"Jody Elaine McPherson," Tamara McPherson said sternly to the little redheaded girl staring intently at the television screen, her little hands clutching the control pad of her Playstation 2. "I’m not telling you again. It’s bedtime."

"Aw, Mama," Jody’s big brown eyes beseeched the woman whom she inherited her fiery hair from. "Five more minutes? Please?"

"I gave you five more minutes fifteen minutes ago," Tamara said, fighting to keep her resolve.

"But I’m winning!"

"But it’s a school night," Tamara countered. "And you have a memory card for that thing, don’t you?"

"Yeah, I do," Jody said with a pout, realizing that she had been defeated.

"Okay, then. Put your game on the memory card and you can play tomorrow."

"No, tomorrow night I have Girl Scouts."

"The night after then. Now come here and give Mama a kiss."

The second-grade preserved her game and then scooped up the pink Care Bear that had been sitting next to her, watching her play. "Night, Mama," Jody said, standing on her tiptoes as Tamara bent down.

"Good night, pumpkin. Go have Daddy tuck you in."

Tamara retreated to their home office and booted up the computer so she could use Quicken to balance their checking and savings account. Before she could even open the program, her husband came in, his freckled face frowning.

"What’s wrong?" Tamara asked him.

"I don’t like her being so glued to that video game," Eddie said, flopping down in the loveseat next to the computer desk. "When I was her age, I played outside."

"Well, when you were her age, things were different. You played with dinosaurs," Tamara said, eyes dancing.

"I’m serious," Eddie said, trying to stifle a yawn. "I don’t want her to grow up to be one of those couch potato kids."

"She won’t. She’s got Girl Scouts and her dance lessons and this summer she’s going to be taking swimming lessons, so she’ll be active," Tamara said reasonably.

"Maybe if we put the Playstation away, she’ll go outside," Eddie murmured.

"Or throw a temper tantrum. Besides," Tamara said slyly, "I think one of the reasons why Jody likes the Playstation is because Daddy likes the Playstation."

Before Eddie could retort, there was a small crash from the other room.

"What the hell was that? Did your cat knock something over again?"

Then, on the heels of the crash, a thin cry came from the other side of the house.

"Go tell Jody if she keeps stalling bedtime, she’s grounded," Tamara said, thoroughly exasperated. "I’ll go clean up whatever Kitty broke."

Both Eddie and Tamara exited the office. Immediately, Tamara spied what had broken, a picture frame lay face down on the carpet. Somehow it had fallen from the bookcase next to the entertainment center. One of Jody’s school pictures. Tamara went to pick up the shards of glass while Eddie went to attend to his daughter.

When Tamara picked up the picture frame however, her fiery brows furrowed and her mouth turned down when she saw that the picture was missing.

"*Tamara!*

Tamara stood up, dropped the picture frame and bolted for Jody’s bedroom. Never in all the years had she known him, had she ever heard him so panicked.

Heart lodged silently in her throat, she ran to her husband’s side, in the middle of Jody’s pink and white bedroom.

The covers were pulled away, as if some had ripped them off the bed and pulled them aside. The pink Care Bear lay face down on the floor. The windows were shut and locked from the inside.

"The door was shut when I got here," Eddie said hoarsely. "There’s no one in here. I looked. She’s gone."

Assistant Director Brad Follmer’s office
FBI Headquarters
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington DC
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
8:03 AM Eastern Standard Time

"We have a problem," Follmer said bluntly.

Doggett and Starkweather looked at Follmer blankly. "What kind of problem?" Doggett asked.

"We have a case crop up in Savannah, Georgia that’s pretty ugly and getting uglier by the minute. Little girls are being abducted from their bedrooms, raped and then killed."

"How many little girls?" Doggett asked.

"So far, three."

"Is anyone saying serial killer?" Starkweather said, gut twisting.

"No and nobody is going to say serial killer either," Follmer said sternly. "The Georgia Bureau of Investigation wants someone from the X-Files to come help because there is no sign of forced entry. The parents aren’t even aware that their child is missing until the morning. There’s a theory floating around that it could be," Follmer grimaced. "Alien abductions. However, the problem is manpower. The Cielo case is an international nightmare. I can’t pull Reyes and Spender off of it. This means," Follmer grimaced again, as if there was an incredibly bad taste in his mouth. "I have to send you both to Savannah. Immediately."

