consider the question further. Then she smiled a little. "It is an interesting idea, however," she agreed. Mulder nodded. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, glancing briefly at Scully as he did. "I'm afraid American History is not my long suit, Dr. Carey," he admitted. "What can you tell us about John Wilkes Booth? What motivated him? If we suppose, for the moment, that Sterling is operating under the influence of some delusion, how might he be using Booth's history?" Carey smiled. "What can I tell you? Everything and nothing, really. There is a huge body of literature on John Wilkes Booth, but most of it is contradictory. He was an actor, from a family of actors. His father and brother were both legendary in their time. It is suggested that Booth killed Lincoln for the attention, that he was jealous of his antecedents, and that his voice was being destroyed by a chronic infection. There is little evidence to support this, however; in fact contemporary reviews seem to indicate that he was very well respected. He *was* highly political, and, though he was Northern born, he loved the South to the point of obsession. But madness also ran in his family, so experts conflict on whether he killed Lincoln in a fit of 'dementia praecox', paranoid schizophrenia, or of misplaced, but very sane, patriotism. It's said that he acted alone, with the help of only a few friends; it is also said that he was part of a conspiracy encompassing almost a hundred participants from the highest reaches of industry and government." "Sounds like your kind of guy, Mulder," Agent Steve Agnoli gibed from across the table. Mulder ignored him and nodded to Carey to continue. "What else do we know about Booth?" Carey shrugged. "He was single, and a lady's man. Or he was secretly married to an actress named Izola Darcy. Or he was secretly engaged to the daughter of New Hampshire's Representative John Hale." Mulder smiled. "Any children?" he asked, a little too eagerly. Scully gave him a sharp look, guessing that he was remembering B.J. Morrow, and not sure she liked the idea. Mulder glanced at her, and smiled reassuringly, knowing what she was thinking. "Children? Well, none that he acknowledged," Carey replied, a little flippantly. The room collectively smiled. "There was supposed to have been a daughter from the alleged secret marriage, but none of that was ever proven." "He was shot and killed on Garrett's farm, though, right? I do remember much that from my history lessons." Carey shrugged again. "Perhaps. He may have been shot by a soldier named Boston Corbett, or he may have shot himself when he realized all avenues of escape had been closed. He was buried in an unmarked grave here in Washington for several years before his body was moved to the family plot in Baltimore. "If he died on Garrett's farm at all; there is also a faction of researchers who believe the man who was shot in Garrett's barn was actually a Rebel war criminal named James Boyd, and that Booth escaped to live until ripe old age under various pseudonyms. Booth sighting became a national pastime in the late 1860s and '70s. He was probably seen more times than even Elvis has been. "John Wilkes Booth is an historian's nightmare. About the only thing we can be sure of is that he *did* kill Lincoln, there were just too many witnesses. And that there did seem to be a strain of mental instability in his family, for whatever that's worth. His brother was an alcoholic, and his father was as crazy as a coot." Agnoli leaned forward and put his elbows on the conference table. "Mulder, this history lesson is all very nice, but do you mind telling us where this is going? What can this possibly have to do with these murders?" Mulder nodded. He glanced at Skinner, then opened the file in front of him. He took out two notes, one from the Ford Theater, and the one from Carey's apartment. He took out Sterling's blue book. He passed them to Scully, who began to pass them around the table. "These exhibits are the two notes taken from the crime scenes, and the blue book from John Sterling's final exam. The writing on the notes matches the writing on the top of the last page of the exam book, the page covered with the words 'sic semper tyrannis'." Everyone duly noted the exhibits. They looked back at Mulder. "If you'll notice," Mulder went on, "the handwriting on the bottom half of the blue book page changes dramatically. Handwriting analysis has confirmed that it is unlikely that the same person completed this bottom section, and yet, the writing appears to be from the same pen, made at the same time as the writing on the top half of the page. This page was completed while the boy was participating in a supervised exam. It could not have been completed by a second person." Mulder glanced at Carey. "This is correct, Dr. Carey? The boy was under your observation the entire time, and the blue book was in no other possession, afterward, but yours?" Skinner shifted on his feet, and eyed Mulder in warning. Carey simply nodded. "Yes," she replied, her voice tinged with curiosity. "That is true." Mulder handed the photocopy of Booth's diary page to Scully, who in turn handed it to Agnoli. "This sheet is a photocopy of a page from the diary of John Wilkes Booth," he began evenly. "I have had the handwriting examined. Agent Henderson has determined, as best she can from a photocopy, that there is a probable match between the handwriting in this exhibit, and the handwriting found at the bottom of John Sterling's blue book page."
Carey took the photocopy from Agnoli, looked at it, then came suddenly forward in her seat. "So what, Mulder," Agnoli asked, dripping sarcasm, "are you trying to tell us that this kid is possessed or something? That these murders were committed by the ghost of John Wilkes Booth?" Larsen sniggered, but no one else did. Carey looked thoughtful. "Well, you wouldn't be the first to suggest it," she advised Agnoli pleasantly. Then she turned to Mulder. "The myth of Booth's ghost is actually quite well known. Several mysterious Washington deaths have been attributed to his shade, over the years." She leaned back and crossed her legs. "Most of the stories do place the ghost in the Ford Theater. When the theater was being renovated in the late sixties there were several sightings, all more or less in the vicinity of Box Seven, where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. One of the most interesting accounts, though, relates to a photograph taken by Civil War photographer, Mathew Brady. Brady had taken a photo of Box Seven shortly after the assassination. When the plate was developed, apparently, a ghostly figure appeared behind the chair Lincoln had been seated in, but no one was behind the chair when Brady took the picture. "There have been a couple of life taking disasters in that theater over the years as well, that have been attributed to the restless spirit of John Wilkes Booth." "Oh, come on," Agnoli snapped at Carey nastily. "You don't honestly expect us to sit here and believe that this kid is acting under the influence of some ghost!" Skinner bristled at the assault, and Mulder braced himself, sure that the AD going to explode into one of his memorable outbursts. But Skinner restrained himself, barely. Instead, Mulder watched as Carey turned. She graced Agnoli with her very best "school mistress" stare, and the man was suddenly transported back to the second grade. He fidgeted, and slumped in his chair a little, silent and subdued. Carey released him from her look. She turned back to Mulder, who, for once, did not quite know how to react. It was Scully, finally, who rescued the moment. "Well, it would seem to me that whether or not John Sterling is actually possessed by the ghost of John Wilkes Booth, or only thinks he is, the approach to finding him would be more or less the same," she suggested mildly. She glanced at Skinner very briefly out of the corner of her eye, then turned to Mulder directly. "No?" she asked. Mulder sucked down a smile and glanced at his boss. Skinner nodded imperceptibly. Mulder looked at Carey. "I'm going to need to know everything there is to know about John Wilkes Booth," he said. "People, places, things. Mostly places. If this kid is Booth, or only thinks he is, where would he hole up?" Carey chuckled. "That's quite a lot of reading, Agent Mulder," she warned companionably. "Why don't you give me your e-mail address, and I can send you a digest. That would be the best place to start."
