TITLE:         Badinage and Damnation
AUTHOR:        David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY:      S, H
KEYWORDS:      MSR, Kersh
RATING:        PG-13
SETTING:       Mid-Season 7
SUMMARY:       Managing employees successfully is all about 
               speaking their language.
ARCHIVE:       Ephemeral, Gossamer, fine. Others, please ask. 
DISCLAIMER:    His players, my sandlot - fair use, fair game.
FEEDBACK:      dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com



My plan was afoot well before they'd arrived for the inspection 
of the crime scene. Reported mass sighting of unidentified 
lights and certain other unexplained phenomena, outside of a bar 
in Takoma Park. Bunch of drunks seeing stars is what it really 
was. 

Considering the official description, however, I knew he 
couldn't possibly refuse the assignment. Not him. One of the 
drunken mob had ended up dead, so there was a local criminal 
investigation dovetailing in. Best of all, it could not 
possibly be said that this was another in the string of 
pointless cases I'd assigned to them simply because I found 
it amusing. Not this time. I did, however, make it a point to 
visit the crime scene myself. Just to see how things were 
progressing. It was on my way home.

"What about the witnesses in the alley, Scully?" 

He was in fighting fettle when I got there, hurdling the victim 
and a crime scene tech working to preserve and ship the body. 
I'm fairly certain they never noticed my arrival.

"The one nearest the street had an unobstructed view." Mulder 
stood in the approximate location if not posture of the man in 
question. "He looked up when the bright light came, and was 
blinded and frozen in place. When he felt he could move again, 
he saw the victim's body lying as is."

Hook, line and sinker. I couldn't wait to see the paperwork on 
this one.

His little partner turned to face him, her stare shrinking the 
height differential between them virtually down to nothing. It's
an impressive skill to have, when you're as short as she is.

"I think your so-called witness was just a little busy at the 
time, Mulder. Did you see the discoloration on the lower part of 
the brick-face? He, along with the two gentlemen further down, 
was relieving himself in the privacy of the alley."

"Hey, we've all done *that* at one time or another. Well, okay. 
Maybe not you, Scully."

Even from as far away as I was forced to stand, I could see her 
mouth pucker with distaste. If it had been up to her, she would 
have refused this assignment point-blank. She'd have been a force 
to behold, I'd imagine.

"Look around you, Mulder. The bar had just closed, disgorging a 
substantial number of patrons. Most of whom, it's safe to say, 
had been drinking heavily since the start of the two "Final 
Four" games six hours ago. Three dozen people out here jostling 
for space on the sidewalk, with a handful in that alley 
competing for a bit of unobstructed wall. I'm amazed that only 
one of these people got pushed out into the path of oncoming 
traffic."

"Then how come none of the witnesses reports hearing the 
screeching of tires, the sound of impact or the passing of a 
vehicle of any sort? And how do you explain the blinding 
lights?" 

He did a quick pirouette around her and strode out into the now 
quiet street, arms spread. He seemed to have a lot of energy 
for this late in the evening. 

"Every one of them saw the same thing! How do you explain that?"

If this was part of his legendary boyish charm, then I'm 
obviously immune to its effects. So, it would appear, was she.

"I don't have to. The scene speaks for itself. This is a 
neighborhood bar. In a peaceful, residential neighborhood. When 
thirty or more inebriated basketball fans poured out of the bar 
at one in the morning, I'd imagine there was something of a 
disturbance of that peace! Those blinding lights they all saw 
were probably from a police helicopter dispatched to disperse 
the crowd."

"But nobody heard a helicopter, Scully. Don't you think one of 
the witnesses would have mentioned it had there been one?"

Oh, boy. Can I pick 'em? Several Bureau people on scene 
approached me asking permission for this or that, but I 
dismissed them all. I wasn't there on business, and I didn't 
want to miss the show.

