CHAPTER
10

MAS MARKO stood in the middle of Ops, tall and sullen and not looking the least bit cooperative. Del, as always, stood nearby and to the side.

Kira, who practically had to crane her neck to look up at Marko, said, “Sir . . . I’m trying to be accommodating, but I don’t know when Commander Sisko will be back, and we simply cannot have unauthorized personnel hanging about Ops. Now unless you want me to call security . . . ”

He looked down at her from his great height. “I would think,” he rumbled, “that your security forces would have more pressing matters than me to occupy them—for example, trying to track down a murderer.”

“Sir . . . ”

At that moment Sisko returned via the turbolift. Odo was not with him, having stayed behind to comb the area for some trace of the intruder. Seeing Mas Marko standing there, the commander had a feeling that he wasn’t going to be exactly thrilled with this particular conversation.

“Mas Marko,” he said, “this is not an especially good time.”

“Perhaps, Commander. I understand your situation. But you must now understand mine. And my situation is that one of my trusted followers was murdered. I want to know what you’re doing about it.”

“In my office, then.”

Moments later they were in Sisko’s office. Marko chose to stand rather than squeeze his bulk into a human-sized chair. Del stood just outside the office. As usual, he contributed nothing to the conversation, but seemed content merely to bask in the presence of his leader.

“So,” Marko began, “how goes the investigation? Have you learned anything yet?”

Why, yes—that we have a shapeshifting serial killer who murders without rhyme or reason.

“Nothing just yet,” said Sisko carefully. “We do, however, have some—”

“Promising leads, yes, I know. How promising?”

“Very promising.”

Mas Marko studied him for a moment and then said, “You know, Commander . . . it may be my imagination, but it seems to me that you are being somewhat evasive in this matter.”

“You’re correct, Mas Marko,” said Sisko. “It’s your imagination.”

Marko smiled thinly. “Yes. Well . . . there’s something you should understand, Commander: a crime has been perpetrated against an Edemian missionary—a murder most foul. I trust that you will do the right thing when it comes to the disposition of the murderer.”

“We haven’t caught him yet, Mas Marko. I think disposition is a bit premature.”

“Not if, as you say, you have some promising leads. Commander, the Edemians will be expecting satisfaction in this matter. We are firm believers in justice. The teachings of K’olkr are quite specific. The killer must be found, and he must be turned over to us. You see, there’s no other option.”

“I see,” said Sisko tightly, fighting once more to keep his temper under control, “that you have an opinion, Mas Marko. Your opinion has been noted. Keep in mind, however, that this is a Bajoran station—property of Bajor, administered by the Federation. There are jurisdictional questions to be sorted out.”

And Mas Marko looked more dangerous than Sisko had ever seen him.

“I don’t care about jurisdiction,” he said tightly. “I care about right and wrong. It is our right to see justice done by Edemian law. It is wrong to ignore that consideration.”

“I’m not ignoring it, Mas Marko,” said Sisko. “I simply cannot make any promises.”

The air seemed to crackle with danger, and then Mas Marko told him, “Perhaps you cannot make promises, Commander, but I can. And I can promise you . . . that you will not like what happens if you cross my people and their proprietary claims.”

Kira appeared at the door of Sisko’s office. “Sir,” she said, and there was a look of concern on her face. “Gul Dukat is calling.”

Aw, hell, thought Sisko. But his face remained inscrutable as he said, “Hold him, please. Mas Marko . . . I must attend to other business.”

Marko inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, Commander.”

He left the office, ducking his head, as always, to avoid hitting it. Del followed him, and the moment they were out of earshot, Sisko called, “All right. Put him through.”

On his personal screen, the image of Gul Dukat materialized.

As usual, Dukat looked relaxed, even convivial. Sisko knew, of course, that the Cardassian commander was as crafty, and as difficult, a customer as he had ever dealt with. Dukat was a master of making himself look like the injured party, no matter how overt his own actions were in leading to a crisis.

The problem was, in this case, that he now had a legitimate grievance—unless, by some miracle, Dukat was calling about something else entirely.

“Commander,” said Dukat.

Sisko returned the greeting in kind. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You can answer a question for me, actually,” said Dukat. “I seem to have lost touch with my man, Gotto.”