Mulder put his hand on Scully's shoulder, guiding her toward the elevator as soon as they left Skinner's office. "Boy, has *he* got his hands full!" he exclaimed appreciatively as they headed down the hall. "Did you get the feeling that Dr. Carey wasn't particularly impressed with us, Scully?" Scully rolled her eyes at him. "I got the feeling she really knows her stuff," she rejoined, with mock sternness. But Mulder was not to be deflected. "I'll bet!" he replied with enthusiasm. "No *wonder* Skinner's been in such a good mood lately!" Scully laughed, in spite of herself, joining into the spirit of it, finally. She grinned up at him out of the corner of her eye. "You sound almost envious, Agent Mulder," she teased. "Not me," Mulder denied, as he reached out to press the button for the elevator. By some miracle, it was actually there. "I've got enough aggravation." Scully snorted as the elevator doors slid open. "Oh, I don't know," she countered over her shoulder as she stepped into the car. "I wouldn't say he looked *aggravated*, exactly..." Mulder looked down at her as he followed her in. Then he burst out laughing as the doors closed on them.
Back in Skinner's now deserted office, Carey smiled. "Oh, he's cute," she said, standing up and nodding at the door Mulder had just exited. "He's *very* good." Then she laughed at Skinner's expression. "Now, don't look like that," she admonished. "He's not my type. Besides, I'm very happy, right were I am." She leaned up and kissed him lightly, then rested her hands against his chest. Skinner smiled, and put his arms around her. He pulled her closer, and kissed her, again, harder this time. Then he looked down at her, thoughtfully. "You okay? Lucinda nodded. "It's just a little overwhelming," she admitted. "He's just a boy, Walt, he's one of my students. I have a hard time thinking of him as a murderer." Skinner exhaled slowly, and tried to hide his growing fear for her. He had no clear idea of what they were up against, and no real understanding of what was driving this boy. He did not know what to think about Mulder's suppositions. He only knew John Sterling had probably killed three people for no discernible reason, and that the boy held a grudge against Lucinda Carey. He also knew that this woman in his arms had begun to mean more to him than anyone else, with the exception, perhaps, of his only child, and that her life might be in very real danger. The realization left him feeling extremely vulnerable. "Do you think Mulder could be right? That this kid *could* be possessed by the spirit of John Wilkes Booth?" he asked, surprising her. Carey laughed a little. "I don't know, and I don't even want to speculate, really. Although it is an interesting idea..." She shrugged. "But whatever the case, he does seem to have been influenced by the *idea* of Booth..." Skinner nodded his agreement. Then he kissed the top of her head. "Why don't you go on back out to the house," he said. "I'll be home, later. I don't know how late I'll be..." Carey nodded. "Okay," she agreed softly. Then she leaned up, wrapping her arms around his neck, seeking his mouth with her own. Their lips came together, parted, and they kissed deeply, a sudden burst of passion, driven by the deadliness of this situation, taking them. It was Carey who finally broke the embrace. "What would your secretary do if she suddenly walked in, and found us like this?" she teased, to cover her breathlessness. Skinner gave the closed door an amused look. "Muriel?" he speculated. "She'd probably clap."
It was very late in the day when the download of data that Carey had promised beeped up on Mulder's office computer. And it was later still, by the time they had begun to digest it all. "Boy, she wasn't kidding when she said there was a lot of reading," Mulder griped as he tacked a map of Washington up on the bulletin board over his desk. Scully looked up from the terminal. "At least she did a lot of the analysis for us, already," Scully replied. "This stuff is great." She blew out a breath. "You ready?" "Go ahead," Mulder replied, armed with push pins. "Okay," Scully said. "We've got the Ford Theater. Site of Lincoln's assassination." Mulder nodded, and pointed to a red push pin, already inserted. "Directly across the street from that," Scully looked at the screen, "is the Peterson House. That's were Lincoln was moved after the shooting. He died in a room on the ground floor. Ooh, this is weird, Mulder, listen to this. Not only did Lincoln die in that room, but about only a couple of months earlier one of the conspirators *stayed* in the same room, and it's reputed that Booth visited the room several times during that period. What a coincidence. Sounds like a X-File, all by itself." Mulder laughed as he stuck a blue push pin in the map. "Okay, where next." "Mary Surratt's boarding house. 604 H Street." "That's where the conspirators met, right?" Mulder asked, finding the spot, and pushing in a blue pin. "Yeah," Scully agreed. "Apparently, they hanged the poor woman on no stronger evidence than the fact that she owned the place, and some drunk's testimony that she might have provided guns for the escapees." Mulder shook his head. He inserted two more pins, green ones this time, at the site of Sterling's university dorm, and Carey's apartment. He stood back to survey his handiwork. "Anyplace else of note?" Scully shrugged. "Well, there's a tavern up in Maryland, about thirteen miles outside the city, that was apparently owned by Surratt, as well. Booth was supposed to have stayed there for a little while after he escaped the city. And also the house of a Dr. Samuel Mudd, who was suppose to have set Booth's broken leg, and who may also have been part of the original conspiracy... The Garett farm is gone, for all intents and purposes." Mulder sighed. "I need a bigger map," he groused. He looked at his blue pins. "Still, the sites directly connected to the conspiracy and the assassination themselves are pretty close together, barely a block or two apart, really. Should be easy enough to keep them under surveillance." Scully sighed. "Are you really sure that this kid will hole up somewhere that was connected to the assassination? Suppose he just takes off?" she asked. Mulder turned around and leaned back on his desk. "Think about it Scully, where else would he go? He can't go back to his dorm. He can't go home, he would know that we would be looking for him there. And we've alerted the Hartford field office, just in case. He's not a hardened criminal, he's just a kid. He's bound to be scared and disoriented. He could probably just live on the streets for a while, but I'm betting that he will look for someplace to ground himself. "Whether or not you want to believe that he *is* John Wilkes Booth, I'm still maintaining that he is operating under that influence. Even if it's just a delusion. I still think he would naturally gravitate toward someplace familiar to the Booth legend." Scully shrugged, but did not argue. The truth was, Mulder's approach made about as much sense as anything else did at that moment, and they needed to start someplace. "What now?" "Well, Skinner will want to see this," Mulder said, nodding at the map, and acknowledging with a sigh his earlier suspicion that the AD was not going to let him take too many steps, on this one, without checking in. "And we need to assign the surveillance teams." "Where you gonna send Agnoli?" Scully asked, chuckling, knowing that there was no love lost between the two men. Mulder made a face. "I dunno," he replied. "We got anything down in the swamp?"