"Mulder, come over here." She grabbed the shoulder of his coat 
and pulled him along with it. His shoes crunched over broken 
glass. "There are dozens of empty bottles strewn all down the 
block, not to mention the broken ones underfoot. And we're not 
talking Mouton-Rothschild." She toed a green-glass bottle with 
distaste.

"Oof. Thunderbird," he said. "At least the vintage is a prime 
week. So, you're saying what? That they may have been too drunk 
to hear a helicopter directly overhead?"

She didn't back down an inch. Just stared back at him, in silent 
challenge. As I've said, very impressive. I wondered what else, 
aside from a height differential, that stare could shrink?

"Okay," he said, at length. "I'll admit the possibility that 
the consumption of alcoholic beverages may have been a factor."

"Gee! Y'think?!"  

It was the only time that evening I'd heard her lose control 
of her voice. She began to walk away from her partner, in my 
general direction. I missed some of what was said, in the 
process of relocating to a less conspicuous position.

"... only a factor. And it's probable that not all of the 
patrons were intoxicated to the same, debilitating extent. 
I'm just saying that it doesn't necessarily rule out other, 
possible scenarios. And," he had to jog to keep up with her, 
"that we should keep an open mind to other theories of the 
case."

She rounded on him, and he stopped short. But, not quite 
short enough. He bumped right into her, then backed away, 
sheepish.

"Other theories? Here's the theory I want you to focus on, 
Mulder. Consumption of massive, possibly toxic amounts of 
liquor." She started off across the street toward their car.

"Liquor?" he said, loping after his partner. "I barely touched 
her!" 

If I were her, I'd have killed him. Agent Scully is too tightly 
wound for that sort of reaction. She did give him a killer glare, 
though. And I was grinning all the way home.

************

I decided to require their report on my desk by noon the next 
day. The case wasn't significant enough to merit it. The case 
wasn't significant in the least. Truth is, I was just in the 
mood for a little amusement.

The clatter of bickering preceded their entry into my office. 
More to the point, it was a harangue, with Agent Scully doing 
all of the talking. Mulder's only response was a smug smile. 
Infuriating! And I wasn't even party to the discussion. Any 
wonder why I dislike the man? 

They slid into the chairs in front of me without further word 
or glance between them.  I kept them waiting a full minute at 
least, before I looked up to acknowledge their presence.

"Agents."  I made a show of reviewing her report. 

I pride myself on knowing my strengths and weaknesses. I know 
full well which of those qualities has gotten me to where I am 
today, and which will get me where I want to be tomorrow. 
Personnel management, for example. It's not sexy, I realize. 
It sounds anemic and mediocre just to speak it aloud, but 
consider this. These two agents were taken away from Assistant 
Director Skinner because he couldn't manage them properly. Oh, 
the scuttlebutt may have been unfounded and beyond Skinner's 
direct control, but there are ways in which he could have 
influenced, even silenced the rumor mill by bringing these two 
to heel. But, he didn't. He came to care for them, instead. A 
black mark on old Walter's review sheet, for sure. It's a 
mistake that will dog him all the way to St. Peter. A mistake 
I do not plan on repeating.

"You found no cause for Bureau involvement out in Takoma Park, 
Agent Scully?"

The keys to mastering personnel management are rather basic. 
Keeping the relationship impersonal, I've already alluded to. 
The art to it comes in making the personnel in question believe 
the opposite, that the relationship is intensely personal. You 
have to come down to their level; you have to speak their 
language. Establish a connection, a rapport. If only to give 
them hope that they, too, can someday achieve what you have. 

With some employees, I use down-home figures of speech, 
dispense folksy wisdom. "Fish or cut bait" works with some, 
where "shit or get off the pot" would not. It's all in knowing 
what level to come in on. Now, Agent Scully, here, is the 
straightforward type. Military family, respect for authority, 
regulation, and the chain of command. Well-educated, neither 
folksy nor profane. I get Agent Scully, understand her 
completely.