“Lost touch?” said Sisko.

“Yes. He was to report in regularly during his business at Deep Space Nine, and he has missed his check-in. I have endeavored to contact him directly and have had no success. I have spoken to your own people, your charming Major Kira—who, by the way, makes no effort to hide her disdain for Cardassians in general and for me in particular. You should talk to her about that.”

“I’ll encourage her to make a greater effort to hide her disdain in the future,” Sisko replied solemnly.

“Please do. At any rate, Major Kira said that I should speak to you if I have any questions about Gotto.”

Sisko glanced in Kira’s direction. She was looking straight at him, watching the conversation. Although he had no proof, and she wouldn’t admit to it, Sisko had a sneaking suspicion that Kira was a fairly skilled lipreader. He raised a questioning eyebrow toward her, and she gestured in a manner that seemed to say, What was I supposed to tell him?

“Commander Sisko,” continued Dukat, and the edge in his voice served notice to Sisko that the danger Dukat represented should not be ignored. “Where is Gotto?”

For a moment Sisko contemplated either lying or pleading ignorance to buy some time. On the other hand, if Dukat already knew what had happened and was playing some sort of mental chess game with Sisko, then Sisko was not going to look particularly good getting caught in a bald-faced lie.

And even if Dukat didn’t know the truth . . . well, he was going to find out sooner or later. And there was a good chance that he would hear the facts from some source other than Sisko. It would probably be better if Sisko presented the news himself, as gently as he could.

That was the theory, at least.

“Commander,” prodded Dukat, “what’s going on out there at that busy little station of yours?”

Sisko cleared his throat.

“There’s been a . . . mishap,” he began.

 

A frustrated Bashir walked through the Promenade to try to clear his head.

What sort of creature would do such things? Was the killer truly similar to Odo? He had seen the security chief’s expression upon learning of that possibility, and it had not been a pleasant one.

The murderer had left no traces. None. For all the luck that Bashir was having in tracking down hard information about it, it might as well have been a ghost. Then he heard a female voice calling out familiar words: “Come, learn the glory of K’olkr.”

There were the Edemians at their usual station. There was Rasa, looking spent and wasted. In fact, he was dozing in his chair, oblivious of everything going on around him. There was Azira, calling to passersby, trying to interest them in partaking of the wonders of K’olkr. There was . . . 

There was . . . nobody else. The elder Edemian males were nowhere around.

And then Azira, in mid-sentence, caught sight of him.

They exchanged glances for a long moment, and then she looked away.

But there had been something in the way she had looked at him. Something unspoken that seemed to cry out to him. Something . . . something that he could not quite qualify. But, nevertheless, it was something that he felt moved to act upon.

Without giving any thought whatsoever to his actions—indeed, without having a clue as to what he was going to say or do—Bashir walked with conviction toward Azira.

She continued not to look at him, but now her manner was far more forced. Obviously she saw him. Obviously she knew he was there. But she was refusing to make eye contact.

Fear, perhaps? Or . . . shame?

“Azira,” he said.

At first she didn’t say anything. He repeated his salutation, and this time she afforded him a brief glance. “Doctor,” she said deferentially, “is there something I can do for you?”

Just wade in! his mind told him. He put on his most charming expression and said, “Nooo . . . but there’s something I can do for you.”

“Oh, really? What might that be?”

Very deliberately, he hardened his voice. “I can save your son.”

She sighed. “Doctor . . . my son is already saved.” She sounded content, at peace. “He believes in and embraces K’olkr, as do I. As long as he has that, then he is saved beyond anything your medicines can offer.”

She didn’t believe it.

Of that Bashir was certain. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his understanding of women. And everything about Azira—everything—screamed to Bashir that she was as much at peace with her son’s illness as the Cardassians were at peace with Bajor—which was to say, not at all.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that you’re sure,” he said forcefully. “Because, you know, if you’re wrong, then you’re throwing away this boy’s life. You do realize that.”

“I’m not throwing away anything.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe, just maybe, you lucked out. Of the thousands of religions in the galaxy, you may just have been lucky enough to fall in with the right one.”

