Chapter Fourteen
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In Coral 44, Tate's former cabin into which Ziva has moved, when the expanded team has secured their charges in their guarded cabins, Gibbs turns his attention to the former Mossad Officer. "David, you and Palmer bring Paulsen to DiNozzo's cabin, then you two use Benoit's for Observation."

"Thank you," Jeanne says at the Team Leader's generosity.

"Go out on deck," he advises. "It's a nice day."

"Thank you, no. I'll go into Mazatlán." She looks up to Tony. "Call me if you want to join me." She wastes no time getting the head start she hadn't wanted when they'd made their Friday plans.

Tony says nothing for, in such a situation as this, nothing is the best thing to say. He can only hope this case can be wrapped up before Wednesday.

xx

When Judy Paulsen is escorted into Fiesta 105 and the women leave by the front door to enter cabin 109 where they can monitor through the ajar connecting door, the first thing on her mind is "I keep telling you 'I didn't do it'."

That's been the consensus since last night, though each of the Players has applied it to him- or herself.

"Have a seat."

There's little to avail herself of except the chair placed against the foot of the bed, no comfortable mattress as he'd allowed Tate. Gibbs places the other chair opposite her and DiNozzo and McGee take places at either side of the head of the bed, paired vultures unseen but very present, looming over the woman.

"Tell me about the Hannigan Players. How long have you been with them?"

"All five years, since we started. Only Ann and Pete were longer than me."

"Ann Stern and Peter Finch."

"Right. They were in it from Day 1. I was brought in within the first month."

"You like it?"

"What's not to like?" Paulsen asks. "I get paid to travel all over the country and perform original plays which we write ourselves. That's one of the rules, everyone has to contribute to the portfolio. I've written three."

"Murder mysteries?"

"Oh, no. Don't get the wrong idea about us. Two of mine were love stories, the other was a comedy. This, in fact, was the first murd–" She's battered hard, has to clamp her hand over her mouth to hold in the pain.

x

"Sorry," she manages to force out after half a minute, but keeps the clamp in place.

"It's okay. Murder is very emotional." She nods, but there's weakness in it. "What happened yesterday?"

She forces herself to lower her hand, but bitter pain remains. "We were supposed to put on Merry's Master's Piece. She dropped it off Friday night, really late. She'd had Writer's Block for weeks, but rather than being annoyed at the last minute change I was relieved."

"Why?"

"I was dreading doing it as it'd been written. That first draft was a mess, but the one we were doing was pretty good. Frankly I was amazed; it was like she'd met her Muse and had sex with it."

Tony casts a grin to Tim, but the writer puts up a wall to shut him out.

x

"So you had a new script," Gibbs prompts, ignoring the byplay behind the woman.

"I spent every minute late Friday night and all yesterday studying it, because I'd been cast as the murderer and had to build someone who was trying to fake that she didn't have a Russian accent. It's hard suppressing an accent that you don't have."

"So, what about the lights? Probably made it hard too."

"Very. But in theater like this you have to go with what you have. We wind up in all sorts of settings. I like a stage, but I'm told the ship only has the one Dale's Service was on, and that was way too small. But Merry set us in the midst, so in the midst we were."

"What was with the lights?" He dislikes asking a question twice and feels he's been doing more of it in this cruise than in the last dozen cases.

"That I didn't care for, but like I said, you have to go with what you have. I had to go, in pitch blackness, do the murder and get back to my seat. It should've gone off, even without Night Vision, but it didn't."

"Night vision?"

"We all have these goggles, they let us get on and off when the House Lights are off."

"So, what's the problem?"

"I couldn't bring mine," she says. "Couldn't use them."

"You were the 'murderer'," DiNozzo challenges from behind her, obliging Paulson to turn right, "had to get from your spot to Hannigan's and back, and you didn't use them?"

His interruption was calculated to throw Judy off by having her have to deal with an unexpected adversary from another direction.

"I had no place to put those whopping big things. I'm sure you have ones worthy of James Bond, but the ones we have are from real life and probably came from the Connery days. What was I going to do, stick them in my bra?"

She can have no idea what she's getting into by introducing film allusions to DiNozzo, but he keeps his focus. "Leave them right on the table, hide them under a napkin. No one else could see your table."

That's not quite true, the people on the surrounding upper platform, such as the Bronnes, could but he has no intention of helping her.

"I memorized where everything was. I was the only one who was supposed to be up. Actually, it'd have been simpler for Dale to cut her own throat and put the knife under the table; that's how I'd've done it had I been the Duchess, but the way those two are I doubt Merry trusted her."

x

"What about the fake knife?" Gibbs pulls her forward again, a re-distraction.

