"I'm telling you, it would be quicker if you just let me sit down at a computer and write up the statement myself."

"That isn't how it works," said Brass patiently.

"I'm a writer--I could get it done in half the time this is taking us." She eyed the detective who was still writing down an abbreviated version of the last bit of information she'd given. "A third of the time."

"It needs to be written up in a certain way, Miss McLain."

"I can do 'statement'. I may write mostly fiction, but I was a convenience store clerk for ten years. Believe me--I had experience writing up incident reports."

"We're almost through."

"I can bring in print-outs of all the emails he's sent me. Dammit, I only saved the contents on the first ones, so we won't have the header information, but the last crop is still in my inbox on my email account." Mozell opened her purse and took out a pill vial. She shook a pill into her palm, popped it in her mouth, and swallowed it with a sip of Diet Pepsi.

Brass, arms folded, was watching her as Cullen Tentrees, one of his more experienced detectives, took notes, preparing to type up her statement. He shook his head slightly. "How many sodas is that since you've been here?"

"Um... this is my third. They're diet, so I'm not hurting my diabetes."

"No, but you're ruining your kidneys."

She squinted at him. "Dad! I thought you died in 1970!" Brass snorted softly, and she said, "These, or Valium. I don't have a prescription for Valium, so I figured popping illicit pharmaceuticals in a cop-shop wouldn't be wise."

Greg was sitting beside her. "Talk to the precinct therapist. You could probably get a script for some sort of relaxant, considering what you're going through--about to go through."

She patted his hand. "Thanks, doll, but I think I prefer to be clear headed for the time being."

Tentrees said, "You read the memo, recognized the MO, and reported it. That brings us up to date?" She nodded. He stood up, taking the notes. "I'll have this typed up in a few minutes, then bring it back for you to read and sign." He left.

"How good is security at your place?" Brass asked.

Mozell wrinkled her nose. "Well, there's the Neighborhood Watch. Some of those folks toot a mean police whistle." Brass gave her a level look. "You do have a sense of humor, right?"

"Yeah, but not when it comes to things like this."

"Gotcha. Um... it's okay. I have dead bolts on the front and back doors, and I keep all the windows locked at all times. I also put on the knob lock, dead bolt, and chain as soon as I enter the house." She shrugged. "Habit, even when I was living in an area where most people still didn't lock their doors."

"Such places exist?" said Brass dubiously.

"I think they're pretty much limited to Amish and Mennonite communities these days."

"I think it would be better if you got security bars and some sort of an alarm system."

"That didn't help the last victim." The three occupants of the room looked to the door to find Grissom and a redheaded woman wearing a visitor's badge. She was the one who had spoken.

Grissom said, "This is Detective Mitchell Pfeiffer, from the Mesquite PD. Detective Pfeiffer, Lieutenant Brass, Mozell McClain, and Greg Sanders."

Mitchell shook hands, saying almost by rote, "Yes, Mitchell, not Michelle."

Mozell arched an eyebrow. "You think someone named 'Mozell' is going to comment on someone else's name?" Mitch smiled, thinking that this woman was either going to be very easy, or very frustrating to work with. "Who was the last victim?"

Mitchell's dawning smile faded. "That would be Shirley Ann Thomas, just this weekend." She sat at the table, taking the last chair, and Grissom leaned back against the wall to observe. "Miss Thomas and her significant other, Miss Caldwell, had a security system--not state of the art, but not a do-it-yourself special, either. The killer managed to circumvent it."

"How?"

Mitchell sighed. "It looks like he just cut the phone line. If they'd had a line guard..." She trailed off.

Mozell looked skeptical. "He wouldn't have been able to do it?"

"Well, it would have been a lot more difficult. Maybe she'd have had enough warning to get out or get help." Mitchell opened a briefcase and started stacking folders on the table. "I've brought copies of the information on the other cases."

Brass nodded. "So we won't have to fight you to be included on this?"

"Hell, no! I'm looking forward to all the help we can get." She hesitated, then said, "I'm expecting the FBI to come in at any moment. This does cross state lines."

Grissom spoke up. "I don't know of any way we could keep them out--I don't want to keep them out. Something like this needs all the resources available, since it's only a matter of time till it happens again. What I don't want is to be shut out. One of my people is involved."