Doggett sighed. Even after going missing for a period of weeks in what could only be described as his own close encounter with "unexplained phenomena," the words "alien abduction" still had the resultant effect of tying his head in infinite knots. He drew his hand unconsciously to the back of his neck, brushing gently through his short, spiky hair.

"So who’s touting this alien abduction theory?" he asked, "I don’t recall rape ever being mentioned as part of the S.O.P. for little green men."

"They’re grey, actually," Starkweather said, leaning in close to him and whispering in his ear.

Follmer continued, either unaware of or choosing to ignore her commentary.

"Some crackpot fringe scientist," he answered, leaning back ever-so-slightly in his leather chair, "Prescribes to all the basic paranormal mumbo-jumbo: poltergeist activity, cattle mutilations…alien encounters." He breathed deeply as the last words left his mouth. Leaning forward again, he folded his hands neatly across the desk in front of him. "Apparently, he’s causing quite a stir in the community. Hassling the victims’ families. Been arrested for trespassing on more than one occasion."

"Lucky for him," Doggett said, "They usually just shoot ya’ in the ass down in that neck of the woods."

"Be that as it may," Follmer continued, "you’d better check him out. At the very least you can straighten out this whole abduction nonsense."

"At the very least you can straighten out this whole abduction nonsense," Starkweather pantomimed the cool, patronizing voice of the recently reinstated A.D. as she slammed the door to his office, "Arrogant prick. I can’t believe he’s back sitting in the big comfy chair."

"Well I can’t say that I’m exactly thrilled either," Doggett informed her, pushing the button to call the elevator, "but you can’t go flying off the handle like that. I mean, you just got back yourself. The last thing you need is to give them an excuse to hand you your walking papers."

The elevator chimed as the doors slid open. They walked in and Doggett punched the button for the basement office.

"I don’t give a damn if they do," she pouted, folding her arms resolutely across her chest, "Besides, what are they going to say? That I was mean to the big bad boss-man? That’s not exactly grounds for dismissal. If it was, my dear sweet brother would have been tossed out on his ass ten times over."

"You know as well as I do that they can think of something. And I’m here to tell you that it wouldn’t exactly be that hard either."

Starkweather scowled at him as he continued.

"I mean, you got transferred out of Minneapolis just so Follmer would have you out of his hair. How easy do you think it would be for him to ship you back? And whether you admit it or not, I know that’s the last thing you want. You need to be here, Doc, you need to be on the X-Files."

"Well," she replied haughtily, stepping out into the dank corridor and glaring back at her partner, "thank you for that recap. Ever so helpful. I had almost forgotten my entire life story. But if it’s all the same to you, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe next time I bitch about the upper management, especially the type of upper management that is slowly edging you out of your future career, perhaps you could simply agree with me and keep your big fucking opinions out of it."

She turned on her heels and walked angrily into the office, leaving Doggett shaking his head in abject disbelief.

The plane ride had been delightful. On the pretense of having to read the case file, his partner hadn’t spoken two words to him since their little disagreement earlier that day. That is, unless you counted that time that she told him to "Fuck off" when he offered to carry her bags for her at the Savannah International terminal. He didn’t believe that he had said anything that was so awful, particularly anything that warranted being on the receiving end of the silent treatment all day. He shifted in his seat.

::Maybe she’s on her period:: he thought. Doggett almost trembled at the idea, though she wouldn’t have noticed if he did. Her nose was still buried in the case file. He made an attempt to break the silence.

"I think we’re nearly there now."

Starkweather read a few more sentences and then closed the manila folder, placing it gingerly into the black carrying bag that rested at her feet.

"How far?" she asked.

"Another mile or two," he answered, relieved that the wave of terror had finally subsided. He gestured to the bag, "Find anything interesting in there?"

"A six-day old sandwich that I forgot to eat. It was growing some stuff on it that could only be described as interesting."

"I meant about the case."

"I know what you meant," she answered, "It was a joke. You know, funny, laugh, ha ha." She raised an eyebrow as she stared into his comedically straight face. "You know, you could really use some lessons in loosening up a bit. You’re absolutely no fun to travel with."

"I’m plenty of fun," he responded tartly. His voice was gruff and his jaw was clenched tightly. His eyes were fixed firmly on the road in front of him.

