Dana Scully does not particularly want to have this meeting.
She'd taken it in stride when she'd been told an FBI agent had some questions about one of her autopsies-- it's not usual, but you never know when a death is part of something bigger, and it's not that far from Federal stomping grounds. But then she'd heard which body it was, and... it's one of the weird ones.
The thing is: she is very good at her job. That's all. Simple. Years of medical training and an overzealous attention to detail-- plus a streak of workaholism that means she's always on top of new techniques and studies-- have made her an expert. She starts from the evidence at hand, she considers what could have caused the damage, she reports her findings. Simple. It's literally her job; lots of people across the country do it.
It's just that she happens to be very good at it.
And if sometimes, she can almost picture it-- like someone's telling her a story-- that's just her imagination running away with her. Because she is very good at her job.
Simple.
And sometimes simple isn't enough. Tool marks can be inconclusive; and even a six-inch knife with a serrated blade only goes so far, unless there's a weapon to compare it to. She might think it was the boyfriend, she caught him in the kitchen with his side piece, he grabbed the first thing he could find and they ran after while she choked on blood, but that's just a wild guess. She doesn't know, because the dead don't speak. It's a fantasy born of too many case reports and news stories.
And sometimes-- sometimes, you've got wounds that look like they were inflicted by an animal, but no animal she can guess at. Something huge; if the on-scene reports were to be believed, paired with what she can infer from lividity and angle... It was something taller than the victim, chasing him down. And that, really, is all she could say. No plausible theories-- only flights of fancy more informed by late night B-movies and old wives' tales. It's a pity the dead don't really speak, because all her too-vivid imagination could provide for this one was total nonsense.
So she's not looking forward to answering his questions. But this, too, is her job; so she squares her shoulders, looking across her desk (and up) at him, trying to fix a polite smile on her face.
no subject
She'd taken it in stride when she'd been told an FBI agent had some questions about one of her autopsies-- it's not usual, but you never know when a death is part of something bigger, and it's not that far from Federal stomping grounds. But then she'd heard which body it was, and... it's one of the weird ones.
The thing is: she is very good at her job. That's all. Simple. Years of medical training and an overzealous attention to detail-- plus a streak of workaholism that means she's always on top of new techniques and studies-- have made her an expert. She starts from the evidence at hand, she considers what could have caused the damage, she reports her findings. Simple. It's literally her job; lots of people across the country do it.
It's just that she happens to be very good at it.
And if sometimes, she can almost picture it-- like someone's telling her a story-- that's just her imagination running away with her. Because she is very good at her job.
Simple.
And sometimes simple isn't enough. Tool marks can be inconclusive; and even a six-inch knife with a serrated blade only goes so far, unless there's a weapon to compare it to. She might think it was the boyfriend, she caught him in the kitchen with his side piece, he grabbed the first thing he could find and they ran after while she choked on blood, but that's just a wild guess. She doesn't know, because the dead don't speak. It's a fantasy born of too many case reports and news stories.
And sometimes-- sometimes, you've got wounds that look like they were inflicted by an animal, but no animal she can guess at. Something huge; if the on-scene reports were to be believed, paired with what she can infer from lividity and angle... It was something taller than the victim, chasing him down. And that, really, is all she could say. No plausible theories-- only flights of fancy more informed by late night B-movies and old wives' tales. It's a pity the dead don't really speak, because all her too-vivid imagination could provide for this one was total nonsense.
So she's not looking forward to answering his questions. But this, too, is her job; so she squares her shoulders, looking across her desk (and up) at him, trying to fix a polite smile on her face.
"How can I help you, Agent Mulder?"