Mitchell twisted in her chair to look back at him. "We've started a task force with the other counties where murders have occurred. Believe me, we want you involved." Her eyes moved to Mozell.

Greg noticed the look and said flatly, "You can get that covetous look out of your eyes."

Mitchell gave him a cool look. "And you would be?"

"Greg Sanders--concerned friend, and possible boyfriend."

The detective's eyebrows rose as she looked from Greg to Mozell. "You aren't sure?"

"Now hardly seems the time to try to pin her down to a solidly defined relationship. She has enough to worry about."

Mozell reached up and fondly pushed a wisp of his hair into a spikier attitude. "He's so thoughtful."

Mitchell said, "Look, Mister Sanders, as I've already told Grissom, if Miss McClain agrees to help us with our investigations, her safety will be our first priority. In any case, you're jumping a bit ahead of the game..."

"And there's my first objection. I'd hardly characterize this as a game. Games are Trivial Pursuit or Half-Life, or maybe a rousing set of volleyball. Using an innocent person to lure out a serial killer is NOT a game."

Mozell took Greg's hand, squeezing it. "Semantics, Greg. Cut the snarl back a couple of notches, please. I want to hear what she has to say."

"But Moe, you can't..."

She took hold of his collar and leaned toward him. "Greg." He stopped speaking, watching her warily. That tone had been very calm, and he'd learned (even in their brief acquaintance) that signaled 'shut up and listen'. "First, I'll let you get away with calling me Moe." She cast glances at Grissom and Brass. "Just you. And please don't let Sarah find out it irritates me. She'd try to use it, and I'd have to hurt her, and I won't do anyone any good if I'm sitting in jail on an assault charge. Second," she touched his cheek, and her voice was soft. "I know you're worried about me, and it makes me feel all warm and mushy inside, but... I'm a grown woman, darlin'. The only man I ever let boss me about my personal life was my Daddy." She tossed an amused glance at Brass and continued, "and we've already established that he's long gone. I'm going to listen to what this lady has to say, I'm going to weigh what they ask against what I think I can realistically accomplish, and then I'll decide. Understand?"

Greg nodded reluctantly. "Don't expect me to like it, though."

Mozell winked at Detective Pfeiffer, and whispered, "He really is boyfriend material."

Mitchell looked at Grissom. "Interesting set of co-workers."

"You have no idea."

Mozell had taken a small spiral notebook and a pen out of her purse, and was pulling the pile of folders toward herself. Mitchell said, "Maybe you should let the Lieutenant or Grissom go over those, and then pass along the information."

Mozell gave her a level look. "Why?"

Grissom spoke up. "Yeah, why?"

This put Mitchell at a bit of a loss. Actually, she had no problem with letting Mozell look at the files, since she was hoping to talk the woman into participating in a sting, but she wasn't used to any of the police hierarchy being comfortable with the idea of a 'civilian' having access to any information that wasn't passed through a filter.

Brass seemed to understand this, and said, "I think Mozell qualifies as a special case. She works on sensitive evidence every day. She'll know how to interpret, and if she has any problems..." he lifted his chin toward first Greg, then Grissom, "she has plenty of resources to help her out. And since this killer is apparently using the Internet, she's rather uniquely qualified to help out on that aspect. She might see something that's been overlooked."

"It's possible," admitted Pfeiffer. "I'm ashamed to say we're only just beginning to dig into that aspect."

Mozell had opened the top file, clicking her pen. "Are these arranged alphabetically, chronologically, or what?"

"Chronologically. These are all the ones we're fairly certain are connected. There may be more."

She was nodding. "Before the killer settled into his pattern."

"I thought your training was in electronic forensics, not psychology," said Pfeiffer, curiously.

Mozell gave her an amused glance. "It is--but I watch and read a hellacious number of mysteries and thrillers. My knowing about the 'settling into a pattern' bit is akin to a person knowing what sub-lingual medication is after watching a few years of EMERGENCY!, ER, and Marcus Welby. Detective Mitchell, you might as well go on about your business. I'm not going to even begin to consider helping you on this, aside from run-of-the-mill co-operation, until after I've gone over this information."