"I’m talking about real fun, Papa John. You know, the kind that doesn’t involve swigging beer as you watch cars run round and round a track all day."

"They don’t run," he answered, "They drive."

"Whatever," she said, "Okay. Right. The case." She took a deep breath as she prepared her lecture. "Follmer didn’t really do this perp justice. The girls weren’t just assaulted. They were brutalized. The victims were covered in blood when they were found, from head to toe. It’s like he was almost trying to drive himself through them, like he wouldn’t be satisfied until he impaled them." She gave a shudder as she thought back on the crime scene photographs that had at once so repelled and mesmerized her on the plane trip down.

"So we’re looking for a sadistic son-of-a-bitch," Doggett said, more of a statement than a question.

"Seemingly," Starkweather answered, "at first glance. But there’s more. After the assault, each girl was redressed and placed sitting against a tree, her hands folded as if in prayer, her legs folded beneath her, Indian-style."

"So he redressed them. Big fucking deal. He only did it after he tore their clothes off, raped, and killed them."

"True, but that’s not exactly the mark of someone who doesn’t give a shit about his victims. I’d say that he cares for them, even thinks that he loves them."

"I’m sure that will be a great consolation to their parents," Doggett said dryly, "What about this guy that we’re checking out, this Dr…"

"Henry Laocoon," Starkweather finished for him, "Obtained his Ph.D. in Parapsychology from the University of Edinburgh in 1990."

"Damn. They’ll hand out degrees for anything over there, won’t they?" Doggett interjected, but Starkweather continued as if never having been interrupted.

"Three years later, he immigrated to America where he took up briefly with a lab at Princeton. This was followed by a much longer stint at the Institute for Parapsychology in Durham, North Carolina, where he was commended by the American Association of Parapsychology for his work linking quantum mechanics to parapsychological events, specifically psi functioning. He left the Institute in ’99 and founded his own research laboratory here in Savannah, where he currently resides."

"Speaking of which," Doggett said, "I think we’re there."

"Speaking of which," Doggett said, "I think we’re there."

Starkweather slid the sunglasses she was wearing down her nose a bit to stare out the rental car’s windshield. "Oh my," she said mildly, regarding the dilapidated house surrounded by dying peach trees.

"Looks like he didn’t get any cash bonuses with those commendations from the American Association of Parapsychology," Doggett added lightly. "And judging by the signs on that there lovely wrought-iron fence, the man doesn’t take kindly to visitors either."

"’That there’?" Starkweather said with a slight snigger, her brows rose in high amusement. "Jesus, Doggett, we only crossed the Mason-Dixon Line a few hours ago and already your IQ has dropped significantly."

"Oh shut up," he countered, more irritated at his lapse in good grammar than her needling. "Let’s go." He opened the car door and stalked out.

Starkweather obeyed, but she gave him one of her infamous Sphinx smiles to his back as she pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and exited the car.

"Hey, slow down," she called to him as he strode towards the house. "Us midgets have to take two steps to your one."

Doggett, a fairly tall man, stopped, with a slight grin and waited for his subordinate, a fairly short woman. "I caught sight of the curtains fluttering," Doggett said, nodding towards the windows of the house.

"So we know that someone is definitely home," Starkweather said. "And probably wondering what two idiots in black suits are doing standing in front of the gate."

"Well this idiot in this black suit is hoping that a vicious dog isn’t going to come running out towards us." Doggett said, nodding to one of the hand painted "BEWARE OF DOG" signs hanging haphazardly on the fence.

"Hey, if you get attacked by a dog, we can arrest Laocoon on the spot for having a vicious animal and then question him about the little girls in the safety of the station house."

"That’s what I love about you," Doggett grumbled as he walked through the gate. "You’re such an optimist."

"That’s me," Starkweather said, keeping up with Doggett easily as they made their way to the house. "Always looking for that silver lining."

"What if the dog goes after you instead of me?"

"That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to outrun the dog. Just you. "

"I’ve got longer legs than you though," Doggett said, blue eyes twinkling.

"I’m younger than you though. By a lot."

"Thanks for reminding me."

"Anytime." Starkweather said blithely as they stepped onto the sagging porch.

Doggett rang the doorbell as Starkweather removed her sunglasses and popped them in the pocket of her blazer.