Alexandria, VA It *was* late when Walter Skinner finally got home that night. He had spent hours with Mulder and the surveillance teams; work that could have just as easily been left to his men, but that he felt an irrational need to oversee, himself, nonetheless. He came in through the kitchen door in the back of his house, dropped his briefcase on the small love seat in the corner of the room, shucked his jacket and pulled off his tie. He could not remember when he had last felt so weary. There were no sounds of movement, so he guessed Lucinda must have already turned in. In a way, he was disappointed, he would have like to have talked through certain aspects of this bizarre case with her, but he was glad, in a way, too. She had to be feeling the strain of this situation. He was relieved that she was able to sleep. He crossed to a big oak amoire in the corner next to the dining room, and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He was not much of a hard liquor drinker. He had seen too many colleagues succumb to drink in the face of this kind of intense pressure, and he recognized the seductions there. But he needed to relax this night. He poured himself a couple of fingers worth, splashed in a little water, and took the drink upstairs. Lucinda was in bed, but she was still awake. Skinner put his glasses and his drink on the night table, and sat down on the bed beside her. She turned to him and smiled. He could see the strain drawn on her face as she did. "How'd it go? Anything new?" she asked. He shook his head. "We're going on the assumption that Sterling believes he is acting under Booth's authority, and will try to hole up at some site known to have been connected with the Lincoln assassination conspiracy. I've got teams staked out at the Ford Theater, the Peterson House where Lincoln died, and a tarvern outside of the city that is supposed to have been owned by the Surratt's. Did I forget anything?" "Mary Surratt's boarding house? It's up on H Street. I think it's a restaurant, now." "Got that one, too," Skinner concurred. Lucinda nodded wearily. Skinner reached down and stroked her cheek. "Tired, sweet?" he asked her gently. She murmured a languid affirmative, and turned her head to kiss his palm. "Tired," she agreed. "And a little strung out, I guess. It's been an eventful last few days." Walter nodded. "Roll over," he directed, running his hand over the curve of her shoulder. She smiled and complied, rolling onto her stomach. His expert fingers found the tightness in her shoulders though the satin of her night gown, and worked it gently. He slipped his hands into her hair, massaging her scalp behind the ears, then back down to her shoulders again and over the small of her back. She sighed, stretching luxuriously under his hands. He felt himself stirring, wanting her, and he buried his disappointment. She was tired, and stressed; she needed peace. He was frankly amazed she was in as good a shape as she was. He ran his palm down her back. She shifted, arching a little, and made a soft cooing noise. "Ummm," she murmured, then sat up with one fluid motion and reached for him. He pulled her into his arms, and kissed her deeply, responding to her advance. "I thought you were tired," he said, in delighted surprise. She smiled up at him. "I *am* tired," she agreed, nestling down against his shoulder. "I'm not comatose." She reached up, traced his lips with her finger. "Just because I'm not up to running a marathon, that doesn't mean I wouldn't take pleasure in a quiet stroll in the park." Skinner chuckled softly. He kissed the fingertip, then took it in his teeth, bit down gently. Lucinda sucked in a breath. "Besides," she continued huskily. "Do you have any idea, Walter Skinner, how much you turn me on? You could probably bring me back from the dead." For a moment, emotion choked him, leaving him mute. He kissed her, again, to delay the need to speak, but she could feel him trembling, and held him close. He pulled away and looked down at her face. And knew, in that moment, that she owned his heart. "Stroll with me, lady?" She smiled softly. "With pleasure, sir." She leaned back and looked into his eyes. "Come to bed," she said.
May 19 Assistant Director Walter Skinner did not often venture down to the X-Files office, preferring to confer with his agents in his own space, so his presence suddenly in the doorway was a surprise, to say the least. Mulder looked up from his desk. "Sir?" he asked, getting to his feet. Skinner walked into the room. He stopped before the wall map Mulder had created, and stared at it absently. His expression was... ashen. There was not other word for it. "Sir?" Scully asked with growing concern. "Are you all right?" Skinner turned and looked down at her, his eyes suddenly coming into focus. "Yes, thank you, Agent Scully. I'm fine. I just received some... disturbing news." He eyed his two agents thoughtfully for a moment. "This isn't for general knowledge," he continued, finally, "but a situation has arisen that has further complicated matters in the John Sterling case. This case has suddenly gotten very big, Agent Mulder. I just had a visit from the Secret Service. The President received this in his morning mail." He handed Mulder a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a note, clearly inscribed with the words: "Sic Semper Tryannis." Mulder felt the blood drain away from his head. Then he took a deep breath, composing himself, and nodded at his AD. "What is it?" Scully asked. Mulder handed the note to her. She looked at it briefly, then up at the two men. Her face was a mask of dread. "Oh, my God," she breathed. Mulder met Skinner's eye, and struggled to compose himself. "Let's take it down to Handwriting," he said finally.
