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From: MShuchat@aol.com
To: jfy@cis.ksu.edu
Subject: Murder One part 3 (for alt.startrek.creative)
Date: Mon, 01 Aug 94 10:18:10 EDT
Status: RO

 "It was a d'k'tahg - a Klingon ceremonial knife," Bashir reported in
Sisko's office, in front of the commander, Kira, O'Brien, Dax and Odo.
 "Are you absolutely certain?" asked Sisko quietly.
 "Yes, sir," nodded Bashir. "The wound made from such a weapon is very
distinctive. The way it works is that once the knife is inserted into the
flesh, other, smaller blades spring out from the sides." He moved his hands
to illustrate. "When the knife is pulled out, the smaller blades grab hold
of whatever organs happen to be in the way and pull them out as well."
Thankfully, he did not illustrate this.
 "Do you think that someone off the Gowron killed Jarvis?" asked Kira.
 "I suppose it's possible," the doctor said thoughtfully. "The only other
Klingon on the station is the one who runs the Klingon food kiosk on the
Promenade. Personally, I find it difficult to believe he could be capable
of murder."
 "Capability has nothing to do with it," said Odo gravely. "There were at
least seven witnesses who saw him in the booth at the time of the murder.
He is not a suspect."
 "Could someone else have gotten hold of the knife and killed Jarvis in
such a way as to put blame on the Klingons?" asked Dax.
 "No," Odo said firmly. "I know of every single weapon on this station. No
one owns a knife like the one the doctor described."
 "It does sound like the Klingons are the prime suspects," O'Brien said.
 "Leave the detective work to me, Chief," said Odo.
 "People, please," said Sisko. "No squabbling until after we catch the
murderer."
 The attempt at levity helped to ease the tension in the office.
 "Now, when did Jarvis die?" asked Sisko.
 "She died at 0930, plus or minus about fifteen minutes," Bashir replied.
 "Very well," said Odo as if the minor confrontation had not occurred at
all, "I will question every Klingon who was not definitely fixed as being
on the Gowron at the time."
 Sisko nodded. "I'll tell Captain Krinoth, but I don't think he'll like
it."

 "This is an outrage!" Krinoth shouted in a voice that echoed around Ops.
"You cannot believe that a Klingon committed this crime."
 "I'm saying that it's a possibility," Sisko said calmly in his office,
with Odo there as a minor reminder of just who was in charge. "Dr. Bashir
has determined that a d'k'tahg was the murder weapon. Since no knives of
that sort are owned by anyone on the station, we must consider the
possibility that one of your crew is the killer."
 "This is a conspiracy," Krinoth growled. "The Cardassians have been trying
to wreck the alliance with the Federation for years." He pushed his face to
within a few inches of Sisko's. "How do I know that you are not lying?"
 "You don't," replied Sisko coldly. "You have only my word to go on."
 The Klingon was not impressed.
 "Besides," Sisko continued, "if you refuse to allow us to speak to your
crew, then I must conclude not only that someone on your ship is guilty,
but that you know who it is and are covering for him."
 The temperature began to rise in the office as Krinoth became more and
more angry. Odo tensed slightly as it looked as if the Klingon captain
might try something. But the danger passed as Krinoth realized the trap
Sisko had cleverly laid for him and that he had walked straight into. If he
refused to allow the questionings out of pride, then he would already have
a strike against him.
 "Very well," he said abruptly. "Besides, I know that none of my people
could have done this - dishonorable crime."

 Bashir returned to his office in the infirmary and dropped into the desk
chair, allowing himself to sag onto the desk. Since coming to the station,
he had dealt with more than his share of murders, usually committed by the
scum of the sector. Many of them were believed to be connected to Quark,
but the Ferengi was either totally innocent of any wrongdoing (and if you
believe that, Julian, he thought with a sort of desperate humor, have I got
a bridge to sell you) or so good at covering his tracks that even Odo
hadn't been able to figure him out.
 But this one was different. A phrase from an old mystery novel he read
years ago returned to him in that odd way memories did - a locked room
mystery. The way he remembered it, the scenario concerned a dead body in a
room in which all the windows and doors were locked from the inside. Of
course, the dashing, debonair detective always managed to solve the puzzle
and finger the killer by the last chapter, which didn't particularly help
in a real locked room mystery. Besides, all mystery writers cheated, Bashir
thought; they always held back the once clue you needed to solve the
mystery on your own.
 "Hell with it," he said aloud. "I need a drink."
 So he went to Quark's.