"That I had. When we packed it went into mytrunk and I made sure, when I got it back, that it was in there, filled and ready."

"Any doubt it would be?"

"Nope. Merry's good about that, very conscientious. She knew what props were needed by whom and made sure everything was right. But I'll tell you, it was a pain in the ass having to go for everything when we had to perform. I was glad the Captain said we each had to store our own property. Dale raised such holy hell you could hear her on shore, but I for one was glad."

"So you had the knife, not Tate."

"And I made sure that I had it on me every second."

"Right on the table?" DiNozzo asks.

"Nope," she turns back, gives him a very testing look. "That I did stick in my bra."

x

"So zero second comes," Gibbs says, less to keep the interview on track than to make sure whatever idea she's inspired doesn't go anywhere with the man, "the announcement is made and you had ten seconds left. What went wrong?"

"Harry stood up on time; he was supposed to defuse the argument. When Dale went off script I got confused. When she hit Merry I thought 'oh shit, we're screwed'. Visions of Law Suits, not sugar plums, danced through my head. Then the lights went out, I heard the scuffle and didn't know what to do. I figured all I could do was my job.

"I knew the play was shot to shit but if it could be fixed I had to be ready, so the fix wouldn't fall apart because of anything I did or didn't do."

"And what did you do?"

"Everything was confused. I pulled out the fake knife, really careful that it didn't bleed all over me, and went to where Dale was supposed to be, but of course she wasn't there. I knew I only had ten seconds after the announcement before the lights came up so I did what I was supposed to do, I put the knife under Dale's table and made certain the tablecloth hid it. The lights came on before I could get back to my chair - I'd bumped into someone who slowed me down - but Dale was on the floor, Merry was covered in her blood like Carrie at the Prom and I knew we were way up shit's creek."

"Who did you bump into?"

"I've no idea. The lights were off but when they came on no one was where I thought whoever it was would've been."

"Where's that?"

"Well, on my left. Whoever I bumped into, or who bumped into me, was on my left. I lost my balance, fell a bit to my right, but when the lights came on a couple of seconds later no one was there but Dale on the floor and Merry way off beyond her feet."

"Could it have been Tate?"

"I don't see how. She was too far away, beyond Dale. To get to me, then where she was when the lights came up, she'd have to step over Dale. Probably step in the blood."

There had been no track marks. They hadn't gotten that lucky. "Where was everyone else?" Much of that he has from the initial pictures Palmer had taken, but he wants her recollections as well.

She considers but "I'm sorry, it was too confused. When the lights came up the first thing I saw was Dale and the blood. I didn't see much else, just a lot of bodies standing around me. I think I screamed. I do remember saying that wasn't in the play."

xx

Siobhan and Vicki have carried the equipment used for the Service down to the Hold. "You didn't have to do this," Vicki says as they hang the vestments and place the equipment into boxes.

"Nonsense. Of course I do, if only to see it properly stored for its next use." There are some consecrated Eucharists back in their box; she's written an explanatory note to the next Cleric.

But as she closes the large storage box Vicki turns to her. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"I watched you before, and..."

"I hope I didn't do anything wrong," she quips.

"I wouldn't know if you did. You see, I don't go to Church much, because on Sundays we're usually at sea, like today, but I was wondering how you do it."

"Go to Church?" It's an intentional misunderstanding to give the woman time to get to an intelligible question. "I practically live there. In fact, for a long time I did."

"No, I mean I watched you. I was in charge of making sure there were enough copies of the Service for everyone, and before putting a set on every chair I know I put one on the table - the Altar - for you. I made double sure that I did."

"Ahhhh."

"You never used it. You never even opened it. You went through 17 pages, plus the Gospel, without even glancing at it. In fact you did quite a bit with your eyes closed. How?"

"A benefit of being blind."

x

Vicki stares at her eyes, but "Nooooooo."

"I was. I spent many years legally blind and getting worse by the month. I used to have to wear these glasses with Coke bottle lenses to keep from slamming into walls. And my doctor told me that eventually my sight would be completely gone. I'd have to conduct the Liturgy in Braille, if at all."

"Completely blind?"

"In less than a year beyond now. But I decided I couldn't stop serving as a Priest, so years ago I studied hard, very hard. I studied the Book of Common Prayer, the Bible, the Book of Occasional Services, everything I could until I could quote them backwards, at least the King James Version, which is my favorite. I was ready for what God intended for me, whatever that might be."

"But you can see." This isn't a case of a blind woman compensating phenomenally well.

"Yes, I can."

"What happened? A miracle?"

