[Cavan] Nothin’ But A Good Crime Pt 2

[Lynzie Austin]

Nothin’ But A Good Crime Pt 2

“There is no way this is a fleet ship, Reynie,” Ellie marveled as they walked into Main Engineering of the USS David Lee Roth. “Hell, I am fairly certain there is no way this is a regulation vessel of any kind. This would never pass any form of inspection. Hell, I do not know how this left a dry-dock.”

Where to even start, her eyes could not seem to land on one singular thing. The warp core had some kind of prismatic acrylic light box shielding it. Definitely not up to code. Even the back wall had the old school half wall of glass bricks that would shatter on impact. More oddly, there were massive flames painted on the wall around the damned thing. 

“It is certainly a choice,” Ellie whispered, the understatement of the century. 

“It's so it looks like it's tearing ass while it's standing still,” Reynie quoted back to her with a wink. “You know what they say, still waters run deep…” 

On the far wall there was a massive mural of a bald eagle holding a skull on the side of some kind of archaic motorbike that was subsequently on the wings of a dragon, but for some reason there was a blonde woman that was twisting a cherry stem with her tongue all in a leather bikini in some hapless mishmash of airbrushed schlock art. 

And there, standing at the master systems display, which was shaped like a giant, teal glitter, flying-V guitar, was Commander T'Pel. Her stiff, starched science blues were a stark, blasphemous island of sanity in the raging sea of neon insanity.

“We have some questions Commander,” Reynie said as professionally as he could, all things considered. “I am Investigator Reynard and this is Doctor Cavan from Starfleet Forensics.”

T’Pel turned slowly, one eyebrow arched in Vulcan condescension. “How can I be of service?” Her tone suggested she was being asked to explain basic arithmetic to a particularly dull child.

“We are investigating the death of Zogg,” Ellie stated blandly. She fired up her tricorder and started pacing as though T’Pel was already boring her as well. “Your name came up in our initial sweep.”

“I am not surprised,” T’Pel replied, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. “I filed numerous reports regarding the subject’s detrimental impact on shipboard efficiency and crew morale. His artistic choices were… illogical. This vessel's mission is a frivolity. Its continued existence is an affront to reason…” She trailed off, clearly she had thoughts on the matter. Feelings about it as much as any Vulcan would lament to admit. 

“Illogical enough to kill for?” Reynie asked, his tone deceptively casual as he wandered, seemingly aimlessly, around the guitar-shaped console.

“The suggestion is absurd. However, his removal does present a net positive for operational efficiency. A fact I can acknowledge without resorting to violence.”

“Can you, though?” Reynie paused, tapping a glittery fret. “See, the thing is, Commander, you have access to the bio-scrubbers that sterilized the planting vial. You know this ship’s ventilation system inside and out. And you’re currently running a level-3 diagnostic on the warp core during a crisis. That’s a pretty big coincidence.”

“A crisis necessitates a full systems check to ensure stability,” T’Pel countered, her voice flat. “My actions are dictated by procedure, not ‘coincidence.’”

Ellie’s gaze lifted from her tricorder with that air of skepticism that she had perfected over the years and she especially loved to turn on a full Vulcan. “Commander, my scans indicate a unique ionic residue on this console. Tri-oxynol 42. The same compound used in the poison that resulted in Zogg’s untimely demise. It has a half-life of seventy-two hours. Your presence here is logged, but the residue is fresh.”

T’Pel’s eyebrow twitched, a seismic event in Vulcan terms. “I conducted an analysis of the contaminant after it was discovered. It is logical I would have traces.”

“But you just said the suggestion of your involvement was absurd,” Reynie pressed, moving closer. “Why would you personally analyze the poison unless you had a vested interest? Unless you were checking your own work?”

“I was fulfilling my duty as Chief Science Officer.”

“Logic would dictate that you would be covering your tracks,” Ellie played her role dutifully, tucking her hair behind her ears. They gave her the appearance needed, after all, if anything. “You are not passionate, nor are you disorderly.”

T’Pel stood perfectly still, but a faint tension tightened the skin around her eyes. “You are constructing a narrative based on circumstantial evidence and flawed human psychology.”

“Am I?” Reynie smiled, a thin, dangerous expression. “Then you won’t mind submitting to a full molecular scan. Right here, right now. Because if you did handle the poison to plant it, and not just ‘analyze’ it, the concentration embedded in your skin will be an order of magnitude higher. The story the particles tell is always in the details, Commander.”

Reynie busted out a tricorder from his back pocket so quickly it made Ellie swallow a laugh, she had to turn around to hide her stoic facade. “So. How about it? Let’s see what the evidence says.” 

