Chapter Four

IN THE TRANSITION ROOM, Worf and Deanna gratefully removed their helmets and stripped off the white garments. Worf tried to control his anger and frustration by taking deep breaths. Finally, he removed the regulator valve from his suit’s pocket and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He glanced around the room, looking for a container. Finding none, he dropped the valve into one of the gossamer gloves, rolled it into a bundle, and stuffed it under his sash. Then, scowling, the Klingon stuffed the rest of the garment into a receptacle.

Deanna looked at her own piece of evidence, the small blue vial. She held it to her nose and sniffed a pungent odor which was familiar. Recently familiar.

The Vulcan, Saduk, had removed his helmet but left his white jumpsuit on. “Where did you find that?” he asked her.

“Inside,” she motioned toward the air shower. “Near the pod.”

Worf held out his hand and requested, “May I look at that?”

She handed it to him, almost glad to be rid of the foul-smelling object. Saduk leaned closer to inspect the vial. “It has a capacity of twenty milliliters,” he observed. “Very common around any laboratory, but no one would hand-carry a liquid into a class-one cleanroom.”

“Somebody did,” remarked Worf. He put the container to his own flared nostrils. “Alcohol,” he murmured.

Saduk seemed unperturbed by this discovery. “If you are finished with me, Lieutenant,” he nodded cordially, “I shall return to work.”

Worf dropped the vial into the big glove and again secured the packet of evidence under his sash. “I have more questions,” insisted the Klingon. “First, do you know anyone who would benefit from Lynn Costa’s death?”

“Would personal advancement be considered a benefit?” asked the Vulcan.

“Yes.”

“Then I know one person with such a motive,” the scientist replied evenly. “Myself.”

“Why is that?” asked Deanna, peering curiously at the Vulcan.

He returned the Betazoid’s gaze with dark unwavering eyes. “Because,” he replied, “with Lynn Costa dead and Emil Costa retiring, I will be placed in charge of the Microcontamination Project.”

“Is this something you’ve wanted?” Deanna asked.

The Vulcan nodded, “It is my major ambition in life.”

“Anyone else?” demanded Worf.

The Vulcan’s angular eyebrows merged for a moment before he answered, “No one comes to mind.”

“I’ve seen the maintenance reports,” scowled Worf, “now I want to see the programming logs for that pod.”

“Very well,” said Saduk, “but I doubt if you will find anything. By long-standing custom, pod number one was reserved for Lynn Costa’s use, and she steadfastly refused to keep a programming log.”

Worf heaved his big shoulders and tried to suppress his anger. “Who allowed that policy?” he demanded.

“Karn Milu,” answered the Vulcan. “Although it may have been at the request of the Costas. They were very concerned about security.”

“So concerned about security,” frowned Worf, “that they virtually set her up to be killed!”

The ship’s counselor inserted herself between the two males. “Saduk,” she asked earnestly, “when Lynn Costa was caught erasing computer records, what sort of records had she erased?”

“Her actions were very strange,” the Vulcan concluded. “Mainly, she erased older records of microbe discoveries made while this ship was in orbit around various planets. For the most part, this was material that had been gathered by her husband. It had already been moved from main memory to archival memory and was awaiting widespread dissemination. We restored most of the data, except for some personal files and notes which were unrecoverable.”

“With your lax computer policies,” grumbled Worf, “how did you know it was she who destroyed the records?”

“Emil caught her in the act,” answered Saduk. “It was a premeditated act, and she never showed any remorse. Even if Emil had not caught her, we might have surmised her guilt from her recent behavior.”

“How would you describe her recent behavior?” asked the ship’s counselor.

The Vulcan considered his answer before replying, “Preoccupied. Odd. Illogical.”

“Did she seem afraid of something?” asked Deanna.

Saduk remained expressionless. “Yes.”

“What?” begged the counselor.

“I don’t know,” Saduk admitted. “Lately, my full attention has been directed toward several projects that are behind schedule.”