"It's not Sterling," Henderson said, lifting her face from the viewer. "At least it does not match the top half of his blue book page, or the other two notes." "What do you mean?" Mulder asked. "This note is written in the same hand that filled in the bottom half of that blue book, and probably that photocopy you brought to me yesterday. Find the author of that, and I would bet you've found the author of this one." Mulder looked quickly at Scully. He avoided Skinner's eyes. Henderson looked curiously from Mulder to Skinner and back again. "What's going on, anyway?" She was not stupid. Anything that would bring the AD all the way down to her department on a personal mission had to very big. "Thank you, Agent Henderson," was all Skinner would say. He turned and left abruptly. Henderson looked up at Mulder questioningly. Mulder looked at Scully. Scully turned and let her eyes following Skinner's retreating back. EXCERPTED FROM FIELD NOTES: Special Agent Dana Scully "... it is Agent Mulder's contention that John Sterling is acting under the control of the spirit of assassin, John Wilkes Booth. While this theory cannot be substantiated, there seems little doubt that Sterling has been somehow influenced by the *idea* of John Wilkes Booth, and may be acting as if he did, in fact, believe himself to be the victim of such a possession. The notes left at two recent crime scenes containing the words "sic semper tyrannis," which also contain Sterling's fingerprints, point to a fascination with the assassin, Booth, and with assassination in general... "While the note received by the President of the United States is problematic in that the handwriting does not match that of the first two notes, Sterling's fingerprints were found on it. The handwriting does match handwriting found on the lower half of Sterling's blue book exam page. It may also match the handwriting found in a diary reputed to have belonged to Lincoln's assassin, although that, too, has not been conclusively confirmed. It is possible, however, that in his delusional state Sterling has learned to duplicate Booth's handwriting with significant enough accuracy for it to be indistinguishable from the photocopy samples provided by the Ford Theater. An attempt is being made to secure the actual diary for analysis, but in the mean time, we are forced to go forward as if Sterling is indeed acting under the perceived influence of the assassin John Wilkes Booth... "Since it is very likely that John Sterling is responsible for the murders committed at the Ford Theater on May 12, 1995, the note received by the President of the United States on the morning of May 18th can only be treated as a serious threat to his life... "Assassination, itself, is an ancient form of political warfare, tracing its origins back to an ancient elite Persian strike force. This force was reputed to have been stirred into near fearlessness by the habitual use of hashish - hence their name: hashishim, or assassins... "The pathology of the modern assassin is debatable, and there seems no clear agreement as to the driving force behind the individual who will murder, specifically, a high profile political target. An analysis of assassination in America, however, has identified what appears to be four distinct types of personalities and motives: the political zealot, who views his act as a personal sacrifice, murdering to bring attention to or further a cause; the psycho/sociopath, who murders in order to act out against perceived personal injustice or low social status; the social misfit, who murders for attention, or to gain the respect of a love object he or she perceives as unattainable; and the true madman, who is driven by the forces of his own delusions, often interpreted as divine. "American assassins do not seem to fall into any readily identifiable categories in terms of race, religious persuasions, age, or even sex or ethnic origin. Assassins and would-be assassins have been both male and female, and of ages ranging from early twenties into the forties - although the average age of the assassin or would-be assassin in America seems to fall into the late twenties to early thirties. American assassins have also fallen into a wide variety of ethnic and social backgrounds... "There is no real agreement on the category into which falls Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth. He was male, aged twenty-seven years, and American born. He came from an economically secure, although somewhat socially denigrated profession. He is recognized as having been highly political, and of an inflammatory temperament. However, there is also contention that Booth was dissatisfied with a perception of himself as the, perhaps, lesser talent in his theatrical family. Also, as an actor, it can be speculated that Booth would have had an affinity for the grandiose public statement. Yet, while his act appears mad, at first glance, there is no evidence to indicate that he acted under the force of any delusion, or that he did not understand the consequences of his actions. To the contrary, he appears to have embraced those consequences, including the notice that would surround his eventual capture and trial. Whether he committed his crime out of a misguided sense of patriotism, or out of a desire to achieve notoriety and 'a place in history', he was not apparently insane by any legally acceptable definition of the term. "The same may not be true about John Sterling. Interviews with his contemporaries indicate that Sterling is a highly sensitive young man who may be manifesting signs of a persecution complex, perhaps complicated by symptoms of clinical depression, or possibly adolescent schizophrenia. He is a loner, with poor social and organizational skills, and is reputed to have recently complained of severe headaches and a ringing in the ears. While these symptoms do not automatically point to a delusional state of mind, clinically aberrant behavior cannot be ruled out..."