For a long moment, the only sound was the synth-drum beat echoing through engineering. T’Pel’s gaze was locked with Reynie’s. Ellie wondered if this would all be done now that the bluff was being called. 

“Your persistence in this erroneous line of inquiry,” she said finally, her voice contained an edge of annoyance that only the most pure blood of Vulcans could produce. She extended her hands, palms up, in a gesture of stone-cold surrender. “is… most illogical. You may conduct your scans.”

No sooner was the scan in progress it was interrupted by the most bombastic clearing of a throat. [As are all these things during this kind of story, what do you take me for— an amateur? Well, yes, I cannot go pro otherwise they will not allow me to go to the trash fan fiction writing Olympics. Everyone knows that.] 

"Captain Aralim Reynard. Starfleet's lead investigator, famed for his... unorthodox methods. And Doctor Elinor Cavan, head of the Ghouls Squad. Your reputation for navigating filth precedes you. A pleasure to finally meet such esteemed... customers."

They all turned. This must be Ensign Flix, the Ferengi waste reclamation technician, standing leaning against the doorframe as if he owned the place. He was casually polishing a small, worthless-looking piece of scrap with a cloth, but his large, expressive ears were tilted forward in keen interest. He had done his homework, and he wanted them to know it.

"The 190th Rule of Acquisition: 'Hear all, trust nothing,'" he quoted, waggling a long-nailed finger. "But you are trusting the wrong evidence, I think. You hunt for a scientist in a lab coat, someone with clean hands and cleaner access codes. You forget the most important rule, the 239th: 'Never be afraid to mislabel a product.'"

He held up the PADD he had been polishing, its screen now glowing. "The toxin was not made in a lab. Not recently. It was... reclaimed. From the hazardous waste bins outside the astrometrics lab. The logs are very clear. Anyone with a basic access code and a disregard for safety protocols could have taken it. Even a lowly, overlooked waste technician..." His eyes swiveled pointedly toward T'Pel, then back to the investigators with a theatrical pause. "...or the astrometrics specialist who was so careless as to throw it away in the first place."

He took a few steps into the room, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it still carried over the thumping music.

"Lieutenant Jorl was not just polishing his guitar, you see. He was polishing his resume. Conducting unauthorized experiments in astrometric plasma refraction. He was attempting to synthesize a new, stable energy source. A very, very unstable experiment." Flix tapped the PADD. "One that produced a very specific, very toxic byproduct. He logged it for disposal. But he also knew its properties. Its potency. And it's... poetic justice."

Flix's grin widened into something truly predatory. "The 62nd Rule: 'The riskier the road, the greater the profit.' Jorl saw a road to eliminate his artistic rival and frame the Commander who constantly criticized his 'illogical' side projects. He used the Vibe Coordinator's mist and the Commander's own logical predictability as ingredients in his little recipe. He never touched the poison after the initial 'accident.' He just... directed the cleanup crew. My crew."

He brandished the PADD like a holy text. "I have the disposal logs, the internal sensor records of his unauthorized lab use, and a transfer manifest showing the toxin was signed out of my reclamation center by a junior officer who reports to Jorl. It is all here. For a modest finder's fee, of course. The 17th Rule does encourage seeking profit from all transactions."

Ellie clicked her gaze to Reynie for a split second—get a load of this fucking guy—then back to the overly talkative and presumptuously studious Ensign Flix. Her expression went icy. 

“The 17th Rule of Acquisition,” she stated, her voice cutting through his sales pitch with the precision of a brick through a plate glass window. (Cutting right through the bullshit.) “is that a contract is a contract is a contract, but only between Ferengi.” She deliberately slipped her tricorder back into her kit bag and crossed her arms, the movement slow and deliberate. “That sounds to me as if you are trying to take us, two Starfleet officers, for a ride.”

She took a single step forward, and though she was not terribly taller than the lanky Ferengi, she seemed to loom. “You are in possession of material evidence of a capital crime. Evidence you have admittedly held back in the hopes of personal enrichment. You are not a businessman, Ensign. You are an accomplice after the fact, and I assure you Starfleet JAG will not be terribly favorable with that during your court-martial.”

The predatory grin vanished from Flix’s face, replaced by the pale, sweaty panic of a man who just realized he had tried to upsell a hanging judge. His ears flattened against his skull.

“Now,” Ellie continued, her tone dropping to a deadly calm. “You will hand over that PADD. You will then provide a full, sworn statement, detailing every single fact without your usual… entrepreneurial embellishments. And you will do so without a finder’s fee. The only thing you will be ‘finding’ is whether a penal colony has good drainage. Am I understood?”