Bashir had done some reading up on Edemian culture. His annoying lack of knowledge about what made their minds work had drastically undercut his awareness of their physiology. “Maybe Rasa’s spirit will go to the Sparkling World. Maybe he’ll see the unadorned glory of K’olkr and bask in its brightness and warmth. Maybe K’olkr will take him under his great wings and then bless him and send him on his journey to cosmic oneness.”

Then his voice grew harsh. He hated to speak that way; the chivalry that pervaded every fiber of him shuddered at the notion of verbally abusing a woman. Nevertheless, he had no choice. “But then again . . . maybe you’re wrong. Maybe when Rasa dies, his spirit will go nowhere. Maybe his body will be just a sack of lifeless meat. The body and spirit will be deprived of the opportunity to grow to manhood—”

“Stop it,” she said sharply.

“All because you were willing to throw away his life when I could have saved it. Will you feel proud, then?”

“I said stop it!”

She put her hands over her ears, trying to turn away. Relentlessly, Bashir kept hammering at her. “Just you and his father and his little coffin. Are you going to pitch that out into space, too? Let his dead body float around until it’s drawn into some planet’s atmosphere where it can plummet to the surface and burn? Or maybe some Klingons will use it for target practice. I hear that’s a favorite Klingon pastime, taking potshots at debris. His small, wasted body, blown to bits—”

And Azira’s scream filled the Promenade.

“Stoppp it! Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop iiiiitt!”

Rasa didn’t stir. Didn’t so much as move.

But Bashir did. He spun in a 180-degree semicircle as Mas Marko appeared behind him and swung him around to face him. A cold fury emanated from Mas Marko, and if he could have ripped Bashir’s heart out with the power of his glance, he would have done so at that moment.

Bashir said the first thing that occurred to him: “Don’t hurt my hands.”

Mas Marko lifted him clear off the floor, holding him high over his head with just the one hand. Del was just behind him, looking on in amazement. He had never seen his master so angry.

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded, shaking Bashir as if he weighed nothing.

“Sp-speaking to your wife.”

“Who gave you the right? How dare you seek to undermine my authority? To offend our god?”

Bashir’s life flashed before his eyes, and he allowed himself a moment to reflect that, overall, it had been pretty damned good.

And at that moment Odo’s hand clamped firmly down on Mas Marko’s wrist.

Because of Marko’s considerable height, there was no reasonable way that Odo should have been able to seize his arm so casually. Bashir suspected that, in moments such as this, Odo subtly altered his height and made himself taller. Not that he was, in any way, disparaging the effort.

Slowly Marko lowered Bashir to the floor. The doctor stood on unsteady feet for a moment. Then, pulling himself together, he cast a glance at Azira.

She had said nothing during the entire altercation. In fact, she wasn’t even looking at Bashir. She was staring fixedly and determinedly at the floor, as if frightened that looking at Bashir might cause some abrupt loss of nerve.

“You,” Marko said, his voice thundering with barely contained anger, “you, Doctor, are an unwelcome obstacle.”

“An obstacle to what?” Bashir said hoarsely, rubbing his throat. “An obstacle to your son’s death?”

Marko took a step forward, but Odo interposed himself. His shoulders were squared, his gaze determined.

“If I throw you into confinement for assault, Mas Marko,” Odo said, unruffled by the Edemian’s ire, “the good doctor will be free to chat with your wife all day if he so desires, and you won’t be around to stop it. If that is your wish, then by all means”—he stepped aside—“try to hit him.”

Bashir looked nervously from Odo to Mas Marko and back. Odo was simply standing there, his arms folded. “Go ahead,” he said challengingly. “Try your best. If you think you can hit him before I stop you, then give it a whirl. But I will stop you. And you don’t have to connect to be held for assault. All you have to do is try. Go on. Try.”

Mas Marko seemed to consider it for a moment, to Bashir’s obvious discomfiture. Then he backed away, clearly making an effort to compose himself before landing in serious difficulty.

Still staring fixedly and grimly at Bashir, Mas Marko raised his voice and, once more, began to sing the praises of the holy K’olkr.

A crowd had gathered, out of curiosity, to see if the Federation doctor would get his brains splattered all over the Promenade. In fact, bets were being placed on just how far Bashir’s head would roll if Mas Marko knocked it off his shoulders. Seeing that the show was over, though, and that the Edemians were going back to their usual task of trying to stir up interest in their tired old god, the crowd rapidly dispersed.