"No, sir. I did not. It was an exuberant crowd, fueled by 
excess consumption of alcohol, which resulted in an unfortunate 
but accidental fatality. It should have been left to local 
authorities."

"But there was a reason that the Bureau's involvement was 
requested, Scully, as I think the assistant director will tell 
you."

Mulder is another kettle of fish. He's glib, smart-assed. Leaps 
into a conversation as if he's God's Gift. He has no respect 
for authority, regulation or the chain of command, and no fear 
whatsoever of disciplinary action that might come his way. In 
fact, he couldn't care less for what people think of him or his 
work. It makes him damn near impossible to reel in.  Damn near, 
but not entirely so.

"This isn't the only such sighting with this set of 
circumstances. There have been a whole string of them. Sixteen, 
in fact, over the past three weeks, starting with two separate 
incidents in one night, about thirty miles apart, in Woonsocket, 
Rhode Island, and Fall River, Massachusetts. The incident 
reports have been 'moving' steadily to the southwest ever since."

He stared directly at me, daring contradiction. That's the 
other thing about Mulder. The insolence! He's so cocksure of 
himself, it makes people want to knock him off his pedestal. 
It's almost as if he's trying to get me to make it personal. 
Well, I won't be baited.  I'll let his partner do my work for 
me.

"Mulder! On any given night, I'd bet there are simultaneous 
occurrences of such disturbances outside bars all across the 
country. Consumption of alcohol makes the user highly 
suggestible to doing or seeing things she or he otherwise 
would not, if unimpaired. Excessive consumption of alcohol 
can easily cause a wide variety of hallucinations."

One of the main reasons for Skinner's downfall with these two 
was that he fostered the damn personal and emotional intimacy 
between them. Claimed it made them a better investigative unit. 
Hell, all it really did was spur the talk that they were 
actually doing it. Intimacy, pfft. You think I'm going to fan 
those flames? Hell, no! But, neither will I act overtly to 
drive them apart. That would give them a common enemy. 
Definitely counterproductive. No. I'm going to steer them into 
driving their own wedge into the partnership. First step? 
Ensure that separate rooms stay separate.

"You're concluding, then, that the reports of unusual sightings 
and lost time are all due to the alcoholic impairment of the 
witnesses, Agent Scully?"

"Yes, sir."

"What of Agent Mulder's theory?"

"As you can see in my report, sir, I find no basis, evidentiary 
or scientific, for the conclusions drawn by Agent Mulder... in 
this instance," she added, just a moment too late. I glanced up 
at him, gauging his reaction. Bastard remained blank.

"Well, before we discount it completely, there is one other 
incident of similar circumstance that I want you to look into. 
Took place two nights prior to the ones in Rhode Island and 
Massachusetts, eh, mentioned earlier."

Now I had his attention. It had taken a lot of digging for this 
particular nugget to pan out. I was gratified to see him rise 
to the bait.

"It also took place in northern New England. The details are 
in your packets."

I pretended to go on to other matters while they skimmed their 
briefing papers.  In reality, I kept an eye on Agent Scully the 
whole time. I watched the heat rise in her cheeks, flushing 
almost the color of her hair. Only an agent as ballsy as Scully 
would let her annoyance show so openly in front of a superior. 
Then, again, maybe she really was just that pissed off. Either 
way, I had to admire her grit. 

At that moment, I think Agent Mulder was feeling something other 
than admiration for his partner. I think he was feeling afraid. 
Smart man.

In choosing their assignment, I'd weighed an assortment of 
factors, relying on a wide array of sources, not the least of 
which was The Weather Channel. I couldn't hope to achieve my 
goal without the utmost subtlety. So, banishing them to Alaska 
was out of the question. Ditto International Falls, Minnesota, 
or Pocatello, Idaho. I was shooting for grinding, gnawing 
misery, not sharp, stabbing punishment. 