The Executive Mansion and Surrounding Area## Washington, D.C John Sterling threw himself into the bushes that surrounded the Old Executive Office Building to the west of the White House, and pressed himself close to the ground behind one of the many granite columns that decorated that old baroque building. He hunched down, trying to make himself as small has he could, and struggled to get his breath. Behind him, he could still hear the confusion, and he knew that he was *much* to close. He had to get away. He sat up slightly and looked around as best he could. He lifted a hand to part the dense greenery, and realized that he still held his gun in it. He dropped it into the dirt. Maybe he would just leave it there. If he could wipe off the fingerprints and bury it under the flower bed here, then no one would probably find it. At least not for days. And even if they did, they would never connect it to him. Nobody knew he even owned the gun except his family, and they would never betray him. And Trisha, he suddenly remembered, he *had* shown it to Trisha. He would have to get to her, somehow, and threaten her not to tell. But he could do that. It would be all right. He picked up the weapon, and began wiping it furiously on his shirt. - No. "Go away!" Sterling hissed under his breath. - You are not finished yet, Johnny. You are not done. "Yes, I am. I won't do any more for you." - For yourself, too, Johnny. You are committed, now. And you haven't completed your task. The tyrant still lives. Even his minion lives. The tyrant lives, and so does all that he stands for. Sterling did not respond. He fumbled with the cumbersome weapon furiously, trying to hold the butt in his shirt while he wiped the barrel clean. He dropped it, picked it up with bare hands, then cursed himself for his stupidity. He would have to start all over again, now. - Johnny. The voice began again, softly. Sweetly. Seductively. Sterling hesitated. - Listen to them, Johnny, they have no idea. Sterling strained to listen. He could here the panicked voices in the near distance, hear approaching sirens, too. "I gotta get out of here," he mumbled. - Yes, Johnny, you must. I can baffle them only for so long. Sterling started to wipe at the gun again, frantically this time. - No, Johnny, take the gun with you. You will need it again, and a man *never* leaves his weapon behind. "I won't need it. I'm finished. I don't want it any more," Sterling cried softly, tears beginning to form in his eyes and course down his cheeks. - But you are wrong, Johnny, you will need it. You still have work to do. "No!" Sterling answered fiercely. "I am not going to do any more for you. I'm finished, do you hear me!" - Keep your voice down, you fool! Do you want them to hear you? Dammit, you're as worthless as the idiot, Davy Herrold. Now, listen to me. Sterling just hung his head and began wiping at the pistol more carefully this time. The voice was silent for a few moments. Then: - You don't really have time for that, you know. Sterling looked up. - Take it with you, the voice continued, slyly now. - If you must dispose of it, you can do that later. Throw it into the Tidal Basin. Throw it into the river. But right now, you must get away. Sterling nodded slowly. That made sense. "Away." - That's right, Johnny. Get away. Run away, Johnny. Run, run, run away. Little Johnny needs to play. Another day. Sterling got up onto his knees and looked out through the bushes. He could still hear the sound of shouting, but it seemed to be moving away from him, and there was no signs of anyone there on the South Lawn. If he was careful he should be able to get around to the other side of this building without being seen. The Exec Building's ugly Empire design offered plenty of nooks and cranky in which to hide. Then he could just run across... he thought hard, trying to get his bearings, trying to remember where he was. Foggy Bottom, he could run into Foggy Bottom and loose himself easily there. Wait until things had quieted down. That should not be too hard. - For now, Johnny. The Foggy Bottom will do for now. Take the gun with you, Johnny, and go. Go quickly, while you still can. Yes, Sterling thought to himself. He stuck his gun into the waistband of his jeans, and slipped out from behind the pillar. A quick look both ways, and he darted around the building and out onto 17th Street. He dashed across, toward F, and down, to lose himself among the alleys and row houses of the Foggy Bottom.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Mulder looked up from the small map of Washington he had spread on his desk. His telephone had buzzed, indicating an internal call. He almost did not take it. It was probably only Agnoli, complaining about the surveillance assignments, and Mulder had no interest in talking to the man. Then he sighed and reached for the receiver. Whoever wanted him would just hunt him down and find him, eventually, and he would much rather deal with Agnoli, if that's who it was, over the phone. "Yeah?" "Agent Mulder?" He recognized Muriel Duncker's voice. "Mr. Skinner would like to see you in his office, immediately." Mulder thanked her, and wondered sourly if Skinner ever wanted to see anyone any way other than immediately. He sighed and got to his feet. "You wanted to see me, sir?" Skinner was standing there, looking out his window, when Mulder walked in. "Thank you for coming, Agent Mulder," he said without turning around. Then he took a deep breath. "I just got a call from the White House," he went on without preamble, not asking the agent to sit. "An attempt was made on the President's life at four o'clock this afternoon." Mulder blanched, and he felt his legs buckle underneath him. He grabbed the nearest chair and sat, not waiting, not able to wait, for an invitation. Skinner turned, and eyed the younger man for a moment. "The attempt was unsuccessful. A Secret Service agent was injured, but not seriously. The assailant got away." Mulder scowled. "How?" he asked. "A pistol shot, at least from the evidence found in the Secret Service agent's body. The bullet removed from the agent's shoulder matches the ones taken from those Ford Theater victims." Skinner looked at Mulder hard. "It's got to be Sterling." "And he got away?" Mulder asked, incredulous. "He got close enough to fire a pistol at the President of the United States, and they let him get away?" Skinner merely nodded. "According to eye witness accounts, there was a tremendous amount of confusion immediately after the shot was fired. An *abnormal* amount of confusion, apparently. Even the Secret Service can't seem to remember exactly what happened or what they saw." Mulder thought about that, realizing what kind of incredible force it must be to be able to baffle the hand picked and highly trained professional guardians of the President of the United States. "I don't suppose anyone saw a 'shimmering'?" he asked his boss. Skinner looked bemused, but shook his head. "There were few witnesses, outside of the Secret Service, and regular staff. So far, the White House has been able to keep the incident away from the press." He turned away, again, toward his window. "Dammit, Mulder, where the hell *is* this kid!" Skinner finally exploded. "How does he manage to keep slipping away from us! We've got a whole team staking out the Ford Theater, and every place else in town connected with the Lincoln assassination conspiracy. There is a huge force at the White House, itself. I've even got men in up Baltimore, at the cemetery where Booth is buried. Where the hell else could this kid be?" Mulder pressed his hands against his face, and sighed. "I don't know," he mumbled into his steepled palms. He looked up over the tops of his fingertips. "I just don't know." He shook his head. "Maybe we just aren't looking in the right places. Maybe I'm wrong." Skinner looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he shook his head, his eyes suddenly lighting up. "I don't think so," he said quietly. Mulder could sense the change in him, could see his mind working. "What?" Skinner pulled off his glasses, swinging them absently as he thought. "Lucinda mentioned that Booth's body had been buried in secret for a while before it was moved to Baltimore, to the Booth family gravesite," he said, punctuating the words with short jabs from his eyeglass stems. Mulder sat up. "Yes. I remember that. Do you know where?" he asked. Skinner shook his head. The two men just looked at each other for a moment. Then Skinner dove for the phone.