Worf snarled under his breath and headed toward the door leading out of the transition room. “Don’t discuss our investigation with your colleagues,” he ordered. ‘“I’ll be sending down some security people and a team of engineers to go over that pod. I’ll contact you later about your deposition.”

“Understood,” nodded Saduk. “Can you conduct yourselves out?”

“Yes, we can,” said Deanna, gracing the lean Vulcan with a slight smile. “Thank you.”

A moment later, she and Worf were in the corridor, with the air gushing through the grating at their feet. Worf looked down at Deanna and shook his head, muttering, “I shouldn’t blame them for being ill-prepared. Who expects something so barbaric as a murder? Even aboard the old Klingon ships, no one ever got murdered but the captain!”

Deanna bowed her head. “Speaking of the captain,” she sighed, “we had better go see him.”

“Agreed,” said Worf. “While we brief the captain, I’ll get Geordi started.” He struck his communicator badge, and Deanna was struck by the Klingon’s forceful action. She knew that there would be no wasted moments in this investigation.

 

Jean-Luc Picard paced the length of his ready room, shaking his head in disbelief. “Murdered!” he barked, stiffening to attention. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“No,” Worf answered, “not until we verify that both the regulator valve and the programming were tampered with. Commander La Forge has assembled a team of programmers and engineers to inspect every aspect of that pod. Saduk could conceivably be mistaken—or lying.”

“No,” said Picard, “a Vulcan who lied so brazenly would be considered quite insane.”

“Captain,” said Deanna hesitantly, “I doubt if I could tell whether Saduk is lying or not. He has an extremely strong and guarded intellect. He has admitted to having a motive, and there is the possibility that we are dealing with someone who behaves normally but is insane.”

Captain Picard just shook his head in disbelief. “You’re right,” he sighed, “we can’t rule anyone out. But first, we have to rule out all other possible causes for the accident. We can’t jump to any conclusions.”

“Sir,” interjected Worf, “I could ask Environmental Support to review Geordi’s data.”

The captain nodded approvingly. “Use whatever facilities or personnel you need. I trust you to be thorough about this, Lieutenant.”

“Thorough and efficient,” the Klingon pledged. “If there’s a murderer on board, I will find him.”

The captain nodded, then turned to his trusted counselor. “Deanna,” he said, “I hate forcing you to be a sort of lie detector, but we haven’t got any alternative. Can you accompany the lieutenant when he interrogates the . . .” he grimaced in disgust at the word, “suspects?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the Betazoid, lowering her eyes. “I had a chance, perhaps, to prevent Lynn Costa’s death if I had taken her fear more seriously. I want very badly to find out what happened to her.”

“Make it so,” Picard ordered.

 

They stepped into the turbolift, and Deanna eyed the tall Klingon beside her. Worf appeared calm, but his jaw worked furiously when he spoke. “Deck 32,” he growled to the computer.

Then he tapped his insignia badge. “Worf to La Forge.”

“Geordi here,” came the familiar voice. “Sorry, Worf, but so far we haven’t found anything unexpected. Somebody could have changed the programming on that pod by altering just a few bytes in the monitoring system. They didn’t go through the main computer, so they may have used a debugger. With no programming log, we’ll never know for sure.

“As for the pod itself,” the chief engineer continued, “it seems to be in perfect working order except for that valve you gave me. The calibration of the o-rings was off just enough to let the pressurized gas escape. Whoever altered those rings knew exactly what he was doing, but I’m not so sure you could prove they were altered. Whoever did it must have been wearing gloves, and they worked under conditions that didn’t leave the slightest trace.”

“Understood,” Worf grumbled. “Then I assume you don’t need us to come down there?”

“Nope,” Geordi replied with sympathy in his voice. “We’ll stay here and poke through everything until we’re satisfied there’s nothing left to learn. I’m afraid, my friend, you’re on your own.”

“Not exactly,” Worf disagreed, glancing down at the dark diminutive figure beside him. “Deanna Troi is helping me.” The Betazoid responded with an encouraging wisp of a smile.

