By Sheryl Clay
sclay@connix.com
 

Date: Sun, 09 Jul 95 13:38:55 PST
 

This story was inspired, in part, by Stephen Sondheim's
Broadway musical "Assassins".  It is straight X-File:  PG  - no
graphic sex, violence or language.  There is one small "bedroom
scene," but it is very tame.  The four categories of American
assassins found in Scully's field notes are taken from:
"American Assassins:  The Darker Side of Politics;" by James
W. Clarke.

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 Mathews-
Simons 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.)

Assistant Director Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
and the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions,
used without permission.  No copyright infringement is
intended.  The character of Lucinda Carey is mine.
 
 
 

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS
(1/9)

May 12
Georgetown University
Washington, D.C
11:00 am

     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
Washington, D.C.
1:30 PM

     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.

=====================================================================
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New Story:  Sic Semper Tyrannis (2/9)
Date: Sun, 09 Jul 95 13:43:58 PST
 

This story was inspired, in part, by Stephen Sondheim's
Broadway musical "Assassins".  It is straight X-File:  PG  - no
graphic sex, violence or language.  There is one small "bedroom
scene," but it is very tame.  The four categories of American
assassins found in Scully's field notes are taken from:
"American Assassins:  The Darker Side of Politics;" by James
W. Clarke.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
and the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions,
used without permission.  No copyright infringement is
intended.  The character of Lucinda Carey is mine.
 

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS
(2/9)

Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington D.C.
1:30 PM

     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
11:30 p.m.

     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.

=====================================================================
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New Story:  Sic Semper Tyrannis (3/9)
Date: Sun, 09 Jul 95 13:48:14 PST
 

This story was inspired, in part, by Stephen Sondheim's
Broadway musical "Assassins".  It is straight X-File:  PG  - no
graphic sex, violence or language.  There is one small "bedroom
scene," but it is very tame.  The four categories of American
assassins found in Scully's field notes are taken from:
"American Assassins:  The Darker Side of Politics;" by James
W. Clarke.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
and the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions,
used without permission.  No copyright infringement is
intended.  The character of
Lucinda Carey is mine
 

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS
(3/9)
 

May 16
Federal Bureau of Investigation
8:10 am

     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
10:30 p.m.

     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.

=====================================================================
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New Story:  Sic Semper Tyrannis (4/9)
Date: Sun, 09 Jul 95 13:54:49 PST
 

This story was inspired, in part, by Stephen Sondheim's
Broadway musical "Assassins".  It is straight X-File:  PG  - no
graphic sex, violence or language.  There is one small "bedroom
scene," but it is very tame.  The four categories of American
assassins found in Scully's field notes are taken from:
"American Assassins:  The Darker Side of Politics;" by James
W. Clarke.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
and the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions,
used without permission.  No copyright infringement is
intended.  The character of
Lucinda Carey is mine
 

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS
(4/9)
 
 

May 17
Federal Bureau of Investigation
9:00 a.m.

     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
9:00 a.m.
 

     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
11:30 a.m.

     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."

========================================
 
 
 

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New Story:  Sic Semper Tyrannis (5/9)
Date: Sun, 09 Jul 95 13:59:59 PST
 

This story was inspired, in part, by Stephen Sondheim's
Broadway musical "Assassins".  It is straight X-File:  PG  - no
graphic sex, violence or language.  There is one small "bedroom
scene," but it is very tame.  The four categories of American
assassins found in Scully's field notes are taken from:
"American Assassins:  The Darker Side of Politics;" by James
W. Clarke.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
and the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions,
used without permission.  No copyright infringement is
intended.  The character of Lucinda Carey is mine
 

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS
(5/9)
 

The Market Inn & Restaurant
2nd & E Streets SW
Washington, D.C
 

     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, high-
backed 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 s