After what felt like an extraordinarily long time to wait, (at least, an extraordinarily long wait for two people dressed in black suits standing outside in the Georgia heat) the door finally opened.

"I haven’t got all day," said a stick-of-a-man wearing a faded pink Polo shirt and crinkled green pants, with the slightly hint of a brogue in his voice. "So whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any," he said, long bony hands on bony hips.

Doggett and Starkweather struggled to keep their composure. Not because the man seemed to be the height and width of a toothpick. And not because of his wildly orange hair sticking straight up as if he had been electrocuted. Not even because of the oversized glasses magnifying his big blue eyes to laughable proportions nor even the weeping red sores interspaced with pale, leathery splotches all up and down his skinny arms.

But because of the huge white surgical mask that completely covered the man’s lower face. Doggett felt his mouth drop open slightly while Starkweather wondered why the song "Thriller" suddenly started going through her head.

"What?" the stick-man said, difficult to understand because of the mask and because of his Old Country accent. Then it dawned on him. But the dawning of realization only made him more cantankerous. "The pollen count is dreadfully high today," he said, as if it was obvious.

"Dr. Henry Laocoon?" Doggett asked. Completely thrown off balance by the strange little man’s appearance, his customary growl sounded more bewildered than intimidating.

"Yes, that’s me," the stick-man said. Then, his oversized eyes narrowed. "You bloody better not be reporters.

"No," Doggett said, reaching into his coat for his FBI identification. Starkweather had recovered better than Doggett, having taken a more clinical interested in his alternately oozing and scaly arms. Doggett cleared his throat to get her attention. Feeling like a rookie on her first day Starkweather, giving the doctor a brilliantly disarming smile that would have melted most men, also produced her FBI ID.

"I’m Section Chief Doggett, this is Agent Starkweather and we’d appreciate just a bit of your time to ask a few questions."

"Oh, of course, of course," Laocoon sneered. "First the police, then the federal agents, eh? I should have known. Well, don’t lollygag on the porch," he said grudgingly. "All the pollen is blowing into my house."

Doggett and Starkweather glanced at each other. There wasn’t a hint of breeze. "Thank you," Doggett said as he and Starkweather entered.

The inside of the house belied its exterior. Everything was clinically, neurotically neat. Everything smelled Pine-Sol fresh. As Laocoon led then to the kitchen, Doggett and Starkweather kept their eyes open for something, anything. "Sit," he said ungraciously, pointing at the stark white table and chairs in the starker white kitchen.

"No," Starkweather said, her pretty hazel eyes studying the window facing the backyard, which she noticed was completely covered with a heavy plastic tarp, well taped down. "We’re fine standing, thank you." She pressed her left arm into her side just a bit more, for the simple reassurance of the weight of her holster and her gun pressing into her side.

Doggett, although fully recovered from the initial shock, also felt uneasy. ::This is fucked up:: he thought as he said pleasantly. "Love what you’ve done with the place, doctor."

"My home décor is not for aesthetic pleasure!" Laocoon snapped. "Now, my time is precious so please proceed with the accusations and veiled threats so you can leave and I can get on with my day!"

"What did we do that makes you believe we’re here to accuse and threaten you sir?" Starkweather said, taking over.

"For the simple fact that you’re here, in my kitchen," Laocoon said, pulling his mask off to reveal a surprisingly neatly trimmed goatee.

"But what do you think prompted us to come to your house, Dr. Laocoon?" Starkweather asked her eyes on the doctor while Doggett casually looked around.

The kitchen appeared devoid of life. No piles of mail on the counter. No personal affects anywhere, not even a refrigerator magnet. The only things that stamped the kitchen with the doctor’s personality, the manic cleanliness withstanding, was the hum of the air purifier in one corner and an aged salt-and-peppered toy poodle dozing in the other corner. ::The vicious dog::, Doggett thought with a grin.

"Dr. Laocoon?" Starkweather said gently, waiting for an answer.

The doctor finally snorted. "My preoccupation with those poor little girls, of course."

"Preoccupation?" Doggett jumped back into the interrogation, stealing a look at Starkweather. Her facial expression was set in stone as usual but the color in her cheeks had drained from its normal creamy hue to a chalky color. "That’s a strange word to use, Dr. Laocoon."