When she looked up, I knew from the look on her face that she 
shared my viewing habits. Here, it was seventy degrees and the 
scent of cherry blossoms was everywhere. Nice, if you like that 
sort of thing. There, snow pack still covered the ground and 
the only hint of Spring was that the raw, ceaseless drizzle 
never quite froze. Miserable, on anyone's barometer.

"Questions?" 

He had nothing to say, of course. I'd thrown him a bone, and he 
was busily whittling it to suit his personal views. She had 
nothing to say, as well. But only because that was the way 
she'd been brought up. "If you can't say something nice..." I 
could just imagine the vituperative bile - for him and for me - 
that had risen in her throat, tasting the worse for having been 
forced back down. 

"Dismissed, then."

He leapt out of his seat, already packing his bag. She sat a 
shade longer than was polite. I looked up to meet the challenge. 

"Agent? Is there something you'd like to say?"

There was. Just not to me. Her anger was balled up inside, 
forcibly compressed. Even her stride, as she stormed out of the 
office, was tightly clenched. I doubted anyone could even slip 
a word in edgewise between those thighs, not if they tried. 
Even a 'wordsmith' like Mulder. Lord knew, he'd give it his all.
My confidence was high that she, on the other hand, would give 
him none. 

I listened with pleasure as they disappeared down the corridor 
toward the elevator.

"This is all your fault, Mulder." 

Ah. Music to my ears. 

"Bangor, Maine? He could have sent us to Portland, or 
Kennebunkport. At least they'd be picturesque. But, central 
Maine, at this time of year? Is just miserable."

Thank you, Jim Cantore. And God bless Dr. Jon Nese.

"You heard the man, Scully. This isn't one of your 'simultaneous 
occurrences on any given night across the country.' This just 
so happens to have the precise circumstances as those in Takoma 
Park. So I ask you, what are the odds?"

Even from where I sat, I could feel his smirk curdle the hair 
on the back of my neck. I went to the door, opening it a crack 
so that I could continue to listen in, rooting for Mulder to 
take it too far. Just one step more.

"What? Another drunken mob outside a bar after closing time? 
Yes, Mulder. What are the odds? A person killed while under the 
influence? Look, as much as you want to believe, this isn't an 
abduction scenario of any sort. The man wasn't killed by aliens. 
I don't know what the circumstance was that killed him, Mulder. 
But I do know why he died. He was in a stupor."

"Drunkenness does nothing to rule out the possibility of alien 
abduction. You should know that as well as...Wait. What ?"

"Stupor, Mulder. A drunken stupor."

Uh, oh. 

"Schtupp her? Scully, I just met her!"

Apparently, he believes this sort of humor is a real chick 
magnet. Agent Scully would appear to be de-magnetized.
 
Unsatisfied simply with a dirty look, she smacked him hard, on 
the arm. Good for her. Saved me the trouble. 

Yessiree, Bob. It was all working out well. 

Very well, indeed.

*******************

"Agents." I gestured to the chairs arrayed in front of my desk 
and returned to work, sneaking a single, furtive glance at 
them. Right then. That moment, I should have known something 
had gone wrong. 

They were relaxed, at ease.  That just shouldn't have been. 

"How was your trip?"

Their return flight had been a living hell of missed connections
and puddle-jumper aircraft. I'd seen to that. By now, they 
should have been pulling out hair by the root; his, hers, each 
other's. Clumps of hair! There should have been hair. Hell, if 
things had gone as they were supposed to, she'd be the likely 
suspect in a homicide. Not that it wouldn't have been 
justifiable. I'd gladly have testified to that, on her behalf.

They looked at each other before she responded. 

"Fine." She looked over at him again, and he nodded his 
agreement. What in Heaven's name was going on here? "It's 
always nice to come home, Sir. Thanks for asking." She shrugged 
with her lips and chin.

Her eyes seemed bigger somehow. A brighter blue. Damnit! 

It had taken them five days to complete the investigation, 
three longer than it should have. I've no doubt they could have 
done it in two, but for the nor'easter. I really couldn't have 
planned this trip better. Really could not have planned it 
better.

