A Little Knowledge  (2a/7)
                  ****************************
                               by
                          Patti Murphy


     The alarm crashed into her dreams at five o'clock the next
morning.  She jerked awake, turned off the droning alarm and then
lay back, cocooned under the warm blankets.  In a few seconds,
she could feel her resolve to be at her desk by six starting to
slip away and then she was letting herself slide back into sleep. 
She forced her eyes open again.  She had to get moving.  There
was a lot to do today.
     She was in the shower, massaging shampoo into her hair, when
she remembered that she was meeting Peter for lunch today.  Her
stomach did a little flip.  It's just lunch, she reminded
herself.  Probably an hour of small talk, "Can I call you
sometime?", and then she'd be back in the bowels of the J. Edgar
Hoover Building, with paperwork to do and an in-basket full of
problems to solve.  She rinsed the shampoo out of her hair then
leaned against the tiled wall for a moment and let the hot spray
run down her back.  She thought about how he'd looked at her the
other day in the park.  Another little flip.
     She got out of the shower, towelled herself off and combed
out her tangled, wet hair.  She did the usual morning rituals of
moisturizer, styling lotion, blow dryer and toothpaste.  As she
put her toothbrush back in its holder, she realized that she was
humming.  A tuneless, happy kind of hum.  She stood there,
looking at her reflection in the mirror and chuckled.   "It's
only lunch," she said to the woman in the mirror.
     She chose the light green suit from her closet and dressed,
then returned to the bathroom mirror and put on her make up,
taking a little longer than usual.  When she finished, she
stepped back a bit and checked her reflection again.
     She ran a hand through her hair and sighed.  There really
hadn't been much gentleness in her life lately.  She'd gotten
this far though, hadn't she?  She had proven, without a doubt,
that she didn't need to have someone in her life.  But that
didn't mean that it wouldn't be nice.
     She turned off the bathroom light, found her gun and
holster, and left for work.


     She had filled the better part of a yellow legal pad with
notes when Mulder stumbled through the door of their subterranean
office at eight thirty.
     "Coffee's on," she said and then glanced up from the
computer screen.  "Mulder, you look like hell."
     "Thanks," he mumbled. He searched around on his desk for his
mug.
     "It's over in the lab, by the coffeemaker," Scully said. 
"Did you get any sleep at all?"
     "A little bit, I think.  I was going through the information
Danny got me until around four thirty, then I went home and
crashed," he said, as he wandered past her desk toward the lab.
     "Crashed is a good word, by the look of you," she said.  She
got up, grabbed her own mug and followed him.  "Did you come up
with anything?"
     "A stiff neck, sore eyes and an unexplainable craving for
Vietnamese food around three."  He poured coffee into his mug,
spilled an equal amount on the counter, then turned toward Scully
to pour hers.
     "Uh, thanks, but I just had this suit cleaned," she said as
she took the pot from him.  "So you didn't find anything to
explain why Mr X. gave you these files?"
     "Nothing. Nada.  Maybe he is just jerking me around this
time.  There's nothing there, that I can see.  All these people
living boring lives, in boring cities, driving boring station
wagons," he said.  He took a long drink from his mug.  "Who was
it that said most men lead lives of quiet desperation?"
     "Thoreau, I think."
     "Well, he was talking about these people.  The only bright
spot that I can see in all of this is that they all died before
disco made it big."  He leaned against the cupboard, rubbed his
eyes.  "How about you?  Find anything?"
     "So far there's no discernible pattern in terms of age,
location or occupation, but... I've looked at over 300 cases now
Mulder, and every single one of them was diabetic.  That and they
died within ten months of each other, from November 1969 to
August 1970.  Now, I'm no actuary, but it seems to me that the
odds of that happening are even more remote than the Cubs winning
a Pennant."
     "I'd say they're about as remote as Elvis winning a
Pennant."  He started to look a little more awake.  "We need to
track down these people's doctors, see if they can give us some
information."
     She shook her head as he spoke.  "Patient confidentiality. 
No one is going to tell us anything unless we have all the
paperwork.  You know that."
     He frowned, ran a hand through his hair.  "O.K., how about
if we start contacting their families, try to get someone to
authorize the release of information?"
     "And tell them what?  That the FBI is investigating the
unremarkable death of their loved one?  We have no suspects, no
motives and no idea what we're even looking for yet, Mulder."
     Mulder shrugged.  "It's worth a shot.  At this point, it's
all we've got."
     "Actually, we've got one other angle to think about," she
said.
     Mulder raised an eyebrow.  "Are you holding out on me,
Scully?"  
     "I've got somebody in research compiling a list of all the
major pharmaceutical companies in the continental U.S. that were
producing and selling insulin in the late 60's.  The majority of
the people in these files appear to have been Type I diabetics,
and those kinds of diabetics just about always require insulin."
     "There are different kinds of diabetes?"
     She nodded.  "Juvenile, or Type I diabetes is generally a
little more severe and requires insulin, and it usually shows up
before age thirty.  People with Type II or mature-onset diabetes
can sometimes get by without insulin by watching their diets
carefully."
     Mulder pondered this a moment.  "Can insulin be taken
orally?"
     "No, it's a protein.  It would be digested."
     "So it has to be injected directly into the bloodstream?"
     "Not exactly.  It's injected interstitially, into the thigh
or abdomen or arm, but it's not supposed to go directly into the
bloodstream.  It's supposed to be absorbed slowly."
     "You think there might have been something wrong with the
insulin these people took?" Mulder asked.
     Scully shrugged.  "I don't know.  But it's a place to start. 
Maybe we'll know more when we find out who was producing insulin
then."  She glanced at her watch.  "I'll go see if they've got a
list yet."
     Mulder watched her head for the door, her fiery hair bobbing
with each stride.  "Hey, Scully," he said.  She turned, a
questioning look on her face.  "You're awfully bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed this morning.  What's your secret?"
     She allowed a slight smile.  "Clean living," she said, and
then was gone.
     Mulder smiled.  Her eyes were blue again this morning.
     