"That’s because they haunt me, Section Chief," Laocoon said reverently. "I hurt for them. I bleed for them… I…" He put his hand on his chest. "I need to sit down." He stumbled slightly to his kitchen table, pulled out a chair, not noticing that the chair feet screeched horribly on the linoleum although Doggett and Starkweather both winced. Then with a tremulous sigh, the doctor plopped himself down into the seat.

"What makes you feel so strongly about these little girls?" Starkweather asked.

"Because I’m the only one with the expertise to stop the killer and no one will help me. Not even the parents. This means more little girls are going to die. They’re going to die and… " He stopped himself, sniffed, then coughed. Then he looked slyly at first Doggett, then Starkweather, then Doggett again. "What part of the FBI do you work for incidentally?"

"A division called the X-Files," Doggett said, strolling around the kitchen, as if he was still fascinated by the décor; which he was, in the same queasy way one is fascinated by a massive train wreck. He paused in front of the refrigerator to look at a black and white photograph of a little girl taped to the corner of the freezer door. ::The hell?:: he thought.

But his thought was interrupted by a derisive snort from Laocoon. "Ah yes, of course, of course. I should have known. The rather infamous dumping ground for unsolvable cases. The police are scratching their heads and the rest of the FBI is busy fighting the noble fight against terrorism… so, enter you two." He took off his glasses and looked at Doggett through normal eyes. "Doggett… Doggett… that name… is rather familiar… do you have family around here? There are quite a few Doggetts in the area but Doggett is not a very common surname, is it now?"

"I always thought it was," Doggett said blandly, facing the doctor. "Tell me Doctor Laocoon, why do you think little girls are going to continue to die?"

"Because little girls are the perfect victims. So sweet and innocent and pliable. Little boys possess a little more vim and vigor. They have a tendency to fight back."

"I see, " Doggett said neutrally while Starkweather felt her heart twisting. ::A little kid can be overpowered by an adult regardless of gender, you sick twisted nut-job…:: she thought bitterly as Doggett asked calmly "Then what makes you think you’re the one who can save these little girls?"

"I’m the one with the knowledge," Laocoon said arrogantly. "I’m the one with the expertise. I’m the one who is unafraid to say the unspeakable."

"Like UFO?" Starkweather butted in. "Or alien abduction? Tell me Doctor, how much of your parapsychological studies revolved around extraterrestrial phenomenon?"

"Oh I get it now," Laocoon said, rolling his eyes. Putting his glasses back on, he glared at the diminutive blonde with the dark eyebrows and lashes framing eyes that couldn’t decide to be green or brown. "You haven’t come to ask me questions, you’ve come to mock me. The crazy doctor, is that it? Trust me, I have more intelligence in my little toe than you do in your entire body."

"Somehow," Starkweather said dryly, "I doubt that."

Laocoon, suddenly sweating visibly, wiped his slick face off with his hand and then stood up. "What was your name again?"

"Starkweather," she said placidly while the alarm bells rang in her head. Behind him, she saw Doggett quietly moved closer to the doctor and, once he was out of Laocoon’s line of sight, he reached into his blazer. Presumably to unsnap the holster so he could draw his gun if necessary. Comforting.

"Starkweather… ohhh…. " Laocoon breathed. "You… you were the federal agent who was in a coma after being abducted. Yes, your name has been the subject of many parapsychological dissertations lately. You and your half-brother… Fox Mulder."

"How nice," Starkweather said, summoning a huge effort to remain cool and collected when all she wanted to do was to punch this freak in the face and run out of this house of horrors. "Glad to see that our reputations precede us."

"Let me tell you something, little girl," Laocoon said, his enlarged eyes widening even more with fanatic rage. "You are way over your head. You are not in the same league as Mulder. You will never dare to believe what you can’t understand. You are a shame to his bloodline. You are not even worthy enough to tie his shoelace."

"Thank you for confirming my belief that Mulder didn’t know how to tie his shoes."

"Alright, that’s enough," Doggett said, now directly behind Laocoon.

"Yes," Laocoon said. "It is enough. Let me spare you immense hours of your time. I have profoundly apologized for my trespassing upon private property and have paid the necessary fines. And I have spoken at length with the Savannah police about where I was when each one of those little girls disappeared and I was also with people who can verify my whereabouts. Go pester them and leave me out of this bureaucratic nightmare. I have work to do. I have been plenty cooperative when these horrors began," he said stoutly. "Now I refuse to be cooperative unless I have a very good lawyer at my side. Unless you had discovered probable cause enough to arrest me, please leave my home. At once." He shrieked. "GET OUT!"