 Sub-Commander K'tork was proving no easier to question than any of the
other twenty-six Klingons Odo had questioned that day. If it were up to
him, he would gladly tell the whole shipload of them to get the hell off
his station. However, he knew that Sisko would have his head if he even
thought of doing something like that.
 Not that having the head of a shape-shifter would do much good. He could
always grow another one.
 Odo returned his attention to K'tork long enough to note that the Klingon
was at last starting to wind down from his tirade. By believing that K'tork
might have in any way been connected with the Jarvis murder, it appeared
that Odo had not only insulted him, but his father, his sons, his entire
family and, in fact, most of the Klingon Empire. Odo could live with being
rebuffed in this manner, but what he found intolerable was that the Klingon
was taking so blasted long to make his point.
 "Besides," said K'tork.
 Finally, thought Odo.
 "I wasn't even on the station at 0930."
 "Where were you at 0930?"
 "I was on the Gowron, supervising the dilithium recharge sequence in the
engineering section."
 Odo glanced at the Gowron's crew locations at 0930. Sure enough, one
Sub-Commander K'tork had been logged as being in engineering on the Gowron.
"Why didn't you tell me this when we started?"
 "And let an insult like this go unanswered?" K'tork shot back, and Odo
could feel another tirade coming on.
 "Thank you, Sub-Commander," the security chief said wearily as he
scrambled to keep K'tork from starting all over again. "You can go now."
 The Klingon sniffed and stalked out of Odo's office. Odo himself looked
with longing at his bucket. Twenty-seven interviews with twenty-seven
Klingons who all had twenty-seven extremely long things to say about him
and his (apparently dubious) parentage were enough to take the spring out
of anyone.
 Just an hour or two, thought Odo as he let his pseudo-human form dissolve
into the puddle of shape-shifting goo which then flowed into the bucket.
Then I can get back at it.
 It was three hours later that Odo went to Sisko's office and reported that
the Klingon theory had officially gone nowhere. All of the Gowron's crew
were either on their ship at the time or had unbreakable alibis. They were
back at the beginning.

 Bashir stepped into Quark's establishment (everybody comes to Quark's, he
thought wryly) and looked for somewhere to unwind. Then he saw Garak
sitting at a table and beckoning to him.
 Sidling through the crowd, Bashir joined Deep Space Nine's only permanent
Cardassian resident. Garak owned a small clothing shop on the Promenade,
and his tailoring skills were second to none; neither was his unerring
sense of fashion. What Garak actually was had been a matter of sometimes
heated debate ever since the Cardassians had abandoned the station to the
tender mercies of the Federation more than a year earlier.
 Some were absolutely convinced that Garak had been left behind as a spy to
keep an eye on the station and report back from time to time to the Central
Command on Cardassia Prime. Others were just as convinced that Garak had
been left behind in disgrace in response to some real or imagined
transgression to live out the rest of his life on the station. But no one
could deny that Garak was, when he wanted to be, a veritable fountain of
useful information. Soon after the Cardassian withdrawal, he had proved his
worth by derailing a plan by the Klingon family of Duras to ship weapons to
a band of anti-Cardassian terrorists.
 Since then, he had lived relatively quietly, outfitting the station's
residents (he had even done up a casual suit for Bashir some months
earlier) and making cryptic comments from time to time. The two of them
made a hobby out of meeting for lunch at Quark's, but Bashir had often
wandered in for a drink or something to find Garak there anyway.
 "Terrible thing, this Jarvis business," Garak said sympathetically after
Bashir had ordered his favorite drink - a Virgin Mary.
 "How much do you know about the murder?" asked Bashir, getting right down
to business.
 "Only what you know, my friend. I understand she was not well liked?"
 "You understand correctly," Bashir confirmed. He briefly filled in the
Cardassian on what they knew of Jarvis' exploits.
 "Her reputation has even extended so far as to be heard on Cardassia
Prime," said Garak. "She sounded like a perfectly dreadful woman, but she
certainly did not deserve this."
 "Nobody deserved that," Bashir replied sourly. "What do you think?"
 "I," said Garak thoughtfully, "would see if anyone on the station had any
past associations with her."
 "You mean someone deliberately targeted her as opposed to a random
killing? Yes, we thought of that as well. The problem is that Jarvis lived
in a world that is rather hard to keep track of." Bashir sipped his drink
and felt his taste buds tingle at the sharp flavor. "If anyone on the
station knew her before the murder, they won't talk. She ruined a lot of
lives."
 "Nevertheless, Julian," Garak said, "I would keep it in mind. You never
know what might turn up." His face lit up as he saw someone. "Mr. DiFusco!
You never came by for that fitting!" As he got up, he muttered, "Excuse
me," and was gone.
 Bashir blinked in surprise at the rapid exit and took a long swallow of
his drink.

