*XXXII*

Friday, 12/7/95, 6:45 A.M., Dunkin' Donuts, 18th and Constitution, 
Washington, D.C.

"So, what kind do you want?" Dana asked, tucking a 
scraggle of orange hair behind her ear. 

"Chocolate angel creme. And get some with the pink 
sprinkles for the Hickey," Hill replied, shoving winter-
nipped hands into coat pockets.

Dana placed their order. The dweebie clerk fished the 
donuts out with quick, wax-paper efficiency. Dana 
accepted the cardboard box while oblivious to the longing 
gaze he cast at her through thick-lensed glasses. Dana 
pocketed the change, and turned, brushing past Tina out 
into the bright, freezing morning.

"Don't worry. You wouldn't have had a chance even if 
you'd stayed in computer school," Tina wanted to call over 
her shoulder. Instead, Hill followed along behind their 
mutual goddess, nonchalantly careful of each step she took 
on the icy sidewalk. Falling would definitely reveal her own 
dorkbuttitude. Ahead of her, Dana trudged with her head 
hanging-- a fretting idol.

"Hey, you really didn't expect any messages from Mulder 
on your machine, did you, Mutt?"

Dana paused long enough for her devotee to catch up. Her 
narrow sidelong look didn't have enough energy to be scary. 
"If I hadn't thought there might be something I wouldn't 
have wasted the time checking. Come on. We're wasting 
more time now with this breakfast break." 

"Breakfast's the most important meal of the day. You 
should try it sometime."

"I'm fine." Dana unlocked the car and slid inside behind the 
wheel. Hill got in on the passenger side. The aroma of 
donuts filled the car as soon as both doors were closed and 
made 'someone's' stomach beg loudly. "I'm just fine. All I 
need--" 

"Is a Denny's Grand Slam. Your insides just backed me up 
on that." Hill clipped her seatbelt around her own hungry 
middle.

"All I need are those print-outs." Dana's belt also clicked 
into its lock.

"Yeah, well, Langly finally got through and Byers said he'll 
have your paperwork sorted by the time we get back. You 
can strain your eyes to your little heart's delight." Hill 
scratched where an underwire dug into her ribs.

Dana's mouth pursed. She signaled a left, eyeing the traffic 
in the rearview mirror then pulled the wheel into a sharp 
right. 

"Christ, I'll be glad when this is done and we can obey the 
traffic laws and quit speeding and signaling wrong," Hill 
grumbled as Dana took the car around the corner and down 
a block, pulling into a parking spot on Constitution 
Avenue. There were plenty to choose from; the whole long 
row of metered spaces stood almost empty. "Sunday 
morning primo parking." Hill sighed. "Life is good." 

"Nobody out but us freaks of nature." 

"Thanks for the complement, Bun." 

"No-- I mean-- Mulder says that." 

"Well, isn't he the romantic one? I shudder to think what he 
says during foreplay." Hill opened her door and climbed 
out. "Mulder does DO foreplay, doesn't he?" 

"If there's time." 

"Huh?"

Dana's smile was Mona Lisa enigmatic. She turned away, 
into a gust of wind that tested her hair spray's mettle, and 
walked quickly toward the corner past a sleeping-bag 
cocoon on a hot-air vent.

"Hey! Wait up!" Tina set off after her again. In the little 
park to Hill's left, the trees waved bare branches and the fire 
flickered in a metal trash barrel while bundled figures 
hunched over the flames. She caught up with Dana as the 
small woman stabbed the crosswalk button. It took several 
more pokes before the cold-stiffened mechanism obeyed. 
When the green pedestrian flashed, the women jogged 
across the six lanes of Constitution Avenue together. There 
was a slippery hill to descend and then a gust that snatched 
the big, steel fire door out of Dana's hands as she opened it. 
The door slammed like a cannonade behind them as their 
footsteps clattered on the stairs down to the basement.

"Now give the secret Mickey Mouse Club knock," Hill 
coached. "Two raps and good, hard thump."

When the door opened, Tina grinned and held out the box of 
donuts to Langly. Dana pushed past them and wove her 
way through the cluttered office with the ease of 
experience. Frohike looked up from his computer and 
smiled at her. "We've got it." 

"Yeah? And what is it?" Dana leaned over his shoulder, her 
eyes skimming the screen. Tina swung her hips around the 
desk and handed the pudgy little man a donut as he passed 
Dana a sheaf of printouts to riffle. "Admitting records. Nice 
work, Frohike. Any other time I'd skin you alive." 

He laughed awkwardly. "I usually don't--" 

"Scully, there's this, too." Byers looked up from the 
worktable, from where he leaded over a paper-stuffed 
folder. 

"When do those start? What time range do we have?" Dana 
looked from one man to the other.