The Ford Theater John Sterling finally returned to the only place he could think of, the only place that he ever remembered feeling safe and secure. He did not know why his feet had taken him east instead of west, why they had lead him back to the Ford Theater. He simply could not help himself. Some force he could not explain controlled him now, some strange compulsion. It was as if just gaining the site of his first encounter with the voice would be enough to make him invincible. Enough to save him from his fate. And the voice was waiting for him. - You fool! Why have you come here! "I didn't know what else to do..." Sterling stammered. - They are looking for you here, don't you know that? Damn you, Johnny! I cannot blind their eyes forever! Even as we speak, the agents of the tyrant sit there across the street, waiting for you. Sterling wheeled and stared at the unmarked sedan across the street from the theater. Panic griped him. - Be calm, you idiot, they do not see you, yet. I still have them under my glamour, to them you are just another vagrant. But I cannot maintain this bafflement much longer, Johnny, it drains me, it drains me. And I must save myself for the task at hand. "It's no use," Sterling whined. "I can't escape. I was stupid to think I could ever get away with this. I may as well just give myself up." - No! I will not tolerate it, Johnny, I will not *tolerate* this weak, defeatist attitude. You have your *purpose*, Johnny, you still have work to do! Sterling did not even bother to protest. His will was no longer his own. He just hung his head, tears flowing freely now. "What do you want me to do?" - You must preserve yourself, Johnny. Run away. Go to the place where first they laid me. They are not looking for you there. I have looked into the hearts of the agents of the tyrant, and they do not look in that place. You will be safe there. "Where?" - Just run, Johnny, run to the South. I will guide. But be quick, man! Now, run!
Federal Bureau of Investigation "The Old Penitentiary," Carey's voice came over the speaker-phone. "It was originally a prison, then it was co-opted by the Union Army during the Civil War to be used as an arsenal. It's called the Arsenal Prison, too, in some of the literature. Booth's body was buried under the floor in one of the old cells for almost four years before it was released to the family. Why?" "Where is it?" Skinner asked, not answering the question. "Is it still standing?" "The building itself? Most of it's gone. It's part of Ft. McNair, now. What's left of the old prison is now used for junior officer barracks." "Do you know where the body was buried, exactly?" Mulder asked. "Could we find the gravesite, today?" "Sure," Carey responded. "It's well known. The site is marked on any map of the Fort." "Lu, how can we get a copy of one of those maps?" Skinner asked her urgently. "ASAP." "I have one," she replied promptly. "Why don't I meet you out in the lobby? I can be there in a hour." Skinner turned to look at Mulder thoughtfully. "McNair is an military installation," he said. "It may take some finagling to get us permission to search for a suspect on the property." Mulder nodded. "Have Scully do it," he suggested. "She's good at finagling." Skinner gave his subordinate a dry look, and thought to himself that she probably needed to be. "We're going to need to be very quick, and very careful, Mulder," he said. "We could very rapidly lose control of this situation, if we don't watch our step."
Carey made it in forty five minutes. "Here, the grave is right there," she pointed to an "x" mark on the map in Skinner's hands. "It's been pretty well documented, so I'm sure it's accurate. The building, itself , is gone, though. The grave is in the middle of the parade grounds." She pointed to another spot. "This is all that is left of the original Penitentiary building. It's housing now. The trial for the other conspirators were held here." Carey looked at Skinner. "What's going on? Do you think that Sterling could be *here*, someplace?" Skinner hated to lie to her, but this was necessary. He would explain it to her later, once it was resolved, and hope that she understood. For the moment he just shrugged, and hedged. "It's the one place we haven't looked," he replied. "And the last sensible possibility, if any of this can be called 'sensible'." Carey looked at him as if she sensed he was not telling her the whole truth, and then she nodded, as if she understood that sometimes the whole truth was not his to tell. She let go of the map. "Lu, thank you," Skinner said, rolling the map up, but it was obvious by his manner that they had to go, and quickly. Carey nodded, and stepped back a little, effectively releasing them from needing to be polite to her. Then, as the men said good-bye, and started to turn away, she moved closer, again, and lay her hand on Mulder's arm. "Agent Mulder?" He turned to her. Skinner stopped and watched them both. Mulder looked at Carey curiously. "If you find the boy? If you get close enough to talk to him? Call him 'Johnny'." Mulder frowned. "Is that his nickname?" Carey smiled faintly. "It's what Edwin Booth called his brother John Wilkes." Mulder just looked at her. And saw belief, saw acceptance, in her eyes. The realization took his breath away a little. Then he smiled, and glanced at his AD. Skinner just nodded slightly. "Thank you," Mulder replied with a nod. Then he turned again, and the two men hurried away.