"I expected you back Tuesday."

Neither responded. The storm had followed them down the 
coast and, still, they'd managed to get home. Just not in a 
timely fashion. They wouldn't dare offer the weather as an 
excuse. They even had the grace to look suitably embarrassed 
about it. This just wouldn't do.

"The case was that complex, that it took nearly a week to 
investigate?"

"No, Sir. Turned out to be interesting." He turned to look at 
his partner, who finished the thought.

"Interesting, yes. But not complex, no."

"Then, what? You let a little weather stop you? The storm is 
here now and, as you can see, it hasn't stopped many other 
federal employees from attending to their assigned tasks." I 
tried to say this as pleasantly as I could. From experience, I 
know that it annoys the living hell out of him. I was gratified 
to see him stiffen.

"No, Sir. It wasn't because of the weather." Agent Scully 
stepped into the line of fire between me and Agent Mulder. 
"Not directly, anyway. We," she had to look at him and get an 
approving nod before continuing, "we weren't able to rent a 
car. The dealer wouldn't let us."

This stunned me; I felt it like a sock in the gut. True, I'd 
set up any number of roadblocks to their progress, but none 
insurmountable. Just high enough to be annoying and a source of 
friction between them. But, this? An inability to rent a car? 
Was evidence either of base insubordination or gross 
incompetence. And the latter? From him, maybe. But from Agent 
Scully? 

My thoughts must have shown on my face, because Mulder jumped 
now to her rescue.

"The guy said, "Not smaht to be drivin' on these icy roads. 
Shoo-ah, you cahn risk it, oh-kay. But not in one of my rental 
cahs, you cahn't. Come back Thursday. I'll rent you any cah you 
want then. Aftah the storm passes." I wasn't sure whether 
Mulder's imitation of the Mainer was accurate, but it was a 
dead-on impression of the guy from those old ads for 
Pepperidge Farm.

Mulder and I both looked to Scully for confirmation. 

"That's what he said, ayuh." She nodded in confirmation of her 
own memory, and shrugged, as if to agree in hindsight with the 
local. What were we going to do? The roads were icy.

"Bangor is that large a city that you couldn't investigate on 
foot? Or were the sidewalks that treacherous, as well?" I was 
starting to let my irritation show, and that wasn't good. But 
I was beginning to catch the disagreeable whiff of a snafu. 
And I had a good idea who'd been the cause.

"Actually, sir, the incident in question happened about an 
hour's drive to the north and west of Bangor, outside a bar in 
Brownville Junction."

"The Cinder City of Maine," Mulder put in, trying to be helpful.
I hate it when he tries to be helpful.

"I see." I ignored Mulder and focused on Scully. It was the 
only way I could think of to keep my blood pressure in check. 
"So, until you could rent a car, there was no way you could 
investigate the incident up in..." 

"Brownville Junction," Mulder said.

"Wherever." Maybe there was a way I could raise his blood 
pressure and lower mine in the process. "So, what did you do 
to while away the hours, Agent Mulder, while you were stuck in 
the hotel? Poker?"

Oh, he wanted to respond. He was aching to make a wisecrack, I 
could tell. But she cut him off. He was proving no match for 
her there, in my office. Though I suspected he'd held his own, 
up in Maine. After all, what choice did he have? Hah! Hold his 
own - What choice did he have - funny. Anyway. 

"Actually, Sir, we were nearly able to complete the 
investigation without the hour's drive. I'll know for sure when 
I receive the body from the Penobscot County sheriff for a 
thorough autopsy. But, the cause of death appears to have been 
poisoning."

"Alcohol poisoning. That was also your hypothesis in the Takoma 
Park death, was it not?"

Since this wasn't working as planned, that might be just as 
well. Let it be the obvious thing, get it off my desk and get 
them out of my office. Oh, Lord. If only.

"No, Sir. It wasn't alcohol poisoning. Not exactly. And this 
wasn't my hypothesis."