The turbolift door opened upon deck 32, and Lieutenant Worf and Counselor Troi stepped out onto the same deck Deanna had visited a few hours earlier with Captain Picard. She vividly recalled their disturbing encounter with Emil Costa, and she wondered how she and Worf would fare this time.

“You know,” added Geordi through Worf’s communicator, “Karn Milu is already complaining about the time this is taking. He says that the scientists can’t get to their experiments in the pods. He’s convinced that Dr. Costa’s death was an accident and won’t hear anything about the ‘murder theory,’ as he puts it. Objectively, he’s right. It was a dangerous experiment, and equipment and computer malfunctions are not unheard of.”

“It is a murder,” Worf answered evenly. He looked down at the Betazoid. “Wouldn’t you agree, Counselor?”

“I would,” she answered affirmatively. “Lynn Costa was terribly afraid, and I misdiagnosed it as paranoia. She had reason to be afraid—somebody was stalking her.”

“Yeah,” agreed the chief engineer, “but I wouldn’t blame yourself, Deanna. Whoever pulled this scheme off was very determined and very clever. And they knew the workings of these pods intimately. It looks like an inside job.”

“An inside job?” Worf queried, glancing at Deanna. “An Earth colloquialism,” she explained. “It means the crime was planned by somebody with inside knowledge and freedom of movement.”

“Exactly,” Geordi replied. “I’d concentrate on those folks in the Microcontamination Project.”

“We’re headed for our first interrogation now,” the Klingon replied without much enthusiasm. “Emil Costa.”

“Good luck,” offered the engineer. “I’ll prepare an official report for the inquiry.”

“Thank you again, Geordi,” replied Deanna.

“Out,” barked Worf. He looked around the unfamiliar corridors and the game room beyond. A few people were gathered at one of the card tables, and they spoke in hushed tones as they glanced at the unfamiliar duo. Worf tried to ignore them. “Which way to Emil Costa’s cabin?” he asked.

“This way,” Deanna answered, moving down the corridor away from the recreation room.

“One second,” said Worf, “let’s see what they know.”

She tried to keep up with the big Klingon as he strode into the recreation room and confronted the gathered residents, who numbered six. Other residents watched them silently from the doorways.

“Dr. Baylak,” Worf nodded to a dark-skinned human he recognized. He acknowledged the others with brief nods but was not about to waste any time with introductions. “Do any of you know anything about Lynn Costa’s death?”

“What caused it?” asked Baylak with concern. “There’s a rumor going around that she was murdered.”

Worf replied simply, “Murder appears to be a possibility. We’re not ruling anything out at this stage of the investigation. Do any of you know anything?”

A slight woman with dark hair stepped forward. Her eyes were so red and watery that it was evident she had been crying. Deanna’s heart went out to her.

“I know one thing,” the woman said forcefully, her voice quivering a little, “Lynn Costa would never commit suicide—as someone suggested.”

“I made that suggestion,” replied Deanna with equal force, “based on her behavior prior to the accident. But that assumption now appears to be false.”

“Do any of you know anything?” Worf reiterated.

“Her husband . . .” said a stocky man in the back. But his voice trailed off.

“What about her husband?” asked Worf.

The man lowered his head. “I don’t know anything for certain,” he mumbled, “only things I overheard.” “Like what?” the Klingon demanded.

“I heard them fighting,” the man sighed, shaking his head, “typical husband and wife stuff.”

Helplessly, Dr. Baylak held out his hands. “We’d all like to help you, Lieutenant, but we don’t know anything. I mean, we all know that Lynn and Emil were not getting along. There was friction between them, but I don’t know what caused it. They usually kept to themselves and their own work group.”

“Does anyone have more information?” asked Worf.

He was greeted by silence. “Inform your colleagues,” ordered the Klingon, “I am available at any time to discuss this matter.” He motioned to Deanna Troi and strode off.