Flix’s eyes darted between her unyielding face and Reynie’s, who was now leaning against the glittering console with an expression of pure, unadulterated admiration. If Reynie was not already incurably in love with her, he was truly, madly and unabashedly done for now.

“She’s not great with negotiations,” Reynie offered with a sympathetic shrug. “But she’s fantastic with evidence and incarceration. I’d do what the nice doctor says.”

With a trembling hand, Flix silently passed the PADD to Ellie.

“That’s a lad, you made the right choice,” Reynie patted the Ferengi’s shoulder. 

T’Pel just watched the entire exchange from the Science console in piqued wonder. Ellie’s focus snapped back to the Vulcan with a little theatrical turn. It seemed that the scans had finished, despite all distractions to the contrary. 

“If you were in contact with the vial for a prolonged duration, the particle concentration will be a magnitude higher. If it is as you say, then it will be significantly lower and consistent with incidental contact,” Ellie explained, picking up the tricorder from the console. 

“The scan is complete, the traces are low,” Ellie looked at Reynie. “Commander T’Pel was the primary handler.” 

Reynie let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be. You were telling the truth." He gave T'Pel a conciliatory nod. "My apologies for the accusation, Commander. It was, given the circumstances, the logical conclusion."

T’Pel lowered her hands, her posture regaining its rigid composure. "Your apology is... noted. Though your methodology remains erratic." Her gaze, cold and sharp, fell upon the now-terrified Flix. "It appears the true 'illogic' aboard this vessel is far more convoluted than I anticipated."

"Tell me about it," Reynie muttered, his focus already on the PADD in Ellie's hand. "So. Our lead guitarist wasn't just shredding solos. He was cooking up a little toxic revenge on the side."

He looked at Ellie, the game was really starting to get exciting for him. The red herring was officially off the hook. The real predator was still out there. This was more exciting than all the holidays and his birthday combined for him, he was in his element. 

"Looks like we need to have a chat with our friend Jorl,"  Reynie said, a familiar swagger returning to his step as he led the way out. “Here we go again…” he began to sing, his voice a low, gravelly tease, “…on our own…”

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose when they were out of earshot of T’Pel. “Gods,” she groaned, the word laden with the weight of a thousand minor irritations. (Not an African Swallow with a coconut, but basically.) “I really, really hate Whitesnake.”

The Astrometrics lab was surprisingly normal, in comparison to the rest of the ship. Just being what it claimed to be. Perhaps they did laser shows there on Thursday nights to Pink Floyd to really jazz it up, but it seemed— in essence— dull. Not that science is dull. Just in comparison to how the rest of the ship is. [Why is it that I am defending this lab?]

It was here they found Jorl. He was not polishing his guitar or practicing a solo. He was slumped over a console, his blue-skinned head in his hands, the typical proud antennae drooping listlessly. He looked up as they entered, his eyes wide with a fear that had nothing to do with being caught.

"Investigator. Doctor," he said, his voice hollow. "I suppose you are here about Zogg."

"We are," Reynie said. He leaned against a console, casually. "The thing is, Jorl, we just had a very interesting chat with Ensign Flix. About unauthorized experiments. Toxic byproducts. And a very clever frame-up."

"It wasn't me!" he blurted out, his antennae quivering with distress. "I mean, the toxin was mine, from my project. But I didn't use it! I would never!"

"Then who did?" Ellie asked.

"They made me give it to them," Jorl whispered, his voice cracking. "L'Rell and Flix. They found out about my... my side project. The unstable one. They cornered me after a set. L'Rell had me pinned against the wall, her hand on my antennae." He touched the sensitive appendages, a shudder running through him. "She said if I didn't give them a sample of the 'concoction,' she'd make sure my 'nerd splooge' was the last thing I ever did. Flix just stood there, calculating the profit margin of my misery."

Reynie's eyes narrowed. "They, uhhh, bullied you into providing the murder weapon?"

Jorl nodded miserably. "They said they just wanted to scare Zogg. Give him a stomach ache so he'd back off that thing in the breakdown? I... I believed them. I was so terrified of L'Rell, I would have given them anything. I handed over a vial. I never thought... I never thought they'd actually..." He trailed off, the horror of his own complicity washing over him.

Ellie and Reynie exchanged a look. The case had just exploded wide open. Jorl was not the killer; he was a coerced accomplice. 

"The plot," Reynie murmured, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face, "is officially kicked in the teeth.” 

“I do not believe AC/DC want to be a part of this, Bon Scott did not die to get lumped in with Winger, or godforbid we throw in a Stryper reference, Reynie.”

“To hell with that... Did we just break the fourth wall again?” Reynie said with a shrug.

“Seems like it. I guess we need to go meet this band.”