The X-Files

Jell-O salad with little pear chunks.

It's the Wednesday special at the hospital cafeteria.

That didn't stop you from eating my dessert.

The profiteroles weren't bad. You didn't want me to starve, did you?

He ate mine, too. Daddy, take this before my arm falls off.

Thanks, honey. (fake grunting)

Everybody... One last shot.

Oh, Dad. Do you think we could draw the line at 600 photographs?

601. Quit griping.

And hold up that eyesore, Robert.

God knows when you're gonna win another one.

Irv, you wanna stay the night? It's awful late to head back to the city.

What, I get to stay at the home of the Bay Area Doctor of the Year?

It's a deal.

Proud of you, Robert.

Up, hold it up. Say "cheese".

"Presented to Dr Robert Wieder, MD."

"For the great wisdom, skill and compassion

he exhibits in the practice of medicine."

It's gonna look awfully nice in your office.

What are you thinking?

How this is just the cherry on top.

How lucky I am.

- What is it? - Downstairs motion sensor.

- You think Dad tripped the alarm? - The alarm hasn't been tripped.

You got me. I'll go check it out.

Irv?

Irving? ls everything all right?

What do you think? Is this a name, possibly, or a code or an anagram?

T-H-E-E-F. I assume it's supposed to be T-H-I-E-F. "Thief."

Insert your own Dan Quayle joke here.

Lousy spelling aside, who's the thief?

Well, that's certainly one question. I've got many.

"Mulder, why are we here?"

To be fair, I might have used the words,

"Mulder, how is this an X-File?"

You see that? You always keep me guessing.

This is Dr Irving Thalbro, age 66. Found hanged with his throat cut.

His family tucked away in bed, not 40 feet from here, didn't see or near anything.

Which would shine the light of suspicion on them.

Except they called it in, and there's no evidence at all to link them to the crime.

Which is why the police are rightly wondering if Dr Thalbro killed himself.

Except who, then, did this? Blood pattern doesn't indicate that the good doctor did it,

who I assume could read and write above a 4th-grade level.

I'll admit this is not an open-and-shut case.

But it doesn't make it an X-File.

There is one detail that does.

This.

- Dirt? - Dirt.

It's a very powerful component of hexcraft.

As well as the pattern in which it was originally arranged. Check this out.

Looks like a human form.

Hexcraft, as in putting a curse on someone?

Murdering them magically?

That's what it looks like to me. I know what you're gonna say.

No, hexcraft. I'll buy that as the intent here.

It certainly jibes with the evidence. I say we talk to the family.

I'll always keep you guessing.

It was probably the greatest night of my life.

Until...

Can you think of any enemies your father-in-law might have made?

Maybe inadvertently through his medical practice or a business dealing, perhaps?

Everybody loved Irving. Everyone who knew him.

He was...

No. I can't conceive of it.

Dr Wieder, do you have any enemies?

I'm sorry. I have to ask. There was a message left.

If it doesn't refer to your father-in-law, it may refer to you.

"Theef?" Are you asking if my Dad's a thief?

He saves people's lives. He's a good man.

Honey...

If I have any enemies, I don't know them.

At the home of his son-in-law, Dr Robert Wieder,

Dr Irving Thalbro was found hanged at 1.48 this morning.

Though details are sketchy, the police are treating the case as a murder.

This is due in part to clues or evidence left at the scene,

according to a spokesman,

who only characterised them as bizarre or ritualistic...

Hello? Mr Peattie?

Mr Peattie, I know you're in there.

Are you cooking?

You aren't supposed to be cooking.

You aren't supposed to be cooking.

That smell like somethin' you wanna eat?

Well, what is it, then?

Medicine.

Oh, all right. Just so long as you're not cooking.

Seems like you could use yourself a poultice for your back.

Old Peattie'll fix you right up. Be ready later.

Hey, Scully. This dirt we found?

Gas chromatograph shows spikes of methane and sulphur compounds,

the signature of decay.

It's graveyard dirt. Also known as conjure dust.

One of the most powerful hexing elements, whether for good or evil.

Not the kind of stuff you wanna be on the wrong end of.