Deanna could feel the helpless and frightened eyes on their backs as they left the game room. These people were a community—small and close-knit—and violence against one of their number was violence against all of them. Emotionally, they wanted the security chief to catch Lynn Costa’s killer. Psychologically, however, they didn’t want to find out that someone in their midst was a murderer.

Worf stopped in the corridor, relieved just to be away from those searching eyes. “Which way?” he muttered.

Deanna motioned to the left. “It’s not far. Let me lead.”

They found the door with the sign reading THE COSTAS, and the counselor wondered how long the sign would remain in the plural. Worf pressed the electronic door chime and braced himself.

A somber—and sober—Emil Costa greeted them. He looked far more gray and bent than Deanna remembered from their encounter in the Ten-Forward Room only a few hours before. That seemed like light-years ago now. His eyes, then defiant and arrogant, were now wary and haunted. The counselor recalled seeing the same haunted look in Lynn Costa’s eyes.

“Hello,” he murmured, “I’ve been expecting you.”

“May we come in?” asked Worf.

The scientist nodded, stepped back, and motioned them inside. Nervously, he rubbed his hand over the white stubble on his scalp and glanced at his feet. Deanna noticed that he was still wearing his slippers. The quarters were simple and homey, with cherry wood antiques and quaint Bavarian cuckoo clocks intermingled with minimalist Orion tapestries and standard-issue furniture. The Costas traveled light, Deanna decided, for all these furnishings were readily available from the ship’s replicator.

Emil Costa slumped wearily into a sculpted armchair exactly like the one in Deanna’s cabin. He motioned to the food slot in the wall. “Would you like something?”

“No,” answered Worf resolutely. “We’ve come to inform you that, apparently, your wife was murdered.”

The breath escaped from Emil Costa, and he seemed to shrink deeper into the big chair. Nevertheless, thought Deanna, he exhibited none of the shock at the idea that everyone else had.

“Did you kill her?” Worf asked bluntly.

“We’re not going to mince a lot of words, are we?” Emil smiled wanly. “No, I didn’t.”

“Do you know who did?” asked Worf.

“No,” mumbled Costa, dropping his chin to his chest.

He’s lying, thought Deanna. The only problem was, which question was he lying about? Secrecy seemed to taint his every response.

Lieutenant Worf moved closer to Emil Costa. “If you can’t be positive,” he said, “can you make a guess about who might be responsible?”

The Klingon was glaring down at the little man, and Deanna couldn’t blame Emil for squirming uncomfortably.

“N-no,” he stammered. “Lynn was well liked and respected by everyone.”

“That’s not the question,” Worf pounded away. “The question is, who killed her?”

“I don’t know!” squealed Emil Costa, leaping to his feet and moving as far away from them as the small room would allow.

Deanna decided to try a softer approach. “Dr. Costa,” she interjected, “if somebody killed your wife, wouldn’t you want to see that person brought to justice?”

“Of course,” the old man agreed. “But in the end, what good is revenge?” Distractedly, Emil stopped to study one of the cuckoo clocks. Gently, he reset the hands of the antiquated timepiece.

“It’s very strange,” he mused with a dawning realization, “being alone after so many years. Suddenly, I’m able to go where I want to go, do what I want to do—my life is totally my own again. But, to tell you the truth, I wish I was the one who was dead.” His shoulders hunched pitifully.

Even Worf was impressed by the depth of the man’s grief. “We’re sorry to intrude at this time,” said the security officer, “but justice cannot wait. Did you change, or in any way alter, the programming or the regulator valve on pod one?”

“Is that how it was done?” sniffed Emil Costa, running a grizzled knuckle over his watery eyes. He turned to look at them, those same eyes pleading for understanding. “I’ve done a few things in my life I haven’t been proud of, but marrying Lynn was not one of them.”

That much was the truth, decided Deanna Troi, but it was perhaps the first truthful thing he had said. “Why,” she asked, “did Lynn destroy the computer files of your microbe discoveries?”