She carefully considers her answer. "Well, in the sense that God's hand was in it when He inspired men and women who devoted their lives to medicine just as I had to Service. Something happened on New Year's that turned my life completely upside down and as a result I found those people and fulfilled the plan God had for me, the one I couldn't see because of my second blindness."

"And what now?"

"Oh, I'm still blind. Not as much as before, not physically, not when God's light shows me the path He set, but occasionally blind still. As Saint Paul wrote: 'For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face'."

"So now you see clearly."

"But I still stumble, far more often than I'd like."

xx

"All right," Gibbs says when Ziva and Michelle return from escorting Paulsen to her cabin, "Tate looked like a very good suspect, too good to stand up under Rule 31. But if someone set her up, let's look at how they did it."

"She wrote the play, at least the parts McGhost didn't. The script had exactly when the lights would go out and how long they would be off."

"That was all my part. No planning on her part."

"She could have made herself the only obvious suspect," Ziva says, "believing we would reduce her likelihood of being a suspect because of Rule 31, though she of course could know nothing about it." All eyes turn to Tim.

"No, I didn't. Shav was the only one to mention it, and then only to me."

"Nonetheless," Ziva maintains, "we have reduced Tate's likelihood of being the killer for that very reason. As you said earlier, Gibbs, no one intentionally sets herself up as the only possible suspect when she's two hundred miles and twelve hours from a getaway."

x

"She had all the props," Tony continues, "including the fake knife until the Captain had it all spread out. And she knew they would be spread out once McGee went to the Captain. Whoever did it probably intended to substitute the fake for real one, then it would have been Paulsen who killed Hannigan and the blame would fall, if not on Paulsen, then back to Tate."

"I doubt she could be sure the trunks would be spread out," McGee counters. "Granted we might have gone to Stubing and he might have taken action, but would you base a plot on two 'might haves'?"

Michelle also considers that "She was brutalized since the beginning, or so she says, which makes revenge a credible motive."

"The final public assault set her off," Ziva says, "and those seconds led to such confusion that the Bronnes thought she had the knife in her hand when the lights went out."

"BUT," Tony brings it home, "the angle the blade was held in is less than the upward one a smaller person would hold it in from the front, and Tate was a head shorter than Hannigan. If she didn't do it," he pauses to look for a dissenting opinion, "then someone standing behind Hannigan who knew left handed Tate would attack her did it." Gibbs' rising hand makes a firm contact. "Thank you, boss."

This one is for introducing a false assumption which can cloud the logic of the trail. He'd gotten away with the long reach before but wasn't going to survive this. "No one knew Hannigan was going to punch Tate, possibly not even Hannigan until she did it - though she might've had it planned from the top. Everything was confused. But Paulsen was supposed to slit her throat with the fake knife."

"Fake knife to real knife," Tim says. "Are we looking at the wrong fall woman?"

"No," Gibbs decides. "If Paulsen used the wrong knife, she'd've had it in her bra."

"There's no edge or point on the fake," Abby says. "I'm pretty sure she'd notice."

"Who knew there's a real knife?" Tony asks, mentally applauding Abby's talent for understatement. "Whoever did it probably, but not certainly, didn't know where Paulsen would keep the fake. But somebody plans on doing the old switcheroo to get Paulsen to do the deed for the killer. By the time anyone knows Hannigan's not playing possum, it's too late."

Michelle shakes her head. "But Paulsen has the fake with her since she got her trunk back, and on her every second at dinner. There was no opportunity to make the switch. When the murder time comes and the lights are out for the longest time, no one's in position."

"Plus, it takes only a few ounces of pressure on the fake blade to release the faux blood from the reservoir," Abby reminds them, scuttling the entire premise, "but several pounds of pressure to slit someone's throat."

Tony gives her an 'and you let us go through all that?' look. "So where does this leave us, boss?"

"Doing more interrogations. DiNozzo, bring Maxwell in. Let's see how good a detective he is."

xx

Dr. Jeanne Benoit, rather than going alone to Mazatlán as she'd announced, had confirmed with Dr. Palmer that he's finished with such an autopsy as can be done on the ship and when she'd left the agents he'd made his final report. Now, more alone than if she'd gone into the Mexican attraction, she steps out onto the nearly deserted Sun deck, yet the clover pool holds no draw for her. It's no fun to put on a bikini, and working on her tan holds no appeal, when the only one she's interested in looking isn't here to do so.

She does see two familiar people with Isaac Washington at his bar, the Cruise Director and her own counterpart. She supposes that when you've seen Mazatlán two hundred fifty times, you've seen it three hundred.

As she approaches, she sees Bricker's eyes alight with far more than recognition. She'd recognized him as the ship's Lothario within seconds of their first meeting.

"Hello, Doctor," Julie says.