Hill scanned the dates of the top sheet in Dana's hand, saw 
the name "Carl Benjamin Handford" and notes on his 
treatment at Fairfax Mercy Hospital. Dana laid the pile of 
papers on a sliver of electronics-free flat surface and they 
read together, Hill saying "okay" when Dana should flip the 
page. She felt her throat tighten at the catalogue of injuries 
and medications that had been paid for. "Jesus. Jesus holy 
Christ," she murmured.

"Yeah." Dana nodded. "Carl only gave us the highlights. 
Byers," she spoke a little louder, "there's a running 
summary of hospitalizations here. We can cross reference 
those." 

"Right."

"Looks like he's been admitted roughly every six months." 
The bright screen in front of Frohike scrolled slowly. "I'm 
up to 1995." 

"Pretty fucking ugly shit." Hill sat down the box of donuts, 
suddenly not hungry as the reality behind 'rectal abrasions,' 
'swelling and tenderness of final 1-2 cm on urethra,' 'cut on 
the base of shaft of penis,' and 'cigarette burn on scrotum' 
set in.

"Handford's going through it on a schedule." Frohike shook 
his head. "Why the cops didn't jump all over this I don't 
know. From what we've got here, Our man's been in Fairfax 
Mercy for assault-related trauma at least six times and 
there's not one fucking report of charges filed or an 
investigation started." 

"The cops I can see." Langly was scowling. "They bought 
'em off. Or maybe Handford just wouldn't cooperate. The 
DA doesn't care unless it looks good in the papers. But 
who paid for all this?" 

"What do you mean?" Hill looked at him, then at Dana, 
who pulled her brows together as her finger traced a column 
on the top page. 

"Six hospital stays." Dana's voice sounded hollow and 
baffled. "Psych and trauma, blood tests, emergency room 
fees... and they never called law enforcement because he 
never brought a complaint. Unless he supported it or was 
incapable, no prosecutor'd touch it. It's a noncase. But--" 

"But who paid for all this stuff?" Langly demanded again.

A rueful look passed between Dana and Frohike. "His 
HMO. And they kept paying his bills even after he hit the 
maximum limit. They never played managed-care games 
with him," Dana said.

"So?" Tina gestured with empty hands. 

"Managed care," Byers voice was dry from behind her. 
"Insurers hate to pay money and if they saw a pattern in 
Handford's claims, they'd try to stop it. They'd be 
investigating this case, even if the police wouldn't." 

"So?" She gestured again.

"So he wasn't injured on the job, and the managed care 
teams never showed up to visit," Frohike tapped on the 
screen. "Yesterday they told us they'd wondered when we'd 
finally show up. This stuff put his insurer out hundreds of 
thousands over the years." 

"Insurance companies are in business to make money, 
Agent Hill." Byers abandoned his place to join them. "They 
cancel coverage for this kind of repeated claim. Have you 
ever been in an accident?" 

"Sure. But that's auto--" 

"Doesn't matter." Dana's voice was brusque. "They lost 
money on Carl Handford but they never shut him down and 
they never even did a full review. There's got to be more to 
it. What else have you got on this, Frohike?" 

"Some of this is in a special internal report." His fingers 
tapped on the keyboard, initiating orders. "Right here," he 
said as it appeared. "If they've got a scanner...Please God, 
please...." Frohike breathed the prayer. "Please let them be 
high tech and....oh man, Yesssss! Slam dunk!" His chair 
rocked on its wheels as Dana leaned past him to hit print. 
The laser jet hummed and thunked and spat a page that she 
snatched up. 

"Look at this, Jeffie. They just ripped him apart. Twice a 
year, right on schedule and his insurers just wrote memos." 

"Why didn't they get him into rape counseling?" 

"Same reason they never brought charges. He didn't 
complain or someone stopped them, take your pick," 
Dana's voice was dry with disgust. "They broke him, Jeff. 
Just like they're trying to break Mulder. But where's the 
authorization...?" 

"Authorization?" Tina looked up, met Frohike's troubled 
gaze as Byers leaned forward to help Dana. 

"I think this is it. Yeah...." He pulled it free, turning it so 
both of them could read the signature at the bottom. Dana 
reached out, one neat nail tracing down lines of print. 

"Look. Here's the written auth--" she trailed off, carefully 
picking the sheet up to hold it close to her eyes as the color 
drained from her face.

"Bunny?" Hill reached out, but didn't quite touch her. 

"Da...Sc...Ag... ." Frohike cleared his throat. "Who...what is 
it? Why did they keep paying?" 

"His insurer kept paying because they were told to keep 
paying. There's no way this happened in the line of duty, 
but that's what the records say. That's what his boss says." 
She was trembling. 

Hill's lips mouthed the name, eyes wide with voiceless 
realization. Byers frowned, and Frohike watched, mouth 
open with a question he couldn't quite form. 

"His goddamned, in-the-know-lying bastard boss." Dana's 
voice was cold. "They kept paying because Walter S. 
Skinner signed off on each and every one of these 
goddamned pieces of paper. He knew. And He's known all 
along."