[Cavan] Nothin' But A Good Crime

[Lynzie Austin]

Nothin’ But A Good Crime

[OOC: this happened whenever you would like it to have happened. this is my current w.i.p. for 'halloween' i guess? enjoy part one -lynzie]

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a luxury liner in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a spectacularly dreadful entertainer. The USS David Lee Roth was just such a vessel—a gleaming, five-star paradox that, much like the universe itself, was vast, beautifully appointed, and had a pronounced and bewildering tendency toward the inexplicable. Its brochures promised an odyssey of elegance, but its reality was governed by the same fundamental forces that compel a sentient mattress to write blistering critiques of its own stuffing.

Nowhere was this cosmic dissonance more palpable than in its Viper Room, a venue where the carpet had achieved a state of ontological stickiness that defied conventional physics; it was, to put it plainly, stickier than a tribble on a glue trap in zero-g. The air itself was a layered cocktail of cheap perfume, cheaper hairspray, and the faint, undeniable and that wholly universal smell of shame. 

And in the center of the stage, lying in a carefully arranged pile of velvet cushions that had, over the course of the evening, transitioned from "opulently plush" to "actively hostile to life," was the answer to a question nobody had asked. The body of Zogg the Tellarite, the ship's notoriously talentless and egomaniacal lead singer, was as still as a Vogon poet's heart. His final performance had been, one could surmise, his most critically acclaimed, largely because he had, for the first time, refrained from singing.

As he was, in fact, incredibly, irrevocably, dead as a doornail.

“The first and most salient fact,” stated Doctor Elinor fa Cavan, her tricorder whirred like a disgruntled insect, “is that Zogg of Tellar Prime is no longer living. The second is that the cause appears to be a catastrophic and simultaneous failure of all major organ systems, consistent with a high-grade neurotoxin or perhaps something as simple as partying far too hard.”

“Gotta admire the dedication to the craft Raven,” Reynie struck a pose that involved one hip cocked and a hand resting on it, his fingers splayed to best display his collection of obsidian and silver rings. “A dramatic exit. You have to admire the staging. It has a certain... damned flair.” 

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Not particularly, all this Aqua net is making my eyes water. How they even got their hands on it beyond me. I am fairly certain this particular aerosolized affront was outlawed by the Geneva Convention shortly after the invention of the hair crimper.” 

“The universe, my dear Raven,” Reynie purred, slinking in a slow circle around the body like a fashion-conscious panther orbiting a particularly tasteless kill, “is under no obligation to make sense to us.” He completed his orbit, coming to a rest where he gently rested his chin on her shoulder, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “My dear heart, this is as tacky as the spandex and stench of Drakkar Noir that is drenching this whole place.” 

Ellie kissed the top of his head and pushed him off with a little laugh. “Your aesthetic commentary has been noted for the record. I have isolated an anomalous compound. It is a Ferengi industrial lubricant, Tri-oxynol 42, typically used for polishing energy coils. It is not, as a rule, intended for internal consumption. It was, however, in his glass.”

“Fascinating!” Reynie’s eyes, already lined with a subtle, smoky kohl, seemed to glitter. “You see? The thing about Tri-oxynol 42, the thing that most people overlook, is its distinctive… sheen. And its odor, which is remarkably similar to that of the Andorian 'Blue Nectar' cocktail Zogg was so fond of.” He gestured with a languid, ringed hand toward the half-finished, bubbling blue glass on the amplifier. “A simple, almost elegant substitution. The killer has a sense of style. I can respect that. It’s a shame about the murder part, though. That does tend to complicate things.”

“Complication is an understatement,” Ellie said with a little shrug, sealing the evidence into a canister. “This is a Level-4 biohazard now. I will need to run a full spectral analysis in a proper lab. This ship’s medical bay is likely equipped for little more than treating lip-sync-related throat strain and spandex chafing. Godsforbid a someone land a split a burst a testi—-”

“Before you finish that thought, where do you wanna start love?” Reynie pulled Ellie up and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Make ‘em sing like elder Vince Neil  —- Too off key, pitchy, and altogether, painfully revealing.”

Ellie smirked, shaking her head. “I think you are enjoying yourself a little too much. I need to perform the autopsy to be certain of c.o.d.”

He squeezed her tight as she put in the co-ordinates of the Runner’s medical bay into the mobile transport. “C’mon Doctor Feelgood, the game is afoot and it’s wearing leopard print and its hair is teased to the goddamned moon.” 