The scientist again turned away from them. “There’s nothing else I can tell you,” he rasped. “If you will please leave me now, I have to send a message to Starfleet.”

“We may request your assistance again,” warned Worf.

“You know where to find me,” Emil replied, adjusting the hands of another cuckoo clock. “I have resigned from the Microcontamination Project, and I will restrict myself to these quarters.”

“That would be helpful,” snapped Worf. He swiveled on his heels and marched out.

Deanna followed and caught up with the big Klingon in the middle of the corridor. “He’s lying about something,” she declared.

“Yes,” grunted Worf, “even I could see that. He evaded your question about the erased files, and he knows more than he’s saying.”

“But that won’t convict him of murder,” added the Betazoid. “He seems genuinely remorseful at the loss of his wife.”

Worf growled, “More than one murderer has regretted his actions afterward. Who shall we see next?”

“Grastow,” answered Deanna. “He discovered the body.”

 

They stepped down into the cabin of the massive Antarean. Apparently, thought Deanna, the floor of Grastow’s cabin had been lowered to accommodate his extraordinary height. Worf led the way into the room, and it was certainly odd to see the Klingon dwarfed by someone.

Dr. Grastow greeted them warmly, almost effusively. “Hello,” he smiled, striding forward. “How may I help you?”

“We believe,” said Worf, “that Dr. Costa’s death was not an accident. The programming and regulator valve on pod number one had been tampered with.”

“I suspected as much,” replied the Antarean, screwing his chubby pink face into a thoughtful grimace. “Do you have any suspects?”

Worf was taken aback by Grastow’s enthusiasm, and he glanced puzzledly at Deanna.

“To be frank,” she replied, “everyone is a suspect, including yourself.”

“Me?” exclaimed the scientist. “Why would I kill Lynn Costa? I loved the woman!”

“Loved?” asked Worf curiously.

Grastow shrugged, “Respected, loved, worshipped. It began when I was a boy. On my home planet, we had a terrible infestation of parasitic microorganisms in our soil, and we were literally starving to death.” He rubbed his ample stomach. “Antarean dietary needs can be quite exacting.

“Anyway,” he continued, “the Costas devoted a year of their lives to solving the problem. We never fully eradicated the parasites, but they taught us hydroponic farming under ultraclean conditions. That was twenty standard years ago when I was just a lad, but I vowed at the time that I would repay this debt to the Costas. I graduated in the top two percent of my class at the Academy, and I passed over several plum assignments to become their assistant. My classmates said I was crazy, but I have never regretted my decision. That was three years ago.”

“Then you came to the Enterprise with them,” concluded Worf.

“Yes,” answered the Antarean. “Only Saduk has been with them longer.”

“Excuse me,” said Deanna, carefully phrasing her question, “when we saw you in sickbay, you were distraught with grief. Now you seem to have completely adjusted to Lynn Costa’s death. What changed your attitude?”

“I rested,” shrugged Grastow. “We Antareans have a remarkable mental constitution, if I may say so myself. Rest allows us to block out negative emotions and emerge totally refreshed. It was terribly disturbing to discover Lynn’s body, but I am over that now.” He grinned broadly. “Now I am ready to assist you in any way I can!”

“Yes,” muttered Worf skeptically. “We’ve already heard your account of how you discovered the body and alerted sickbay. But why weren’t you surprised to hear it was murder?”

“Because,” answered Grastow, “I am in charge of maintenance on the pods. After thinking clearly about the circumstances of the accident, I couldn’t see any other possible explanation. You are fairly certain it was a murder, aren’t you?”

“Until we find a better explanation,” said Worf. “Can you tell us who did it?”

The Antarean paced thoughtfully around the room, an action which required three or four strides. “The pods,” he explained, “are in a cleanroom that is under the jurisdiction of the Microcontamination Project. Although other scientists use those pods, they aren’t allowed in there unless one of us accompanies them. We usually monitor their experiments for them. That would mean the logical suspects are myself, Saduk, Shana, and, of course, Emil.”