Although Laocoon weighed less than a wet dishrag, Doggett and Starkweather were more than happy to get the hell out of his house and away from him.

Safely inside the car and driving away, Doggett said "That was fucking weird."

"No shit. I didn’t like his breathing."

"You didn’t like his breathing? Well the State of Georgia can stop his breathing if we can prove him guilty."

"You think he’s guilty?"

Doggett pursed his lips together, mulling that over. "Seeing that he’s three peas shy of a casserole, there’s no way we’d get the charges to stick, even if I thought he was guilty."

"You don’t think he’s guilty then."

"I don’t think he’s sane, Starkweather. That’s my jumping off point."

"But where are you jumping into?"

"Exactly where Laocoon said: a bureaucratic nightmare," Doggett said firmly. "What about you, Doc? What do you think?

"I don’t think he’s physically capable of carrying out the brutality described in the case report."

"Oh come on, Starkweather. You, of all people, know that size is not an indicator of strength."

"I’m not talking about his physical build, even though he had zero muscle tone. I’m talking about his health. I think he’s an asthmatic."

"Asthma?

"Coupled with paranoid personality disorder, just to add to the fun."

"No wonder Mul-duh’s his hero," Doggett grumbled, reaching up with the right hand to loosen his tie while his left hand stayed on the steering wheel. "I didn’t hear him wheezing though, Doc." After loosening his tie, he let his right hand drop and rest on his thigh.

"Neither did I, but he sounded perpetually short of breath. Plus, did you notice his arms?"

He grimaced. "I was trying not to."

"People with asthma often will have a history of other allergic reactions like eczema. Eczema can be distractingly itchy, to the point where the sufferer is in intense pain. Between the fighting for breath and the agony of his skin condition, I don’t think he had the strength to sneak into someone’s house, carry off a second grader and violate her." She shrugged. "And even if he was the perp, as bad as those lesions were discharging, there would have been DNA left at the scene or on the victims. But forensics said there was nothing?"

"Not even an eyelash," Doggett said bitterly, eyes on the road.

Starkweather turned to watch the devastatingly beautiful Savannah scenery pass them by. While her eyes feasted on the beauty of that mystifying old town, her heart sank slowly downward.

::This case, this bureaucratic nightmare… this was going to be one of the bad ones…:: she thought, as she fished in her blazer pocket for her sunglasses.

As she put them back on, Laocoon’s chilling words came back to her:

::Because little girls are the perfect victims. So sweet and innocent and pliable. Little boys possess a little more vim and vigor. They have a tendency to fight back …::

"Remind me," Starkweather said, leaning back into her seat, closing her eyes. "To call your sister to see how William is doing."

Doggett glanced over at her briefly. He worried how a case of this magnitude was going to affect her, now that she was the unofficial guardian of her brother’s son.

He worried how a case like this would affect him too.

He then felt her small fingers lightly graze the top of his hand. He flipped his hand over and gently captured her wandering fingers, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

This case was definitely going to be one of the bad ones.

"Let me tell you something, little girl," Laocoon said, his enlarged eyes widening even more with fanatic rage. "You are way over your head. You are not in the same league as Mulder. You will never dare to believe what you can’t understand. You are a shame to his bloodline. You are not even worthy enough to tie his shoelace."

"Thank you for confirming my belief that Mulder didn’t know how to tie his shoes."

"Alright, that’s enough," Doggett said, now directly behind Laocoon.

"Yes," Laocoon said. "It is enough. Let me spare you immense hours of your time. I have profoundly apologized for my trespassing upon private property and have paid the necessary fines. And I have spoken at length with the police about where I was when each one of those little girls disappeared and I was also with people who can verify my whereabouts. Go pester them and leave me out of this bureaucratic nightmare. I have work to do. I have been plenty cooperative when these horrors began," he said stoutly. "Now I refuse to be cooperative unless I have a very good lawyer at my side. Unless you had discovered probable cause enough to arrest me, please leave my home. At once." He shrieked. "GET OUT!"