Go ahead, Scully, keep me guessing.

Kuru.

The disease that New Guinea tribesmen get?

From eating their relatives' brains.

I thought my grandpa slurping his soup was bad.

Practically speaking, kuru doesn't exist any more.

Not in New Guinea and certainly not in the US.

But this man's cerebellum and his striatum clearly show signs of it, Mulder.

These amyloid plaques? His brain is riddled with them.

- Kuru makes you crazy. - Stark-raving, among other things.

But, in this case, stark-raving mad enough to slit his own throat and hang himself.

That's what his autopsy shows. From the wound pattern to the blood spray,

this man did it to himself, no question.

Unless... it was inflicted upon him. The graveyard dirt, the hex.

He was given this disease so that he would kill himself.

Nan? Honey?

Robert? Look at this.

Who would've taken that?

The police, probably.

Could be they needed it as evidence.

- (Robert) We're not under investigation. - That's not what I'm afraid of.

Then you have nothing to worry about. Come on, let's go to bed.

You need some rest. A good night's sleep.

No, I can't sleep. I'm telling you, I'm scared.

I can't stay here. I can't live in this house any more. Lucy can't.

Not after what's happened here. And now this picture of us is missing.

- It'll turn up. - No.

Nothing that's happened here makes any sense.

It does. Nan...

Listen to me. Your Dad was ill.

He had a kind of progressive dementia. That's what the FBI autopsy showed.

I reviewed their findings, and I have to agree.

Honey, we will get through this.

Oh, my God!

Nan! Honey?

Oh, my God.

* Nan! * Dad?

Lucy, call 911.

Call 911!

Nan!

Dr Wieder.

We understand you've made a diagnosis.

Diffuse cutaneous leishmaniasis. Old-world type.

- I take it that's rare. - In San Francisco, it's unheard of.

Maybe in Central Africa...

- The rarer, the better. - What do you mean by that?

Someone directed this to happen to your wife,

just as someone directed what happened at your father-in-law.

My enemy you were talking about. The one who thinks I'm a thief.

You're a doctor. Explain to your partner that no one can direct a person to get sick.

The dirt in your bed drawn in the shape of a body, that's indicative of folk magic.

That's what I believe is being used against you.

Folk magic.

You mean like Baba Yaga. Gypsies.

I was actually thinking less Eastern and more Celtic.

Maybe Scots-Irish or Appalachian, even.

I'm supposed to take this seriously?

Sir, regardless of the particulars,

I think it's clear that there was an intruder in your home,

and I think it would be prudent for you to accept our protection

and help us to identify this person.

Prudent for me would be to continue treating my wife.

If we don't stop who's causing this, your treatments won't matter.

So, modern medicine and all it encompasses,

artificial hearts, laser surgery, gene therapy, to name a few,

all of that arrayed against a pile of magic dirt,

and you tell me I'll lose.

I have MRls to look at.

Yeah, win him over.

He will lose unless we can find a way to stop it.

What do you suggest?

A second opinion.

Truth always hurts, don't it, doc?

Who are you?

Is this you? You did this?

- What do you want from me? - Don't you be frettin' none about that.

I gettin' my nickel's worth. You're doing a fine job so far.

What the hell are you talking about? What is this all about?

Lynette Peattie.

And don't you be saying you don't recollect her! Uh-uh!

No,no,no.

Look, if I've done anything to upset you, I...

It's no use trying to intimidate me if I don't know how I've offended you!

Tell me!

What makes me a thief?

You be a smart man.

I figure you ponder it a while, it gonna come to you.

Wait!

No. No matter how I spell it, there's no Lynette Peattie.

- She's not in my patient file? - She's not in any doctor's patient file.

No one by that name has ever been admitted to the hospital.

You think you treated her?

What about Jane Does?

You treated three in the last two years.

Pull the files, please.

You remember old Boon. I know you do.

This mangy old ugly dog.

Smart. People-smart, and then some.

He sure did love you.

He crawled up under that house the very day you left.

Wouldn't come out for nothin'.

Not no ham bone. Nothin'.

He just knew that his life was over.

You stole his heart, too.

You shouldn't have oughta left.