“So,” pressed Worf, “given that assumption, who is most likely to have murdered Lynn Costa?”

“I hate to say it,” grimaced the Antarean, “but Emil is the likely choice. During the last few months, the two of them quarreled like you wouldn’t believe. A few times, I thought they would come to blows.”

“Do you know the cause of these quarrels?” asked Deanna.

“They didn’t need a cause,” remarked the giant humanoid. “Just being in the same room was cause enough. They tried to avoid each other, and we went out of our way to avoid putting them together, but that wasn’t always possible. To be truthful, Lynn was a bit testy with everyone. I used to be able to get a laugh out of her, but not lately.” He shook his head sadly.

Deanna Troi furrowed her luxuriant eyebrows before adding, “Emil told us that he was in charge of developing the organisms needed to test Lynn’s procedures. Could their differences have been professional?”

“I suppose,” the Antarean replied. “But you would think they’d be used to that after forty-odd years. When I joined the project on Earth, they were like lovebirds. I don’t know what happened to them. It can’t be dissatisfaction with the work—we’ve made tremendous strides since coming to the Enterprise. Maybe it was age. Humans have been known to age badly.”

Worf scowled dubiously, then removed the blue vial from under his sash. “Have you ever seen this?” he asked, handing the container to the Antarean. “Counselor Troi found it on the floor, near the pod.”

“That’s odd,” said Grastow, squinting puzzledly at the vial. “Of course, I’ve seen vials like this—they are very common. But in the cleanroom? Maybe somebody was using it in an experiment in one of the pods.”

Grastow shrugged his massive shoulders and handed the container back to Worf, who again tucked it within his sash. “Thank you,” said the Klingon, not hiding his disappointment.

“I have one more question,” said Deanna. “How do you feel about Saduk taking over the Microcontamination Project?”

For the first time, the cheery expression faded from the cherubic face. “Is that official?” he asked.

“It will be,” answered Worf, “with Emil Costa retiring. He says he has already resigned from the project.”

“Oh,” the Antarean moaned, plopping into a chair. “I think I’m going to need some more rest.”

“What is your objection?” asked Deanna.

Grastow threw up his hands with alarm. “Have you ever worked for a Vulcan? They don’t know the meaning of the word ‘rest’! I have nothing personal against Saduk, but I may have to review my situation here.”

“I see,” said Deanna thoughtfully. She looked at Worf, who was already moving toward the door. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You’re welcome,” answered the glum Antarean.

A few moments later, Counselor Troi and Lieutenant Worf found themselves back in the unfamiliar corridor. They kept their voices low, because the residents of deck 32 were starting to emerge from their quarters for the first work shift of the day.

“Your reaction?” asked Worf.

The Betazoid shook her head, “I didn’t sense he was lying. He seemed sincere about everything he said. Of course,” she concluded, “if he can really block out negative thoughts, I might not be able to tell if he’s lying.”

“Yes,” Worf agreed glumly. He was beginning to dislike the course these investigations were taking. Everything was inconclusive, from Geordi’s inspection of the pod to the individual interrogations of the so-called suspects. None of them had what could even remotely be called a motive. Even Saduk’s “confession” to wanting Lynn Costa’s job was hardly noteworthy. The Vulcan would have had the job anyway in due time; he would outlive everyone else on the project by about a hundred years.

Not that Worf expected someone to jump up and admit to killing Lynn Costa. If this had been a Klingon ship, the culprit might come forward of his own volition, and he would have a damn good reason for his crime. Klingons were not proud about killing—not anymore—but they did admit to the necessity when all else failed, when self-preservation was at stake. But who could have felt threatened by an aging reclusive scientist? If Lynn Costa’s fame had been threatening to her colleagues, she would have been murdered years ago.

He muttered, “Do you suppose it will do any good to interview Saduk again?”

“I doubt it,” replied the Betazoid.

“No,” said Worf. “That leaves Shana Russel.”