Mitchell considered this. "How long do you think you'll need? We're not exactly on a schedule here, Miss McClain, but it looks as if this psycho has been gradually shortening the amount of time he spends stalking his victims. We can't say how much time there is before he... becomes more aggressive."

"Before he comes for me," she said quietly. "I understand. One day, maybe two. It's been quiet lately at work..."

"You can take a couple of days off," said Grissom instantly, and Brass nodded in agreement. "We can go back to using the county techs for awhile."

"I don't want to take time off," she protested. "You think it would do me any good to sit around my house and brood about this? No, I have long stretches of inactivity at work," she gave Grissom and Brass an arch look, "Of course I'll deny this if it ever gets back to The Powers That Be. Anyway, I'll have plenty of time to read over these between jobs. Besides," she wrinkled her nose. "What makes you think I'm anxious to be home alone after hearing this?" She tapped the files. "So, how about I take these into the break room? It's a little more comfortable in there."

Pfeiffer nodded. "Just let Grissom know if you take any of them home with you."

Mozell smiled. "Thank you for not doing a song and dance about the importance of not losing them or letting them fall into other hands."

The other woman shrugged. "You deal with evidence that has to stand up in court. I'm pretty sure you know what you're doing."

Sarah walked past the open door, but after a moment she came back. Peering into the room, she frowned as she studied the occupants. "Did I miss a meeting announcement?"

Mozell spoke up first. "You, Sidestreet--miss an announcement?" Her voice was mock-shocked.

Sarah scowled at her, then looked at Grissom expectantly. Grissom said, "Not now, Sarah. Maybe later, bur right now this is a 'need to know' case."

"But..."

"How are you progressing on that glass reconstruction from the Valdez case? We really need to know the point of impact."

"I was just going to start..."

"Good. Let me know when you're done." Grissom shut the door.

Sarah stood in the hall for a moment, staring at the wood grain of the door. *I don't believe it. Greg's in there. Mozell is in there. But it's none of MY business? This I have to know.* She started down the hall, considering the best place to start checking on the gossip chain.

Mozell sat back in her desk chair, staring at her notes. She began to leaf through them slowly.

// Lizzie Marie Fowler. Killed 10/26/02, Saturday. Age 26. Website Lizzie's Pornden, Victorian style erotica.* Mozell smiled faintly. *Points for originality, sweetheart* //Friends said she'd been complaining about increasingly obscene emails. Strangled. Possible sexual assault, but no semen found. Condom used?//

// Francine Roseann Peterson. Killed 1/1/03, Wednesday. Age 43. Work archived at Free Your Fantasies website. Wrote mostly female domination. Single mother. Daughter remembers her warning her to be careful, and tell her if she was followed, or saw anyone hanging around. Some emails saved in 'to be opened in case of my death file'. Beaten to death while daughter was at church sponsored New Years lock-in. Also signs of sexual assault.//

//Claudia Tabatha Ellison. Killed 4/14/03. Age 19.// Mozell winced, rubbing her forehead. *Oh, you poor baby. You never even got a chance to live, did you, sugar? We have to find this asshole, if only for your mama and daddy.* //Killed at on campus dorm. Webmistress of 'Ratgirls', Krycek centric adult fiction site, contributed both het and slash stories.// This hadn't been in the file. Mozell had taken it upon herself to visit each site listed in the reports. She intended to do a lot more digging later, since she was pretty sure there were more--the detectives just didn't know how or where to look. She knew that the key to how this bastard chose his victims had to be somewhere in their writing--what they wrote, where they posted it, who read it, etc. Mozell kept reading. //Roommate was staying with boyfriend that Friday. Suffocated with pillow during sexual assault...//

Mozell put her head down on the desk for a moment, hands pressed against the back of her own skull, trying not to cry after she read the last note. She'd been so absorbed in getting down the details that it hadn't sunk in when she'd first read the report. Now she sat back up and forced herself to read it again. //Victim was a virgin.// Mozell thought of her own 'first time'--slightly drunk, but very aware of what she was doing, laughing and groping with an equally delighted Duane. She remembered how sweet he'd been, how patient, despite his own virginal horniness. She treasured the memory. And this poor girl... Her only time had been nothing but fear, horror, pain, and death. Mozell touched the name gently, and whispered, "If I have anything to say about it, kiddo, pretty soon you'll be able to spit in his face before the Throne of Judgment. I'm sure Jesus will understand."