Shit.

"It was Agent Mulder's."

He leaned forward to take over the presentation from his 
partner. I half expected him to thank her, and whip out the 
PowerPoint slides.

"We'd done some checking on the deceased, Sir, in the county 
hall of records. Turns out, though he owned some land up in 
Piscataquis County, near Brownville Junction, it was utterly 
unimproved, no permanent shelter of any kind. According to 
acquaintances of the deceased, other than drinking himself 
blind at the nearby tavern, he went up only to use the land as 
a sort of private preserve for ice fishing and hunting."

"Hunting? Bear?"

"Doubtful, Sir. It's pretty cold up there." 

Although he was an alcoholic," Scully put in. 

"Oh, hey, good point. Who knows how he was liable to dress? 
At any rate, the deceased seems to have resided in Bangor, 
although he owned no property there, or anywhere in Penobscot 
County, for that matter."

Something about that exchange made no sense. I began to get the 
feeling that I was being had. To top it off, against everything 
I'd planned, I'd evidently handed them an interesting 
investigation. Which, damnit, I would now have to see through 
to the end. 

"The man was homeless?"

Mulder nodded. "We did learn, however, that he was in the care 
of, and occasionally resident with a local doctor."

"An herbalist, not a doctor," Scully said testily.

"A homeopath. A doctor, small 'd,' " Mulder amended, "not a 
capital M, capital D doctor." He looked over equably at his 
partner, who nodded once.

"Our deceased was a homeless man, who was living with a doctor?"

"On occasion."

"Just how often did the deceased bunk with this doctor, uh, 
doctor..."

"Haverbush. Martin Haverbush." 

"Haverbush." The odds were ever-increasing that I was being had. 
"Haverbush?"

"Well, yeah," Mulder said. "Once or twice."

"I beg your pardon?" I looked at the damned man's little 
partner. She just smiled pleasantly. 

"The deceased. You asked how often he'd stayed with Doctor 
Haverbush."

I ran my hand over my nose and mouth and took a slow breath. 
"So, it's your theory that Doctor," I'd be damned if I was going 
to repeat the name, "this herbalist poisoned the deceased?"

Mulder looked hurt that I'd ascribe such an absurd statement to 
him. 

"No, actually, it's not. The deceased had no ability to pay for 
treatment of any sort. Doctor Haverbush' records note that the 
man had labored breathing typical of an early stage of 
emphysema or other serious, possibly life-threatening pulmonary 
ailment. He'd  long been working on a whole set of his own 
homeopathic treatments for many serious and or chronic 
illnesses, emphysema among them. So Haverbush had the deceased 
sign a waiver, in return for which the doctor would administer 
his experimental course of treatment, free of charge."

"And I presume you were able to get the specifics of this 
experimental treatment?"

"Yes, Sir, I was," Agent Scully said, venturing back into the 
discussion as the prim and proper medic I'd been counting upon. 
"It's an herbal potion, a tonic or tea, if you will, brewed 
from various native plants. Primarily the leaves of a common 
landscape shrub - Genus Sarcococca." 

Looking at his partner as she spoke, Mulder nodded in support. 

"Sweet Box." 

I was at a loss for words. My temples started to throb. 

"Sweet Box, Agent Scully?" 

"You'll have to ask Agent Mulder about that, Sir." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Well, it's his theory. "

The throb became a repetitive pounding. I rubbed at it for a 
moment or two. "What else?"

"The fruit of Genus Vaccinium, species ashei. A common 
blueberry, Sir. They grow wild all over the southern half of 
the state of Maine. Obviously not toxic in any way."

Relief! It swept over me in a wave. Maybe I'd been trumping up 
this whole conspiracy in my mind. Just maybe.

"It was added for flavor," Mulder interjected, "to make the 
therapy palatable, not to make it poisonous. You said yourself, 
Scully, that this variety was the juiciest, most flavorful."