Ft. Lesley J. McNair "What's Skinner doing here?" Scully watched as the AD, dressed, now, in jeans and the standard blue FBI "bomber," sauntered across the Ft. McNair "green". He was coming toward them with a look of grim determination on his face. Beside her, Mulder merely shrugged. "I suppose, under the circumstances, and with all these Secret Service types around, it probably warrants somebody at his level in charge," he speculated, "and maybe he just gets tired of sitting around in his office waiting for someone to call him and tell him what's going on. From what I've heard, he was a crack operative in his day; he's supposed to be really good at this kind of thing. "In any case," Mulder concluded, "I'm not going to argue with him about it. I think I'm actually in his good graces, for a change. I'd kind of like to stay that way, for a little while, anyway." Scully looked up at her partner and smiled. Then she looked serious again. "These Secret Service types are making me nervous," she admitted. "I don't trust them. They're going to blow this kid away, if they get a chance, I can just feel it." Mulder nodded, but did not comment further. Skinner was almost on them. "How do we look?" the AD queried, coming to a stop. "Everyone's set," Mulder replied. "Maps have been distributed and reviewed. Back up's in place We're ready when you are, sir." Skinner looked out over the parade grounds. "Nice and open, little bit of a moon," he said, sounding pleased. "If this kid is here, and we can flush him, it should be easy enough to bring him in. Who has the point team?" "Agent Wagner. He's the best we've got," Mulder explained, at Skinner's look of surprise. "And he's something of a history buff, apparently. He's already familiar with the place, it seems." Skinner nodded. "Where's Agnoli?" he asked, looking out over the green again. "Perimeter," Mulder replied. "He's down in the swamp," Scully glossed mischievously. Skinner barked a short laugh. Then he was immediately serious again. He keyed his jacket microphone. "Okay, people, look lively, this is it. We will begin sweep search on my word. Radios at two. The suspect is believed to be armed, but we want this boy in one piece so don't anybody get trigger happy on me. Advise immediately quarry is sighted. "Let's move out." Special Agent Steve Wagner was not particularly happy with this assignment, although he could not really say why. He had taken part in, and lately lead, more of these efforts than he could count, it was his job and he was damn good at it. So why did this one bother him? It was not presentiment, he sensed no danger here other than that which normally accompanied these manhunts. Less, actually. He had been more relaxed than usual, earlier, when he had called his wife. And Lee Ann had joked with him a little lustily, something she was not inclined to do when she knew he was going into danger. Maybe it was just the place. He looked around at the stately brick and white buildings surrounding him, and felt something akin to reverence. This place held so much history, so much majesty, that the idea of violating it with a search seemed a little, well, blasphemous. If this kid was even here. Well, it was not his job to decide such things. He patted the map in his pocket, already memorized. They would be using the same numbering system to identify the buildings as was used by the Fort's tourism people, which would make things easier. He knew that the target for his quarry was Building 20, way the hell out in the middle of the parade field. He had no idea why; it seemed pretty unlikely to him, actually. But it apparently had something to do with some theory of Agent Mulder's, and Steve Wagner was not inclined to ask for details. Not that he had anything against Mulder. He frankly respected the man's abilities. He had served with him a year before when Agent Scully had been kidnapped by those bank robbers, and the experience had left him singularly impressed. But he knew Mulder's reputation for things, well, outside the box, and he figured he was happier not knowing exactly why Mulder thought this kid was here. Wagner's radio crackled, and Assistant Director Skinner's voice sounded in his ear, telling him that it was time. And that was the other reason Special Agent Steve Wagner found it politic not to ask too many questions. Whatever this was all about, it had to be bigger than what they had been told, otherwise why was the AD himself be personally involved. And all these creepy Secret Service types? He keyed his radio and signaled his team to move out.
Building 20 was what the search teams had been told was the target for their quarry; they had not been told that Building 20 was all that was left standing of the old Arsenal Prison, the Old Penitentiary, where Abraham Lincoln's conspirators had been incarcerated, tried and hanged. That John Wilkes Booth had first been buried in the section no longer standing. Nor had they been fully told the reasons behind this manhunt. They did not need to know. Skinner positioned himself under an arch at the back of the Building 20. From there he could see the marker in the distance, identifying Booth's first grave. He could also smell the Potomac, and gave a momentary thought to Steve Agnoli, down there battling the mosquitoes. He smiled a little to himself, and pitied the man not at all. Agnoli had asked for what he had gotten, but Skinner also recognized that Mulder had made himself another enemy. Well, that was Mulder's problem, as long as it did not get out of hand. If Mulder was right, then that kid should be here, in this building, near the grave. But it was so exposed. And Sterling could be anywhere. The intent of the sweep search was to flush the boy and drive him out into the open. Mulder was convinced that he would run to this building, and to Wilkes Booth's grave. Low in the bushes around the corner to Skinner's right, John Robert Sterling the Third lay crouched close against the brick facade of Building 20, all that was left of the Old Penitentiary. This was the place where those people had died who helped the great man with his cause. If he looked carefully, he could see the marker, there in the distance, that commemorated that great man's first and humble grave. He had seen it, himself, when he had first come in to Ft. McNair. It had still been light, then, and he had just walked right in with the last group of tourists. He knew he needed to reach that spot, and he would be all right, but he had been so tired, finally, when he had gotten this far, that he had simply curled up under the bushes and fell deeply asleep. It seemed his fate, these days, to crouch low against buildings, it was the only shelter he had known in so long. So he had slept, and when he awoke, the entire grounds were filled with Federal agents, and police of various kinds. People with guns, looking for him. Like the soldiers at that farm, all over again. He had to get to the great man's grave. Then he would be all right. Sterling looked carefully around the corner, and saw that big Federal agent standing there, FBI in white across his back like an advertisement. So they don't shoot each other, he thought sourly. The man had his back to Sterling, looking out toward the river, but he was far too big for Sterling to take. Too powerful, and too well trained, Sterling could see that just by the way the man stood. And he had a gun. No, Sterling would have to find some other way to get away. "Are you there?" he hissed under his breath. Silence answered. "Are you there?" - I'm sorry, Johnny, I can no longer help you. "What do you mean?" - It has taken too long, Johnny, I have become too weak from the constant effort to protect you. I am sorry, Johnny, but you are on your own, now, boy. Good luck to you. It's been fun. "No," Sterling whispered, his voice heavy with desperation. It made a sound like the wind. But