The body of Zogg the Tellarite materialized on the central slab of the Runner with a soft hum and all the glittering lights that go with the standard transport; according to the manufacturer's manual, designed to be both reassuring and aesthetically pleasing. They succeeded only in making the corpse look faintly ridiculous, like a party guest who had arrived both late and dead.

Reynie immediately shrugged off his jacket, revealing a black silk shirt that was, if possible, even tighter. He draped himself over a stool with the self-assurance of a good lounge singer. “So, my dear Raven. What do the dead man’s secrets whisper to you?”

Ellie picked up a laser scalpel, its tip glowing. “If you recall what I have told you in the past. The dead do not whisper, Investigator. They state facts. You are blocking the sterilizer ray.”

Reynie’s smile didn’t falter. He simply shifted his weight, a lingering gaze on her that made her feel things that no one should be in such a situation. “Would not dream of it, Doctor. The show, as they say, is just getting started.” He watched as she began her initial scans, the silence stretching for a whole thirty seconds before he broke it. “While you commune with the great beyond, I shall commune with the ship’s database. I’m sure the David Lee Roth is rife with roadies, groupies and the like.”

He swiveled on the stool to a wall console, his fingers (adorned with enough silverware to outfit a small banquet) dancing across the interface with surprising speed. The screen lit up, displaying the ship’s manifest and crew roster, all rendered in a font that looked suspiciously like the Motley Crüe logo. 

“Let’s see… The David Lee Roth. Commissioned Stardate 2385.05. Its primary mission, and I am quoting the official Starfleet charter here, is ‘the promotion of cultural exchange through the medium of pre-21st century Terran ‘Rock and Roll’ aesthetics.’ Good lord. It has a mission statement that includes air quotes.”

Ellie did not look up from her tricorder, which was now emitting a disapproving set of beeps that sounded reminiscent of a particular song about seventeen year old ladies that was lyrically questionable when it was made that made her quirk a brow as it analyzed Zogg’s stomach contents. “I am shocked. Shocked I say! Also, sidebar, how did they never arrest Kip Winger for this one?”

“You should be. The crew complement is… eclectic. We have the band, of course. Several, actually. It seems to be the point of the whole yacht. But then there’s the support staff.” He scrolled, his eyebrows rising. “A ‘Vibe Coordinator.’ A ‘Hair and Morale Officer.’ A ‘Chief of Pyrotechnics and Atmospheric Enhancement’… that explains the dry ice. And the scorch marks.” He paused, leaning closer to the screen. “Ah. And here’s our victim’s rival. Not just a bandmate, but a direct competitor for creative control. The plot, as they say, has not so much thickened as it has been aggressively backcombed.”

He enlarged a file. A stern-faced Vulcan in a pristine science officer’s uniform stared back, her expression one of profound logical disappointment. “Commander T’Pel,” Reynie read aloud. “The ship’s First Officer and Chief Science Officer. Her service record is impeccable. She’s filed seventeen formal complaints about the ‘acoustical inefficiency’ and ‘biologically hazardous costume choices’ of the performers. She petitioned Starfleet Command to have the ship’s designation changed to the USS Emissary of Rational Discourse."

“A Vulcan on a hair metal cruise ship,” Ellie stated, finally looking up from her work. “That is a special kind of hell. I am almost impressed by her fortitude. How did she wind up with that assignment I wonder?”

“Indeed. Trapped in a flying monument to illogical excess. If anyone had a motive to silence the loudest, most illogical element aboard…” Reynie let the sentence hang, scruffing his hair for a moment. “Do we think she was just the nanny?”

The tricorder let out a note that sounded more akin to a whammy bar than its usual tonal beep. “What the hell is going on with this thing?” Ellie smacked the side of it. The tricorder let out a little whine before returning to its usual mundane beeping. “Well, this is rather peculiar.” 

“Oh, baby doll, that’s our bread and butter. Don’t leave me hanging, tell me.”

“The Tri-oxynol 42. It was the delivery mechanism, but it was not the primary cause of death. It acted as a carrier for a far more sophisticated compound. A bio-engineered agent. It targeted his neuro-receptors, but specifically those linked to auditory processing and… ” She looked at Reynie, her professional detachment briefly giving way to bewilderment. “Well… ego. This toxin did not just kill him. It essentially gave his central nervous system a catastrophically negative review. It told his body to stop living, because the music was so incredibly terrible that it needed to stop functioning.”

Reynie stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. For once, he seemed genuinely, utterly speechless. Then a loud bark of a laugh came from his mouth, and a mischievous smile replaced the mild bewilderment. 