I knew I might end up hating myself for asking, so I asked the 
question of her, in order to minimize the chances. "And what 
variety is that, Agent Scully?"

"Highbush." Said with an utterly straight face. "Sir." Added as 
an afterthought.

Nope. I was sure, right then, that I was being played. Now that 
I knew, however, I damn well wasn't going to let them get to me.

"You said there was another element in this herbal tonic, 
Agent?"

"Yes, sir. An extract from the bark of Salix chaenomeloides."

"Which is?" 

Why? Time after time after time, why do I let myself get led 
into these things?

Though I was looking to Agent Scully for the answer, Mulder 
responded. "Giant pussy..."

I pounded my fist on the table, rattling my coffee cup and 
startling everyone in the room, myself included.

"...willow," he finished softly, staring at the abused corner 
of my desk.

Embarrassment prickled the back of my neck. I'd let them get to
me, and they knew it. I had to rein in my emotions and, maybe, 
just maybe, I'd get out of this with my dignity intact. Is this 
what Skinner had gone through? It went through my head like a 
thought before dying.

"This potion, these... ingredients, they're poisonous when 
consumed?"

"No, Sir," Agent Scully found voice more quickly than did her 
partner. "In the short span and minute quantities administered, 
Haverbush' herbal tonic may have given the deceased an upset 
stomach, but no more than that."

"But poisoning was your theory of the case, am I wrong about 
that, Agent Mulder?"

"No, Sir, you're not wrong."

"Then, may I at least assume that you have Haver..., that you, 
that Doctor Haverbush is in custody for murder?"

"No, Sir. He is not. He had neither motive nor intent. I 
sincerely believe that he hoped this tonic would be a curative. 
Unfortunately, the deceased's addiction to alcohol may have not 
only counteracted whatever restorative properties the herbal 
tonic may have had, it may have caused a negative reaction that 
resulted in his death."

"The poisoning was, what, accidental?"

Mulder nodded emphatically. "As I've said, Sir, I don't believe 
the good doctor had malicious intent. Far from it. He seemed to 
take pity on the deceased, letting the man live in his house 
for long stretches, for example. Moreover, I doubt that the 
deceased was likely to have informed him of the true extent of 
his alcohol addiction, rendering it impossible for Doctor 
Haverbush to check for contraindications. I believe that, in 
some ways, the doctor, too, was a victim." 

"A victim?" 

"No sir. Since he'd done nothing illegal and is, as far as we 
know, up to date on his mortgage, we had no cause to do that."

I tried to clear my head with a shake, but couldn't. Instead, I 
was left with a vague ringing sound.

"And, so, the reports of lights that the deceased, er, saw?"

"We won't know for certain until after the autopsy, Sir. But, 
if I had to hazard a guess, I say that the combination of the 
herbal mixture and alcohol probably caused hallucinogenic side 
effects before hastening some sort of internal collapse, 
probably in his renal system."

I stood and moved to usher the two of them out of my office. I 
wasn't feeling unnaturally polite, no. I just wanted them out 
of there, before a migraine exploded behind my eyes.

"Agents, I'm sorry that there wasn't more to those reports." 
And I was sorry. I was really looking forward to the clash 
between the rational and irrational partners igniting into a 
full-blown conflagration. They would have been far easier to 
manage, then. "I'm afraid I sent you up there on a fool's 
errand." Also true, but not in the way they were sure to take 
it.

"Not a problem, Sir," Mulder said when we'd reached the 
doorway. "I was born and raised in New England, but, believe 
it or not, I'd never been to Maine before. Now, thanks to you, 
I can say I got to Bangor once."

With that, both of them turned and walked down the hall. I 
stood with the door a-crack, watching them go. I couldn't be 
sure, but I thought I heard them snickering. To my dismay, he 
rested his hand low on her waist. At the elevator, she turned 
to face him, grinning.

"Bang 'er once, Mulder? As I recall, it was more like six or 
seven times!"

I had to slam the door to shut out their goddamn laughter.

-end-