 Late that night, Bashir slept. It had been a horrible evening, one he
would much rather forget.
 He had brooded on the Jarvis case for most of the day and all of the
evening. He didn't know why, but he was sure that he had missed something
in the autopsy. He had spent several hours in the infirmary, checking and
rechecking the autopsy results. He had even done the autopsy again - twice
- but had found nothing.
 It was driving him nuts.
 To make matters worse, his scheduled date with Marsha Ruzhnikov, a
particularly cute ensign from Odo's security squad, was a washout. He had
been trying to get a date with her for weeks, and she finally agreed.
 He had almost forgotten about the date entirely and worked straight
through it in the infirmary, except that he had thoughtfully programmed the
computer to remind him about it. Barely managing to tear himself away from
his work, he made it to the Promenade just in time to meet her.
 They had a very nice dinner. Just for the hell of it, they decided to
sample the cuisine offered by the Klingon restaurant. Both passed on the
live serpent worms, protesting that humans liked their food to be dead
before they ate it (the Klingon now thought all humans were culinary
Neanderthals) but enjoyed something with a very long name and great taste.
 Unfortunately, he had been a terrible dinner companion. More than once,
Marsha had prodded him with a fork when he was thinking too hard about what
it was that he had missed. As the evening mercifully drew to a close, they
had made their polite good-byes and parted. Marsha absolutely certain that
the infamous Don Juan she had just spent the evening with was either
secretly impotent or gay.
 So Bashir went to bed alone that night and slept fitfully.
 Until he sat straight up in bed, wide awake. "Computer, lights!" he
shouted.
 The computer obediently turned on the lights, and he hopped around his
quarters, struggling into his uniform. He was grinning like a fool, with a
look on his face that would have caused most people to run for the hills.
 He knew what it was that he had missed.
 After what seemed like far too long a time, he finally got dressed and
tore out of the infirmary at a dead run.

 Crewman David Jones sighed and went on to another screen of his novel as
he glanced at the clock. 0356. By any stretch of the imagination, a
particularly godless hour.
 The daily schedule of Deep Space Nine was divided into three work shifts.
Alpha Shift worked from 0700 to 1500, Beta Shift went from 1500 to 2300 and
Gamma Shift toiled from 1500 to 0700. Gamma Shift was known as the
graveyard shift.
 Nothing happened during the graveyard shift, and Bashir's medtechs knew
it. When the system had been set up shortly after the Federation takeover
of the station, there had been an active market in shift assignments, with
Alpha shifts going for the highest price while you could barely give away
graveyard shifts.
 Finally, Bashir stepped in and put a stop to it. He told his people to
draw straws as a way of determining who got what shift. He didn't really
care who got what shift, as long as the work got done and got done well.
 It was not unusual to work an entire week on graveyard with nothing
happening whatsoever. That was why Jones was surprised when Bashir barreled
into the infirmary as if he were being chased by a horde of rabid
Cardassians and Romulans, all howling for his blood.
 "Doctor," said Jones, "is there anything wrong?"
 Bashir caught his breath and waved at the monitor screens. "Call up...the
results of...Jarvis' original autopsy," he gasped. "Contaminants in the
wound."
 Jones, perplexed, did as he was told. Bashir looked over his shoulder as
nodded in increasing excitement until it looked like his head was about to
fly off his shoulders. "Yes," he murmured, "yes, yes, yes! Thank you,
Crewman." As suddenly as he had come, he headed for the door.
 "Doctor," Jones called after him, "did you find what you were looking
for?"
 "No!" Bashir called over his shoulder as he vanished down the hallway.