Although Laocoon weighed less than a wet dishrag, Doggett and Starkweather were more than happy to get the hell out of his house and away from him.

Safely inside the car and driving away, Doggett said "That was fucking weird."

"No shit. I didn’t like his breathing."

"You didn’t like his breathing? Well the State of can stop his breathing if we can prove him guilty."

"You think he’s guilty?"

Doggett pursed his lips together, mulling that over. "Seeing that he’s three peas shy of a casserole, there’s no way we’d get the charges to stick, even if I thought he was guilty."

"You don’t think he’s guilty then."

"I don’t think he’s sane, Starkweather. That’s my jumping off point."

"But where are you jumping into?"

"Exactly where Laocoon said: a bureaucratic nightmare," Doggett said firmly. "What about you, Doc? What do you think?

"I don’t think he’s physically capable of carrying out the brutality described in the case report."

"Oh come on, Starkweather. You, of all people, know that size is not an indicator of strength."

"I’m not talking about his physical build, even though he had zero muscle tone. I’m talking about his health. I think he’s an asthmatic."

"Asthma?

"Coupled with paranoid personality disorder, just to add to the fun."

"No wonder Mul-duh’s his hero," Doggett grumbled, reaching up with the right hand to loosen his tie while his left hand stayed on the steering wheel. "I didn’t hear him wheezing though, Doc." After loosening his tie, he let his right hand drop and rest on his thigh.

"Neither did I, but he sounded perpetually short of breath. Plus, did you notice his arms?"

He grimaced. "I was trying not to."

People with asthma often will have a history of other allergic reactions like eczema. Eczema can be distractingly itchy, to the point where the sufferer is in intense pain. Between the fighting for breath and the agony of his skin condition, I don’t think he had the strength to sneak into someone’s house, carry off a second grader and violate her." She shrugged. "And even if he was the perp, as bad as those lesions were discharging, there would have been DNA left at the scene or on the victims. But forensics said there was nothing?"

"Not even an eyelash," Doggett said bitterly, eyes on the road.

Starkweather turned to watch the devastatingly beautiful scenery pass them by. While her eyes feasted on the beauty of that mystifying old town, her heart sank slowly downward.

::This case, this bureaucratic nightmare… this was going to be one of the bad ones…:: she thought, as she fished in her blazer pocket for her sunglasses.

As she put them back on, Laocoon’s chilling words came back to her:

::Because little girls are the perfect victims. So sweet and innocent and pliable. Little boys possess a little more vim and vigor. They have a tendency to fight back …::

"Remind me," Starkweather said, leaning back into her seat, closing her eyes. "To call your sister to see how William is doing."

Doggett glanced over at her briefly. He worried how a case of this magnitude was going to affect her, now that she was the unofficial guardian of her brother’s son.

He worried how a case like this would affect him too.

He then felt her small fingers lightly graze the top of his hand. He flipped his hand over and gently captured her wandering fingers, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

This case was definitely going to be one of the bad ones.

Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department

"John! How the hell you been, old buddy? How long has it been? Seven, eight years?"

"At least." Doggett, grinning ear-to-ear, ran up to shake the extended hand of the detective waiting placidly for him at the front door. He was tall and built and strikingly handsome, the kind of chiseled good looks that typified the prototype for ancient Greek beauty. Yet, though his physical stature could be characterized as threatening to even the most rugged of men, Starkweather could sense something immediately in his manner that belied a more gentle, easygoing nature.

"How’s it been going down in your neck of the woods? What’s new?"

"Same ole’, same ole’," the detective answered, "Oh. I had a little girl a couple of years after I last saw you. She’s six now." He pulled out a tiny picture of a pretty dark-haired girl with brown eyes as round as her father’s. "Her name’s Annie. Isn’t she just most gorgeous creature on two legs?"

Doggett smiled as he glanced at the girl riding the tricycle with the ribbons on the handlebars. "Peach of the county," he replied, "and very apple of her daddy’s eye, too, I’d wager."

The detective grinned in thanks as he replaced the picture lovingly back into his wallet. As he placed it back in his pocket, he seemed to notice for the first time that his friend wasn’t alone.

"Well, now. Who’s this here, Bulldog?" he asked, motioning to Starkweather’s, "Don’t tell me you’ve been in the great north so long that you’ve forgotten your manners? I might have to call your mama."