Deanna nodded, remembering the excited young woman she had met in the Ten-Forward Room with Emil Costa. A celebration had been in progress, she recalled, marking the completion of Shana Russel’s preliminary work-ups. This meeting was not likely to be so pleasant.

Deanna remarked, “Shana Russel has only been on the ship for six months.”

“She had access,” said Worf. He slapped his communicator badge. “Computer?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Worf,” came the disembodied voice. “How may I assist you?”

“Is Shana Russel in her cabin?”

“No,” answered the feminine voice. “She is in the Ten-Forward Room.”

“Acknowledged.” He looked at Deanna Troi and held out his hand for her to lead the way.

 

In his ready room, Captain Picard sat stone-faced behind his desk, his anger growing. Not that Dr. Karn Milu’s tone of voice was anything less than respectful, nor his words inflammatory. But Jean-Luc Picard was not a man who liked being told how to do his job.

“What happened to Dr. Costa was extremely unfortunate,” said the scientist, his bushy eyebrows bristling. “But that is no reason to close down a valuable laboratory for an indefinite period of time. There are security guards posted on every door and engineers crawling all over the class-zero pods. I have no idea if they are taking the proper precautions, because I have been denied entrance.”

“Commander La Forge has promised to conduct his inspection as quickly as possible,” the captain said evenly. “And I am sure he is taking every proper precaution.”

The stocky Betazoid leaned over the captain’s desk. “We cannot even monitor the experiments,” he claimed, “because programmers from engineering have frozen the subsystems while they go over every line of code. Captain, I was willing to cooperate in every way I could. I ordered Saduk to conduct Lieutenant Worf and Counselor Troi through the cleanrooms as soon as the danger passed. But it’s time to mourn Dr. Costa’s death and get back to work.”

The captain rose to his feet. Though not a tall man, Jean-Luc Picard was impressive when standing at rigid attention, and the Betazoid took a step back from his desk. “Dr. Milu,” he snapped, “we are investigating a murder. I view this as the most serious transgression that has taken place aboard the Enterprise in some time.”

“A possible murder,” Karn Milu countered. “I myself believe the original interpretation was more plausible—that it was an accident. As much as we both admired Lynn Costa, may I remind you that her mental condition was extremely unstable prior to this incident. Plus, her experiments in reactive purification were unauthorized and excessively dangerous.”

Jean-Luc bowed his head, forced to admit these points. Could they be overreacting? First it had been an accident, then suicide, and now a murder. In an attempt to explain the unthinkable, were they grasping at straws?

Thoughtfully, he raised a finger and remarked, “I might agree with you, Doctor, except for one thing. We never considered it a murder until your own man, Saduk, made the suggestion.”

“An unfortunate suggestion,” grumbled the scientist. “They say Vulcans have no emotions, but they do. You’ll never see them, but I can. I still haven’t seen any proof that it was murder. Have you?”

“The investigation isn’t over yet,” the captain declared.

“Yes, and that’s the problem,” insisted Karn Milu, turning on his heel and marching out of the captain’s ready room.

Jean-Luc’s lips thinned as he watched the Betazoid leave. He reminded himself that if someone were causing a similar disruption to his bridge, he would be equally upset.

He touched his comm panel. “Picard to La Forge.”

“Yes, Captain,” came the immediate response.

“How much longer are you going to be on deck 31?” Picard asked.

“We’re just wrapping up now.”

“Good,” sighed the captain. “I know you’re preparing a report for Lieutenant Worf, and I want to see it as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped the engineer.

“And tell me, Geordi, is there any indication of murder?”

“Indication?”

“Correction,” said Picard. “Is there any proof?”

Now the sigh came from the other end. “No, Captain. Nothing conclusive. There’s no bullet hole and no smoking gun.”

“I see,” answered the captain, his jaw tightening. “Get me that report as soon as you can. Out.”

Jean-Luc Picard sat back in his chair and turned on his computer screen. Murder or not, he had a eulogy to deliver in a few hours.