Odo led Bashir away, heading toward his office. Bashir was thanking the security officer for his intervention, but Odo didn’t seem remotely interested in hearing it. He pulled Bashir into his office and, the moment the door slid shut behind them, turned on the doctor and snapped, “Would you mind telling me what the hell you were doing out there?”

Bashir felt a twinge of annoyance. “I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me, Mr. Odo.”

“You don’t appreciate—Doctor, I don’t appreciate having Starfleet personnel stir up a situation that’s already threatening to become as raw and explosive as any I’ve ever encountered. Do you think Commander Sisko would look kindly upon this little fracas? I seem to recall something about your being instructed to keep your nose out of the Edemians’ business. Well . . . ?”

Bashir grunted in acknowledgment, “The commander would probably be less than ecstatic. I can just imagine what he’d say.”

 

“This is an outrage! An outrage!”

It wasn’t Sisko who was speaking. Rather, it was the enraged Cardassian commander, Gul Dukat. He looked ready to punch his fist right through the communications screen.

“I share your anger at the situation, Commander,” began Sisko.

“Situation? Commander Sisko, this is not a situation. This is an incident, and incidents can have very serious consequences for all concerned.”

Sisko’s voice became dangerously silky as he stared at Gul Dukat on the screen. “Are you threatening me, Commander?”

“I am saying, Commander Sisko,” replied Gul Dukat, “that I want to see a full report on this situation by this time tomorrow. Furthermore, as soon as the murderer of Gotto is apprehended, he is to be turned over to the Cardassians for processing.”

“’Processing’? Meaning execution?”

“Meaning none of your damned business,” said Gul Dukat. His affability had vanished, swept away by the assault on his second-in-command. “We consider this a direct provocation against the Cardassians.”

“No, Commander,” Sisko shot back, his voice becoming more heated. “This is an unfortunate occurrence of your man being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Furthermore, from the little we’ve managed to get out of the woman and child since the incident, it seems that your man was about to force himself, violently, on a Bajoran woman. If Gotto hadn’t been there, the killer—who appears to act purely out of opportunity—would have slaughtered mere Bajorans, and you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Oh, and don’t think for a moment, Commander Sisko, that I am less than ecstatic whenever we have an opportunity to chat.” Dukat was speaking with infinite sarcasm. “Force himself? Honestly. Am I supposed to accept, on faith, the calumnies of some Bajoran bitch? I assure you, Commander, that my man was an innocent victim, probably of yet another Bajoran terrorist plot.”

“An innocent victim, then,” said Sisko, “for the sake of argument. Unfortunately, in the real world, innocent people sometimes suffer. That’s a sad reality. You can’t interpret Gotto’s murder as a personal assault.”

“I don’t agree with you there, Commander, but you are quite right in saying that the death of mere Bajorans would have been of no interest to us. Why should we care about them? Lord knows they were more than happy to attack us, to wage guerrilla war on us, whenever they had the opportunity. We would mourn their death about as enthusiastically as they would mourn the death of one of us. But this was the death of a Cardassian, Commander—moreover, a high-ranking Cardassian who was on a mission from me. I know you say that this was one of a series of murders. I hope, for your sake, that it will be the last.

“But,” he continued fiercely, “I don’t care if your little psychopath slaughters every Bajoran on that station, up to and including your first officer. The fact is, there is a dead Cardassian on Deep Space Nine, and that situation must be attended to. We demand justice, and we will have it. We will have the murderer, and we will not wait forever to obtain him.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning that if the killer is not apprehended and turned over to us within a reasonable period of time, we will come in and conduct our own investigation.”

“That,” said Sisko flatly, “is not an option. This is a Federation matter.”

“That all depends on your point of view. To us, it is a Cardassian matter. And Cardassians look after their own.”

“Gul Dukat, we are in favor of continued peaceful relations with the Cardassians. But we cannot permit you to bring your own people in here to troop through Deep Space Nine and take over the investigation. That would only make matters worse.”