 "Deborah Jarvis was not killed by a d'k'tahg," Bashir announced the next
morning in Sisko's office.
 Sisko, Kira, O'Brien and Dax all blinked. If Odo could have blinked, he
would have. "Why do you say that, Doctor?" asked Sisko mildly.
 "Because," the doctor said triumphantly, "there was no trace of the knife
in the wound. It was driving me insane all day yesterday, but I didn't
really see it until last night." His enthusiasm heightened as he explained.
"The d'k'tahg always has a few tiny particles flake off when it's used to
stab someone. If Jarvis had really been stabbed by a knife, there would
have been some particles found in the wound. Even if it's only a molecule
or two, the scanners would have found it."
 "So what you're saying," said Kira slowly, "is that..."
 "Is that the holosuite was programmed to attack and kill her with a
holographic d'k'tahg," finished Bashir.
 "That would require overriding the mortality fail-safe," said O'Brien.
 "How difficult is that?" asked Odo.
 "Not difficult at all," answered Dax, "if you know the proper programming
codes."
 "I've seen several articles on it in the Starfleet Journal of Holography,"
said O'Brien.
 "How many people on the station would have the experience necessary to
reprogram the holosuite?" asked Sisko.
 "Not many," said O'Brien. "I'll take a look at the suite's programming to
see if the killer left any traces."
 "In the meantime," rumbled Sisko, "I'm ordering all the suites closed
indefinitely. If Quark doesn't like it, that's his problem; I'm not leaving
the possibility of someone else being turned against by a hologram."

 "Someone reprogrammed one of my holosuites?" asked Quark, aghast.
 "It looks like it," said Odo, talking to the Ferengi in his security
office.
 Quark sank into a chair, pale. "I assure you, Odo, I had nothing to do
with this."
 "I know."
 Quark stopped in his tracks. "You know?"
 "Yes."
 "Why?"
 "Because," said Odo, "while you are a thief, a liar and a coward, you are
not a killer."
 "Gee, thanks. Quite a compliment."
 Odo leaned forward over his desk. "But if you know anything about this
case - anything at all - that can help catch this killer, I might be
inclined to look the other way on this Denebian jewel deal you're working
on."
 Quark immediately became defensive. "What Denebian jewel deal?"
 "Oh, come now, Quark," said Odo as to a child who, when caught surrounded
by cookie crumbs and a shattered cookie pot, insists that the house was
invaded by drug-crazed terrorists who wanted to get high on the cookies,
"you can't possibly believe that there is a single crooked deal you have
going that I don't know about. Not after all the time we've known each
other."
 As much as he hated to admit it, Quark realized that Odo did in fact have
a point. But even to catch a killer, when he was about to do went against
his better judgment.
 "I have -" His voice caught in his throat.
 "What do you have?" asked Odo.
 Quark cleared his throat. "I have a time-stamped recording of everything
that goes on in the holosuites or in the holosuite corridor."
 Odo nodded and snorted. "For blackmail purposes, no doubt. I want to see
the recordings of everything that happened between 0830 and 1030
yesterday."
 "You'll have them," said Quark as he got up to leave.
 "And Quark?"
 "Yes?" asked the Ferengi, turning in the doorway.
 "I want the recording system dismantled. Now. And I also want all of the
recordings you've made with the system."
 Quark's eyes bugged out. "Odo, without that system, I would have nothing
to give you on all the criminal types who meet in my place."
 Odo's eyes told the Ferengi that he wasn't buying it.
 "Then again," Quark quickly backtracked, "maybe I should take the system
apart."
 "Good decision," Odo deadpanned. "Remarkably like the one I would have
made."
 "I'll do that now," said Quark as he almost fled the office.
 Odo leaned back and actually smiled. "I love it when I do that."