"No, no," Doggett laughed, "anything but that. I’m sorry. Detective Jim Henson, this is my partner, Agent Jerilyn Starkweather, Agent Starkweather, Detective Henson."

"Jim," he corrected, grabbing her hand and placing a kiss upon it, "Aw juntee, ma’am." The sound of Henson’s southern accent butchering the French language was harsh on her ears, but his charm was so disarming that Starkweather, in spite of herself, felt a little warmth rush to cheeks.

"The pleasure’s all mine, sir," she countered.

"May I escort you into the station, Agent Starkweather?" he asked as he offered her his arm.

"It would be my honor," she replied, looping her arm gracefully about his. They walked arm-in-arm to the front of the building and as Henson was busying himself opening the front door for her, she took the time to glance back at Doggett and mouth the word "Bulldog?" before continuing on her way.

Doggett felt the tips of his ears turn red as he followed after them.

The place was abuzz with activity. Young beat cops in neatly-pressed uniforms were running to and fro, answering phones and filing paperwork, while over-aged harlots, the kind who aren’t afraid to sell their wares in the middle of the day, sat in ratty t-shirts, waiting to be booked. As Henson led the small party back to his office, Starkweather caught sight of the conference room where a meeting was currently in progress. On the overhead, a formerly beautiful little girl with flowing brown hair sat propped against a tree. Her head, slumped peacefully against her chest, showed signs of battery, a paradox that attested to the simultaneous brutality and tranquility of death. Henson’s eyes followed Starkweather’s into the next room.

"Rachael Rein," he declared, opening the office door and motioning for her to take a seat, "First victim. Found in the park ten yards from the seesaw." He sat down behind his desk and folded his hands across his torso, "It was her favorite game."

"Yes," Starkweather nodded, "I read about her in the file." She flashed him a smile that would have melted the heart of the coldest of men, "It was very thorough."

Henson beamed as she continued.

"Though I am a little curious as to why you’re not in there. This is your case, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, Jim," Doggett interjected, "How come you’re not runnin’ the slideshow?"

The smile fell abruptly from his face.

"The head honchos were none too happy with the…uh…avenue that I decided to pursue…that is…er…"

"You mean us, right?" Starkweather asked.

"Well, to be quite honest with you ma’am, yeah."

"Don’t feel bad. We get that a lot."

Henson shrugged. "It’s just that none of our leads panned out. Everyone had a reliable alibi for the time of the murders and then this quack Laocoon goes around and stirs up the parents like a fox in a henhouse." He shook his head. "I just wanted to give them something to cling to. Some kind of hope. Laocoon had told them about previous cases, cases involving…" he leaned forward in his seat, lowering his voice to a whisper, "…alien abductions."

Doggett and Starkweather exchanged a knowing glance, like two people who are in on a joke that the rest aren’t privy to.

"So, I told them, just to calm them down, mind you, that I knew the best, a man who specialized in just that kind of…thing."

"I’ve never been so honored," Doggett said dryly.

"Look, John, I come from the old school, you know? I’m just not as open minded as you, that’s all."

Starkweather nearly spit out her gum.

"Open minded?"

"What about these supposed perps?" Doggett ignored her, "Can we get a list?"

"Sure, no problem. Anything you need." He pulled a file out of drawer in his desk and handed it to Doggett. "That should have everyone in there. Their names, their jobs, their stories, though I doubt you’ll find anything. They all checked out."

Doggett opened the file and glanced through the first page. As he flipped to the second, his entire demeanor seemed to change in an instant. His lips formed into an angry pout and his warm, blue eyes became cold and hard.

"Caleb Thrym."

"Who?" Henson asked, glancing upside-down over the file. "Oh, that guy. Bit of a prick," he said, then embarrassed for having sworn in a woman’s presence, he looked at Starkweather and said solemnly, "Sorry ma’am."

"What’s his story?" Doggett asked.

"Why? Do you know him?"

"What’s he got to do with this?" Doggett asked again, this time more insistently.

"His company made repairs at two of the three girls’ houses. He was the man in charge. We questioned him, but his alibi was airtight. He was home all night. His car never left the front drive. The neighbors can attest to that."

Doggett looked down at the man who seemed worn down with age. "What the hell," he wondered to himself, "is he doing back in?"