She pulled herself back together. Her shift was over soon, and she wanted to finish reviewing her initial notes before she went home.

//Brandi Branch. Killed 4/20/03. Sunday. Age 29. Personal website was BeeBee's Hive. Wrote mostly original, romantic erotica, some het fanfiction.// Mozell frowned. That sounded familiar. She got on the computer and quickly called up the site in question. The cheerful black-and-yellow design, complete with bee and flower icons popped up, and she slapped the monitor. "No! Oh, you slimy son-of-a-bitch!"

Greg, across the hall, had been keeping a watch on her through the open doors of their respective rooms. Now he looked up alertly, racked a test tube, and hurried across. "What is it?"

She pointed a finger at the monitor, and her voice was trembling. "I knew her! I met her at one of the cons last year. Greg, she was the sweetest person, so funny and smart, and that bastard killed her!"

He leaned down, looping an arm around her in a comforting hug. "Calm down."

"How can I calm down? This monster is killing people... people I could have been friends with. People like me." A frantic note was creeping into her voice.

"Mozell." He put both arms around her now, pressing his cheek against her's. "Hang on, don't go off like this. It's not doing you OR them any good."

Mozell let Greg's warm, solid presence anchor her, and the rage and fear that had so suddenly pushed aside the sorrow she'd been feeling ebbed. It didn't go away entirely--she knew there wasn't a chance of that happening till whoever was responsible for this horrendous waste of life was safely behind bars, but it receded to a manageable level. She patted his arm gratefully. "You're right, GS. I have to keep my cool if I'm going to do anything for them. But... it sort of jumped on me, you know? I only actually met her once, but we corresponded for a couple of months, and talked about meeting again at another convention." Her voice was faint. "I knew her."

Greg rested his chin on her head. "Is that significant? Do you think that the victims are going to share a common, personal link?"

She sighed. "Do I think they all met or interacted? No. The online writing community is peculiar, Greg. On one hand, it's vast. There are hundreds of thousands, even millions of people throwing their literary efforts up on mailing lists, personal websites, archives, and message boards. Then it can be very close-knit, depending on which fandom or clique you get into. I'll tell you one thing, though--this turkey is putting some thought into selecting his victims. When you enter a website, you never know where the person who runs it, or contributes to it, could be. They could be living in the same house with you and keeping a secret very well, or they could be in Iceland."

He squeezed her shoulder. "Look, I just have to finish running a water sample for Nick, and I'm done. How about you?"

She shrugged, indicating the file folders. "Either it's a slow night electronics-wise, or Grissom is secretly re-routing what should be my work."

"Possibility. I'll be done in about fifteen minutes. You're coming home with me."

Now she cocked an eyebrow, and he was relieved to see some of her usual feisty humor. "I am, am I?"

"You are."

"I don't have any say in this?"

His tone was smug. "You left your car at my place, remember?" She was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. He smiled. "Please? I'd feel better."

"Yeah, actually, so would I. I don't relish the idea of being alone right now. I don't really think he'd be hiding in my closet when I got home..." she paused, "though I need to go by my place for extra clothes so I don't show up a third day in the same duds and get the reputation of Lab Slut."

"You could wear mine, and I'd do something painful and nasty to anyone who said that about you."

She took a grip in his hair and pulled him down close enough to kiss the tip of his nose. "Despite women's lib, I still like it when a man wants to defend me. And I couldn't wear your pants. I'm pretty sure my hips are a lot wider than yours, and though you might have something that would fit, I can't see wearing jams to work. Anyway, you will be accompanying me inside to do a closet-and-under-the-bed check."

He stood up and saluted. "Yes, ma'am." He started back to his lab, paused in the hallway, and pointed back at her. "Fifteen minutes, and we're out of here. Time me."

Mozell had come to the door and was glancing up the hall. "Care to make a wager on that?"

"Sure. What stakes?"

"One sexual favor of the winner's choice."

"Oo, I love a betting woman. You're on."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"What makes you think you're going to win?"

She smiled at the person who was walking up behind Greg, an evidence envelope in her hand. "Just a hunch. Hi, Side Effect."