“What will make matters worse,” replied Dukat, “is if you endeavor to interfere. If you will not permit us aboard the station to exact vengeance upon the perpetrator, then we will have to play it safe.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Why, quite simply, Commander.” Gul Dukat seemed to relax again—which was more than enough to make Sisko tense. “We would not want to take any chance of the killer escaping. So we would, quite simply, blow the station to kingdom come. Oh, true, several hundred Bajorans and other life-forms—including you humans, I’m afraid—would die. But at least we’d be assured that the murderer had suffered as well.”

“That’s insane!” Sisko almost shouted, fighting to keep himself, and the situation, under control.

“Are you questioning my sanity, Commander?”

“I’m questioning your tactics. To ensure the death of one being, you’d slaughter hundreds of innocent people . . . ”

The moment the words were out of Sisko’s mouth, he knew exactly what Dukat was going to say. And he was right.

“Why, Commander!” said Dukat, twisting the knife. “I’m surprised at you. Don’t you know that in the real world, innocent people sometimes suffer? That’s a sad reality. You can’t interpret it as a personal assault.”

“Very funny, Commander,” said Sisko.

Dukat smiled thinly. “Notice, Commander . . . that I’m not laughing.”

The screen snapped off. Sisko sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

Dax stuck her head in. “Problem, Benjamin?”

“Don’t ask, old man,” said Sisko tiredly. “Don’t ask.”

 

Odo took a seat behind his desk and placed his hands flat on the desktop. “I’m willing to keep this matter between us, Doctor . . . but I do not need you making my job any harder than it already is. And it’s pretty miserable right now.” He shook his head. “I’ve got every available man combing every inch of this station—talking to people, running scans on inanimate objects to see if they have life readings, trying to detect the small expenditure of energy that might accompany sudden shapeshifting, in the same manner that I do . . . ”He paused, and then repeated bitterly, “In the same manner . . . ”

Bashir looked at him, full of curiosity. “Do you really think that this shapeshifter is just like you? I mean . . . one of your people?”

Odo leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “What do you know about me, Doctor?”

“Only what I’ve read in the files—how you were found, how you don’t have any idea where you come from, that sort of thing.”

“It is a rare occasion,” said Odo, “when you can read someone’s file and learn just as much about him from them as he knows about himself. That’s my whole life right there, Doctor. The facts in that file . . . and the duties of this job.” He looked despondent. “It would have to happen this way, wouldn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t what?”

Clearly Odo weighed answering the doctor. He wasn’t automatically inclined to, but he felt the need to vent his spleen to somebody. Kira was too hardened by a difficult life to be all that sympathetic, despite the occasional efforts she made. Sisko he still didn’t trust. Dax was a puzzle. O’Brien had been getting on his nerves lately. And Quark . . . 

“Don’t make me laugh,” he said bitterly. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s just that . . . well, it’s just my luck that I should finally encounter a creature that might be one of my own kind. I don’t know for sure that it is. There are other shapeshifting species in the galaxy. Perhaps it’s an offshoot from my people—presuming I have a people. As I said, I don’t know. But of all things, this possible first relative of mine turns out to be a psychopathic random killer. And I have absolutely no idea where to start looking for him. This station has thirty-five levels, Doctor. Its diameter is about one-point-four kilometers. And hidden somewhere in this maze is a being who—if it’s just like me—could be disguised as a stick of furniture or a discarded hatch . . . anything.”

Bashir nodded sympathetically. “It must be a very difficult situation to be in. Very frustrating.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Almost like . . . oh . . . Bashir made a tremendous show of giving it a great deal of thought. “Almost like, say . . . watching a boy die when you know that you could help him.”

Odo didn’t look remotely amused. “Some of us, Doctor, are able to put aside our personal feelings and do our jobs.”

“How fortunate for some of us,” said Bashir dryly.

“Security to Odo!” Meyer’s voice crackled over Odo’s comm badge.

“Odo here,” he said. He had a sick feeling he knew what Meyer was going to say.

“Cargo bay, level twenty-two, sir!”

He didn’t even have to ask. “I’m on my way.” He rose quickly and said to Bashir, “I have the unfortunate feeling that you’re going to be needed, Doctor.”

“I have the unfortunate feeling,” said Bashir, “that I’m going to be too late.”