     Scully put the phone back down in its cradle and stroked
another name off the list.  She looked across at Mulder who held
the receiver to his ear with his shoulder.  He was flipping
through pages of computer printouts with one hand and scribbling
down notes with the other.  He was getting that look that he got
whenever a case was taking hold of him.  Describing it to others
she would have said that he was focussed, but she knew that his
behaviour really landed somewhere between manic and obsessed.  
     She took out a morning copy of the Post that she had
carefully tucked into her briefcase and snapped it open.  She
scanned the pages, stopping only to read headlines and bylines. 
She found what she was looking for on page four.  Tucked in
amidst the recent breakdown of peace talks in Bosnia and an
apocalyptic story on the state of Chesapeake Bay, was a short
piece entitled: "Congress Set to Drown Lobster Bill".  The byline
attributed the article to Peter J. O'Hara, Staff.  She was two
paragraphs into it when she heard Mulder hang up his phone.   
     "Any luck?" she asked.  She folded the paper and stuffed it
back into her briefcase.
     Mulder was on his feet, jamming his arms into his jacket. 
"I followed up thirty six deaths within a three hour radius of
Washington.  Of those thirty six, fifteen of the surviving
relatives are still at the same address.  Nine are willing to
talk to us."
     "What exactly did you tell them we were investigating?"
     "I said that it wasn't an official investigation yet, that
we were really just making some enquiries."
     "Concerning...?"
     "I was a little vague," he said.  She arched an eyebrow
slightly at him.  He missed it, in his zeal to cram all the
papers on his desk back into their file folders.  "The first stop
is Baltimore.  If we leave now, we can be there by two.  I know
this place near Camden Yards that makes a chili dog you won't
believe."  He was almost at the door when he realized she wasn't
with him.  He turned and looked at her.   She had an expression
on her face that he couldn't read.  "Are you coming?" he asked.
     "Yeah, it's just that..."
     "What?"
     "Well, I'm meeting someone for lunch."  She wondered why she
sounded so apologetic all of a sudden.
     "Can you cancel?"
     Scully studied her desktop.  Haven't we already had this
conversation once before, she thought.  In Atlantic City?  
"Mulder, this case has waited for twenty five years," she said
out loud. "I don't think another hour will make that much
difference."
     He glanced down at the file folders under his arm and tried
not to look crestfallen.
     "Sure," he said.  "No problem.  It can wait an hour."  He
went back to his desk and put the folders down.  He watched
Scully take her purse from her desk drawer and get to her feet.
     She felt his gaze.  "What?" she said.
     "Nothing," he replied. He took off his jacket and hung it on
the back of his chair then looked at her again. "I was just
wondering if you were going someplace with fast service.  Or a
drive through window."
     She summoned up the last of her patience.  "No Mulder, I'm
going someplace nice, with tablecloths and cutlery and
everything."
     He nodded, mentally retreating.  "Take your time," he said. 
"Really.  Enjoy yourself."
     "Thank you," she said, forcing a softer tone into her voice. 
"Why don't you see about getting a car?  We can leave as soon as
I get back."
     He nodded and reached for the phone.  She left, shutting the
door behind her.  After he'd arranged for the car and hung up, he
sat looking at the door for a long time.


