Scully steps outside the motel room, just as the pizza delivery guy pulls up. It's Ronnie Strickland. "Did you order a pizza?" he asks, getting out of the car. Scully sadly explains that the "guy in there" will foot the bill. She trudges off. Ronnie Strickland looks after her thoughtfully.
Autopsy, Part Deux. Scully looks both weary and peeved. She stares at the body. "Heart." Plop. "Lung." Thunk. "Large intestine." Scully watches three-quarters of the large intestine snake out of the scale and onto the ground. Later, she stands over the body and mutters something about chloral hydrate; apparently they've got another victim. Her cell phone starts to ring. Scully weakly tries to tug off her gloves, with little success. She continues taking into her tape recorder, muttering that the drug was either injected or ingested -- she's not sure which. She finally manages to answer the phone. "Hello? Hello?" There's nothing but heaving breaths and grunting on the other end. Scully makes an "ew" face and hangs up. Man, nothing's more off-putting than an obscene phone call. I got one the other night, and I thought the guy on the other end was my friend Pete at first and so I was all cheerful and conversational and I didn't even know it wasn't Pete when the guy asked me what I was wearing, because Pete's silly like that and it was only after this guy asked me what I would wear if I was trying to seduce him that I knew it wasn't Pete, and in retrospect, I can't believe people are still doing the "what are you wearing" schtick. Anyway. Where was I? Ah, yes. Scully grabs a new set of gloves and snaps them on. "Where was I?" she asks. "Ah, stomach content." She digs in with sigh. "Stomach contents include...pizza. Ah! The chloral hydrate's in the pizza! The pizza guy! MULDER!"