“A critic,” he breathed, his eyes alight with unholy glee. “We are not looking for a jealous bandmate or a greedy Ferengi. We are looking for a critic. A gourmand of garbage. That narrows things quite a bit. This is clearly a statement.”

“Reynie, it could be literally anyone, I mean I have not heard this Tellarite sing, but,” Ellie made a little scrunched face. “I am not trying to judge here, but I am just spitballing that he was not any Ronnie James Dio.” 

He began to pace. “The plot, as they say, thickens into a glorious, big-haired bouffant of intrigue. We must return to the David Lee Roth. We have a Vibe Coordinator to interrogate. And Rave, that’s Dio and we’re dealing with much, much lower rent bands than that.”

 “I am not finished with my analysis. And I have not even begun the internal examination.” She placed her tools down with a definitive click. “And you are doing that thing where you think you know what you are doing and you have no idea and it is so exhausting.” 

“Bring the party with you, Raven!” he said, clearly half listening, already heading for the door. “The answers aren’t just in his body. They’re in the vibe! And the vibe on that ship is… murder.” He paused at the doorway, striking a pose. “Computer, locate my leather jacket.”

“Your leather jacket is in a crumpled ball under Doctor Cavan’s bed,” A synthesized voice responded.

“Yeeeeah it is,” Reynie turned back to Ellie with a smug smirk. Sauntering back triumphantly to wrap his arms around her waist from behind. “I bet that’s where my other pants are too.”

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose, as if physically trying to prevent an oncoming headache. “We share quarters, you magnificent numbnuts,” she sighed, the exasperation in her voice all too familiar. “Go get changed. I will meet you on the ship when I have finished determining precisely which chord progression proved to be fatal. Now stop trying to romance me in front of a corpse.” 

“Don’t forget to change yourself… you should wear that little black thing… but you can’t exactly run from a pyrotechnic explosion in a worse case scenario,” Reynie kissed her hair and let her go with a begrudging little sigh. “I guess sensible footwear then; catch you on the flipside hot momma.”

His footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving a silence that was, in its own way, just as loud as he was. Ellie stared at the empty doorway, then down at the eviscerated Tellarite on her slab. She let out a long, slow breath that fogged the inside of her sterile face shield, a tiny, personal cloud of frustration in an otherwise impeccably regulated atmosphere.

“The universe,” she stated to the corpse.  “is not only stranger than we suppose. It is actively, maliciously hostile to common sense and putting pockets in women's clothing.” She picked up her bone saw, its hum a more familiar and reliable melody than any Zogg had ever produced. It was going to be a very, very long night.

An hour later, Ellie materialized on the transporter pad of the USS David Lee Roth. She had, in fact, changed. Her "little black thing" was a form-fitting but practical black jumpsuit that was cinched in at the waist and cut incredibly low for something that was for this kind of situation considering it was rated for Level-4 biohazards and sudden, unexpected combustion. The best part was that it had seven pockets. And was ostensibly just a very comfortable cross between a catsuit and a boiler suit. 

Her footwear was, as reluctantly agreed upon, sensible.

Reynie was waiting for her, having apparently used the time to acquire a new leather jacket that was painted to beat the gods, featuring a screaming phoenix on the back. He looked her up and down, a mock pout on his lips. “I have work to do and you come in here looking like that to work?” He leaned into her, smelling her hair. “That’s some kind of weaponized something or other, I’ll think of it when I can think with my brain again.”

“Down boy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he spun on his boot heel. Desperately shaking the fog out his head. “I have a rapport with the Ferengi trader, who claims to know nothing whatsoever, except the rules of acquisition. As they are want to do.”

“The jacket?” Ellie patted his sleeve.

“Vintage,” he marveled. “A real find. Good for the economy.” 

She gave him a genuine smile. “Of course it is my love. Now, where is this vibe co-ordinator?”

“We have a meeting with Rodney ‘Razzle-Dazzle’ Diggler in his office right now,” Reynie offered his arm with a little bow, which she accepted with a small laugh. 

He led her through the corridors of the David Lee Roth which had sound dampeners made to look like multicolored guitar picks, intermingled with golden and silver/rainbow random circular things that had band names on them. Ellie squinted at one; it was labeled 'Compact Disc (c. 1987)', with a small explanation that these were once used to play music. Seemed a rather inconvenient way to listen to music, she shrugged. 

The office was a temple to sensory overload. The walls were a lot; signed photos of men in copious amounts of make up, striking poses far too serious for how tight their pants were. The music coming from the sound system was far too loud for being not great, not the worst thing (but no one with half a brain would be saying that it was amazing).