the voice was really gone. He could feel it. Panic washed over him. He had to get away. Sterling looked back at the man. He was still looking out at the river, if he was quick, he could move without being seen. Move where, though? Sterling looked up. Of course, the roof. If he could get up above them all, he could watch them, and he could see when they finally gave up and left. He could just hide up there, and leave after they did. That should not be hard. He remembered, too, a fire escape around the front of the building; one eye on the man whose back was still turned, he dashed around the corner and reached for the wrought iron stair. Skinner stepped away from the building slightly and turned to watch the activity in the vicinity of the Defense College at the eastern entrance to the Fort. His teams were moving this way. Then he looked again, and saw a figure running across the parade grounds in a low crouch. He raised his weapon, then recognized the FBI bomber jacket, and lowered it. A moment later, and he recognized Agent Scully. Scully came barreling around the corner, running too fast to stop. Skinner reached out an arm and caught her, pulling her into the archway with him. She slammed to a stop against his chest. Scully struggled to catch her breath. "Where's Mulder?" she panted. Across the field a voice shouted "There!" Skinner shook his head, and started to answer, when a voice crackled over his jacket mike: "Sterling's been sighted, sir. He's on the roof of Building 20." "That's us," Skinner said. Scully glanced around quickly. Directly over their heads was the bottom rung of a fire escape, but it was too high for her to reach. She put her hand on Skinner's shoulder, and pointed up. He looked up, himself, and nodded back. They holstered their weapons as one movement, then Skinner grabbed her around the waist and lifted her straight up over his head. Scully grabbed the bottom rung, and with the AD's help from below, pulled herself up onto the escape landing. She glanced back down at him, but Skinner waved her on - go! She nodded, and started to climb. The roof was dead flat, punctuated by several chimneys, but nothing else. There was no real place there to hide. Which was good and bad; good because it would leave Sterling exposed, bad because it left Scully exposed as well. She drew her weapon, and moved forward, crouching low. "John? Come on out, John, the building is surrounded, and there's no place to hide. Come on, now," she said as gently as she could muster. She raised from her crouch a little and looked around. There, behind that chimney. "FBI, I'm armed. John, you can't escape. Come on, now. There's no point in this." She saw the boy. He looked up quickly, then darted to another chimney. Scully let him go. The big square roof was finite, he would reach the end of it eventually. "I've got at gun!" Sterling shouted. "I know you do, John," Scully replied, "but it's no use. Even if you kill me, you can't get away. The whole Fort is filled with police officers. Give up quietly, and no one will hurt you. Put your gun down and come out." There was a long moment of silence, then Sterling stepped out of the shadows. In the mean time, Mulder had reached Building 20, himself, and climbed up on the roof. Standing behind Scully, he saw her with her weapon trained on the boy. Sterling held his own weapon loosely, looking around himself in panic. "Drop the gun, Sterling," Scully cautioned, evenly. "You're completely surrounded. There's no escape. Give it up, and no one will hurt you." Mulder took his stance, weapon raised, but otherwise, just waited to see what the boy would do. Sterling gazed at Scully in desperation. He looked down at his gun. "Don't do it, Johnny," Mulder said, compassionately. "Put down the gun." Sterling turned his eyes to Mulder, as if seeing him for the first time. The look in his eyes was almost heartbreaking. "Put the gun down, Johnny," Mulder repeated. "It will be all right." The boy shook his head. Then, suddenly, with one fluid motion, he lifted the gun to his own ear. "No!" shouted Scully. Sterling pulled the trigger. The gun dry-fired. They could hear the click. The weapon was empty. Scully blinked. She could not be absolutely sure, but it seem that there, behind the boy, was a strange distortion. A shimmer. Sterling's eyes filled with a look of panicked betrayal. Then his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed onto the dirty tarpaper that covered the roof. Scully hurried over to him. The shimmer, if that was what it had been, was gone. "John?" she asked urgently, searching for a pulse. The boy looked up at her, his eyes full of tears. Behind them, Skinner gained the roof, followed by several agents, both FBI and Secret Service. He looked at Scully crouched beside the boy. "Did you shoot him?" he demanded, puzzled that he had not heard a shot. It was Mulder who answered. "No, sir," he responded quietly. "He tried to shoot himself, but his weapon misfired. Then he just collapsed." Skinner went forward and dropped down next to Scully. Sterling looked up at him, his mouth moving as if he was trying to speak. "What is it, son?" Skinner asked. Sterling shook his head. "Useless, useless," was all he would say. FIELD REPORT: Special Agent Dana Scully "...At the request of his parents, who are Connecticut residents, the suspect, John Robert Sterling III, was transferred today, to Middletown, Connecticut, to the Whiting Institute for the Criminally Insane, following a hearing that has judged him unfit to stand trial. Sterling, though physically uninjured in the chase that lead to his capture, has manifested a bizarre form of hysterical paralysis that has left him nearly mute, and has rendered useless his arms and legs. He appears unable to do any more than moan and weep in what seems to be excruciating pain, although no physical insult to his body can be found. No organic cause for his condition can be detected, and the initial diagnosis has determined that he is suffering from an as yet to be identified psychological disorder. "Sterling is being kept under sedation to alleviate the effects of the apparently psychosomatic pain. It is unclear, at this time, if he will ever recover to stand trial for the deaths of Daniel Spanner, Michele Alegues, and Andrew Bergsten, in the Ford Theater shooting of May 12, or for the subsequent threats to and attempt on the life of the President of the United States..." "Hey, Scully." Dana Scully looked up from her keyboard as Mulder walked into the office. "Want to hear something really weird?" Scully just looked at him, wondering what could possibly be more weird than what they had already witnessed in the last few days. "I was reading some of this stuff that Dr. Carey sent down. You remember that she had mentioned there was some question as to whether or not Booth was shot by a soldier at Garrett's farm, or actually tried to take his own life? Well, apparently one of the accepted variations states that he shot himself *behind the ear*. In both the 'shot by a soldier' and 'shot himself ' versions, though, his spine was pierced at the base of the neck. He was effectively paralyzed from the neck down, and was also rendered virtually mute, unable to do more than cry for his mother, and mumble the request that the soldiers kill him and end his excruciating pain. He died on the porch of the Garrett farmhouse without ever regaining feeling in his arms or legs, or regaining the full powers of speech." Mulder looked up from the page he was reading, and raised an eyebrow at her. "Interesting, isn't it." Scully's mouth fell open slightly as she registered his words. Then she closed it abruptly, and turned to look down at the report glowing passively on the computer monitor before her. She shook her head, and lifted her hands again to the keys. The End
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