     The restaurant that Peter had suggested was a converted
house in Georgetown, trendy enough to attract tables of power-
suited lawyers and lobbyists, but with food good enough to keep
them coming back.  The walls were stark white with splashes of
art, and there were tall windows that overlooked a tiny courtyard
with a fountain.  Peter was already there, seated at a table in a
secluded corner.  When he spotted the Maitre d' escorting Scully
towards him, he got to his feet, looking very much like a man who
could not believe his good fortune.  The Maitre d' held Scully's
chair while she seated herself.
     "I hope you haven't been waiting long," she said.
     "No, no, I just got here a few minutes ago," Peter replied,
as he sat down.  His gaze lingered on her face.  "You look
great," he said.
     She couldn't stop the smile.  "Thanks," she managed to say,
but she felt slightly flustered, certain that there was a hint of
blush rising to her cheeks.  Damn.  It had been a while since
she'd done this; she was out of practice.  She reached for a menu
and Peter followed suit.  "So, what's good here?" she asked.
     "They have the most amazing salads," he said.  "There's one
with pine nuts and chevre that's really good."
     Suddenly, everything came together like a snapshot in
Scully's mind:  the brilliant spring sunshine pouring in the
windows, the muted tinkle of ice cubes ringing against crystal
goblets, this handsome man who was clearly attracted to her and
who was somehow starting to make her feel like she was just
waking up from a long hibernation.  She looked over the top of
her menu at Peter, who was scanning the list of entrees.
     She smiled.  This was nice.  This was definitely nice.


     By the time coffee arrived, they had explored all the safe
subjects from movies to food, discovering a common love of
Katherine Hepburn films, and had begun to cover the required
topics of education and work.
     "Physics?  And medicine?" Peter asked.  "Then how did you
ever end up with the FBI?"
     A flicker of a memory touched the edge of her mind.  Old
tapes started to play:  trying to explain her decision to her
parents, arguing with her father, finally even questioning her
own instincts.  She shrugged.  "It was what I wanted.  I had
already done my residency in forensics and the Bureau offered a
lot of challenges.  A chance to prove myself, I guess."
     Peter watched her intently, listening closely.  "Has it been
what you hoped it would be?"
     "Yes."  Why had she hesitated before she answered?
     "I sense a `but' there," he said.
     She smiled a bit, and averted her eyes.  "I haven't talked
about this for a while.  I was just remembering my parents'
reaction to my decision to join the Bureau."
     Peter nodded in understanding.  "I take it they were less
than thrilled."
     "You could say that. Especially my Dad."
     "Have the two of you worked it out?" he asked.
     She looked down at her coffee cup and fiddled with her
spoon.  "He died about a year and a half ago," she said.
     Peter reached over and covered her hand with his.  "Dana,
I'm sorry," he said.  "That's really tough."
     His hand was soft and warm.  She lifted her eyes to his face
and was surprised by the gentleness she saw there.  Gentleness
and something else.  Sorrow.  She tried to find her voice. "I'm
thankful for the time we did have," she said.
     Peter withdrew his hand and sat back in his chair.  "My Dad
died when I was a kid.  It really tore the family apart," he
said.  "All of a sudden, there was never enough money for
anything and at eleven years old, I was expected to be the man of
the house."  He shook his head.  "It makes you grow up pretty
quickly."
     "I'll bet."
     "But then, so does having three sisters," he said, a smile
returning to his face.
     "Three sisters?" Scully repeated.  "And I thought having two
brothers was rough."
     "Were you a tomboy?"
     "Does it show?" she asked.
     His eyes twinkled.  "I just get the feeling that you could
probably still climb a tree if you had to."  
     "I suppose I could, if I had to," she said.  They both sat
there basking in the glow of shared attraction for a few moments. 
Scully realized that she didn't want this lunch to end yet. 
"What about you?  Did you grow up always wanting to be a
journalist?" she asked.
     "No, actually I went to law school first.  My Dad was a
house painter all his life and he always thought that being a
lawyer was the most respectable thing that someone could be.  So,
after he died, I guess I sort of adopted his dream out of some
kind of loyalty or something.  Trying to live up to his
expectations.  I was pretty driven."  He took a sip of coffee,
then shook his head at the memory.  "I worked like a mad man,
trying to get scholarships and holding down three part time jobs
to pay my tuition.  I finished my first year of law school and
that summer I got a job working for the Trib in Chicago, as a
sort of gopher for this big shot investigative reporter.  That's
when I figured out why I hated law school."
     "Why?"
     "Because the law isn't interested in finding out the truth. 
The law is all technicalities and plea bargaining and precedents. 
It's not about finding out what really happened and that's what I
wanted to do.  I wanted to wake people up and make them see  what
was going on all around them.  So, I quit law school, went to
work for the Trib full time and got a degree in journalism at
night."  He smiled suddenly.  "And now I spend my time
researching bills about off-shore fishing rights and lobster
quotas.  Talk about the American dream."
     Scully laughed.  
     Peter studied her for a moment, trying to decide whether or
not to say something.  She urged him on with a tilt of her head.
     "I don't know what your experience has been, but in general,
I've always found first dates to be...well, a lot of work."  He
fingered his napkin and grinned.  "This one has been different. 
I've really enjoyed myself."
     She nodded her agreement.  "Me, too.  You're.... very easy
to talk to."
     "I'm thinking that if the first date went so well, maybe we
should risk a second one."  His smile was at once teasing and
slightly nervous.
     Scully felt herself smile, something that she seemed to be
doing a lot today. "I think I'm willing to take that risk," she
said.

cont.