In the center of the room, a man was frantically trying to stuff a theremin into a suitcase. He was human, dressed in a sequined tiger print jumpsuit that was straining at the seams, with a magnificent, feathered mullet that was equally parts desperate and …forgive this author… radical. Or was it tubular? Perhaps, even… bitchin’. [Author’s note; she has to look to pop culture for the correct slang. Sadly, this was before her time. She will take the notes and hate comments at a later date.]

“Rodney Diggler?” Reynie asked entering the office like he owned the place. 

“Razzle-Dazzle, RD, please, I have a vibe to keep up,” the man nearly dropped the theremin on his foot. “Death was not the vibe man. NOT THE VIBE!” 

“A sentiment I can fully endorse,” Reynie purred, slinking further into the room. The wall he leaned against immediately bloomed a sympathetic, brooding indigo. “It does tend to kill the mood. The thing is, RD, I was just wondering... from a purely vibe-ology standpoint, what was the emotional frequency in here before the, ah, incident?”

“The vibes were a catastrophe!” Razzle-Dazzle wailed, abandoning the theremin to wring his hands. “A total harmonic dissonance! Zogg’s aura was all wrong. He wanted to introduce a mathematical breakdown in ‘Lovin’ You is a Battlefield’! Do you have any idea what that does to a room’s chi? It’s an aural crime scene! No one wants to think here! This isn’t a Rush concert.”

Ellie cleared her throat, showing her tricorder readings. “Mister Diggler. My tricorder is detecting a unique aerosolized compound. Bergamot, ylang-ylang, and a synthetic neuro-stimulant designed to mimic euphoria.”

“It’s my proprietary tranquility mist, I call it the Diggler Drizzler— feel heaven surge all over you,” he said with an air of a cheese that spoke of a certain Monkey based Island game sales pitch, except, innuendo ridden. “It recalibrates your chakras, gorgeous.”

“It also leaves a distinct residue,” Ellie continued, utterly unmoved. “A residue that is a perfect match for the one found on the vial of industrial lubricant that was used to poison Zogg’s drink. The, ugh, ‘Diggler Drizzler’ was on the killer’s hands when they handled the poison.”

RD’s face went pale. “What? No! I mean, yes, the Drizzler is everywhere in here, but I didn’t touch any poison! I swear on my signed copy of Appetite for Destruction!”

“I do not know what that means,” Ellie looked at him confused, but she nudged Reynie and pointed to a vial on a shelf of more of the ‘compact discs’. A small empty vial that was all too clean. In plain sight. Her gut was speaking that RD here was being used as a patsy, but perhaps not.

“The thing is, RD,” Reynie said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You said you just got back to your office, right? After the ‘incident’?”

“Y-yes! I was trying to center myself! The negative energy was overwhelming!”

Ellie scanned the vial. “This has been meticulously scrubbed,” she nodded towards the door. This was not the actions of this vibe coordinator from what she had just seen, unless this mulleted man was an incredible actor. “Who all has access to the bio-scrubbers?” 

“I don’t know lady! Maintenance? Umm. One of those weird science dweebs they keep around for anomalies? The hell do I know lady?!” All the color that had drained from RD’s face had bubbled into his rosy cheeks. He clearly was panicking.

“Computer,” Reynie tapped his wrist communicator. “Cross-reference personnel with access to Level-3 bio-scrubbing equipment and advanced knowledge of this ship’s internal schematics, specifically the ventilation system, with their current locations.”

“Commander T’Pel. Chief Science Officer. Location: Main Engineering. Lieutenant Jorl. Astrometrics Specialist. Location: Arboretum. Ensign Flix. Waste Reclamation Technician. Location: Commercial Sector, ‘Latinum & Lace.’ Stall 42,” The computer reported dutifully.

“The hell is Latinum & Lace,” Ellie arched her brow.

“The kinda place that has stalls Doc,” Reynie murmured, ushering her out the door before she asked more questions. “Don’t think about it too hard.” 

“Aralim Reynard, are you telling me there is a,” her voice dropped deathly quiet when they were out of RD’s office. “Some kind of physical adult entertainment venue here that is not a holodeck?”

“Oh they sit on some kinda deck,” he gyrated suggestively and chuckled. 

She swatted him with her hand. “I swore you said this was a fleet ship.”

“I didn’t tell you what kinda fleet ship darlin’” he replied with a wink, steering her toward the turbolift. “The David Lee Roth has many… diversified revenue streams.”