 

“Juggling?” Sisko looked at Dax skeptically. “Now why in the world should I take up juggling?”

“You need something to relax you, Benjamin,” said Dax reasonably. “I heard Chief O’Brien mention it the other day.”

“But . . . juggling?” He shook his head. “I can’t see it. I’ve got my occasional baseball outings . . . ”

“Yes, yes, I know. Holosuite forays in which you bring up baseball greats and play against them. But there’s that sense of competition again. You should try to master something for the pure enjoyment of doing it. Also, juggling would suit your environment.”

“My environment?” He looked around. “Are you implying,” he said, “that this station resembles a circus?”

“No. You’re inferring that. I’m simply saying that a lot of things are happening right now. You have to deal with many disparate individuals and keep them all satisfied. In that respect—”

“I have to keep a lot of balls in the air at the same time.” He smiled slightly. “Interesting parallel, Dax. I’ll keep it in mind. Not too seriously in mind, of course. But—”

“Odo to Commander Sisko.”

He tapped his comm badge. “Sisko here, Constable.”

Odo was as terse as his own man had been earlier. “Cargo bay, level twenty-two.”

“On my way.”

 

People weren’t sure of her last name. Everyone had simply called her Old Kelsi. Speculation was that she had been called that since she was a teenager and had simply grown into the name.

Old Kelsi was the premier traffic manager in the bay area. She kept things moving, running smoothly. She had been there so long that there was open speculation that she predated the space station—that Deep Space Nine had, in fact, been built around her.

Need something moved? Run it past Kelsi.

Need something found? Ask Kelsi. It didn’t matter how fully loaded the bay area was or how many ships might be passing through at any given time. The Bajoran woman had an incredible gift for remembering precisely where everything was at any moment. She never even had to consult computer logs; she just knew. She was one of the few Bajorans for whom even the Cardassians had respect, because she didn’t react to them with hatred and contempt, as other Bajorans did. She seemed to be above politics—or perhaps she just didn’t give a damn about it. The cargo bay of Deep Space Nine was her entire reason for existence.

Granted, it wasn’t the most impressive of reasons, and certainly not one of the galaxy’s hot spots. But she had carved out her niche, and she held on to it like a pit bull.

And she had done her job more efficiently than anyone could ever have hoped.

She was one of the true Deep Space Nine mainstays. Many regarded her as a permanent part of the station.

And now she was.

Her lifeblood was smeared all over one of the inner bulkheads, an immutable part of the decor; repeated scrubbings would never fully manage to get it out. The rest of her had simply been torn apart. Not a scream had been heard out of her; something had smothered her so thoroughly that her final, hideous assault had not alerted a single one of the workers in the cargo bays.

The screams had come later, upon the discovery of her remains. One of the cargo workers had stumbled over her . . . literally. He had been rearranging things in a corner and had tripped over her leg, which was no longer affixed to the customary place on her body.

The rest of her was lying in something of a puddle. And smeared on the wall, unmistakably, was “#3.”

“Same as the others,” Bashir whispered, studying the readings off his tricorder.

Odo could barely contain his fury. “Comb the area,” he told his men. “I want this . . . this obscenity found, immediately.” He turned toward the security guards. “Everything is to be tested. Do you understand? I want every single molecule of this station checked out. Now move. Move!”

Several dockworkers were looking on in shock and horror, muttering to themselves, the pitch of their voices rising. Sisko turned to them and said, “All right, people. As you were.”

“As we were?” said one worker incredulously. But when he saw the look on Sisko’s face, he said nothing further.

“You realize, Sisko, that our problem has just gotten even worse,” Odo told him in a low voice. “At least the other murders were committed in private quarters, so that we managed to keep the details under wraps. But this . . . The particulars of this incident will spread like wildfire.”

“I know,” said Sisko grimly. “Believe me, I know.” He lowered his voice and said, “Are we any closer, Constable? Any closer to ending this?”

“No, but it will end, Sisko,” shot back Odo fiercely. “I will find the one who did this. That’s a certainty. Every passing second brings us closer to that moment.”

“I accept that, Constable,” Sisko told him. But his tone was grim. “I just hope that the reason it ends is not because the killer runs out of victims.”