"Good afternoon," Bricker says in what she's sure he considers a suave tone. The fact that he's right doesn't help. In fact, she's sure he's had more than plenty of practice.

"Can I get you something?" Isaac offers.

She tries to keep her lips from giving her away. She's in a mood and will ask for something no one ever has. "How about a Hairy Hangover?"

"Coming right up." He starts pulling the requisite ingredients from the shelves under the bar.

"Wait a minute. You actually know what a Hairy Hangover is?"

"Sure. I know every drink in existence and a few that aren't."

"Hmmm. Lay it on me." The concoction was created by Tony's partner for his second novel, Rock Hollow. Washington had probably looked it up when he'd learned the drink's creator is aboard. She realizes she could have asked for Elves' Mead from his third book, but she's no longer in the mood to trip the man up.

Besides, though McGee hadn't included a formula for that one, the man may be able to make it and then she'd be stuck. All the writer had said about it is that it's like being at the siege of a castle and the north wall falls on your head.

When the glass is put before her, she picks it up and sips cautiously. "Ackk! That is the hairiest hangover I've ever tasted."

Truthfully she never has, but she feels she should let the others know about this.

x

"So," Julie says, "it's at this point I'd ask how you're enjoying the cruise, to see what more I need to do."

"Well, Tony's sequestered with his team interrogating suspects, the autopsy's done - the cause of death, and manner, and mechanism, were obvious within two seconds - and they're using my cabin for the interrogations."

"That's not nice," Julie says.

"So I'm up here."

"We cannot have that," Bricker declares, Cyrano and Don Juan moving in for the thrill. "Would you like to join me for a tour of Mazatlán?"

Maybe the hangover is hairier than she'd thought but she steps down from the stool. "Why not?"

"Maybe you and I could also discuss Comparative Anatomy."

He's already doing an in depth study of hers and she knows whose he wants to compare it to. 'Smooth. But I've heard worse.' She smiles and takes the glass with her.

xx

Charles Maxwell, the detective who so generously gave up his dinner table last evening, now faces real life detectives and is considerably worse for the experience. The first time he'd seen these people they'd pulled out badges and issued orders, and since then they've been in charge of himself and the other Players, keeping them trapped other than for Dale's Religious Service. This time, when the younger Agent came and got him, he'd had even less hope.

"How long have you been acting with the Players?" the older man asks.

"Three years."

"You like it?"

He takes a breath, holds it, eases it out. "Well, let's say I like Dramatic Theater but I could've done without the drama."

"How so?"

"Dale Hannigan came with a lot of baggage."

Behind Maxwell, Gibbs sees DiNozzo and McGee exchange looks. They know where both the physical and emotional baggage wound up.

x

"Tell us about it." This is the period of getting to know the subject, to get a handle on him so they can move on to the things more likely to be lied about.

"There's not all that much to tell, and I don't believe in speaking ill of the dead, no matter how much I'll say about the living."

"Then let's talk about last night."

"What about it?"

"There was a lot of action with the lights, but all nine of you were on the floor."

"That was my job," Maxwell says. "I got together earlier with the Head Electrician, we worked out how it was to be done. At the bar is the Master switch and also a slide bar. He watched me, and when I moved my left hand in any way he killed the lights for a set amount of time, then used the bar to ease them up again. This way he didn't need to follow the script, just to know the right number of seconds for each blackout."

"It was your voice in the announcement."

"Bow tie radio mike, and on the last time the slide was used so power stayed on for the speakers. The ladies have microphones sewn into the collars of their dresses. I dropped my voice down and used a Midwestern accent so no one would recognize it from when I gave up my seat. At least no one was supposed to."

Gibbs gives him a 'what can you do?' shrug. He'd recognized it because a disguised voice usually gives itself away as such and he'd paid closer attention than the average viewer would have.

x

"So what went wrong?"

"I couldn't believe it. Dale, after the foghorn line, was supposed to be talked down by Harry, but she threw in the line about – well, you heard it. For an instant I thought she changed the script and I didn't get the new pages, but that was for only an instant. Merry was caught flat footed and tried to improvise. I think she would've been able to bring things back on track - Harry should've jumped in then - but Dale hauled off and belted her and I knew all Hell was out for noon festivities. When I saw Merry bleeding I realized I hadn't realized how badly fucked we were.

"I killed the lights, hoping the others would be able to pull them apart, maybe get Dale down and we could go on. We'd have to Improv like hell but I figured we'd be able to pull it together. I gave the announcement, which was to tell everyone the lights would come up in ten seconds.

"When the Electrician raised them and I saw from the bar that Dale was on the floor my first thought was 'yes, maybe we can pull it off'. The script called for her to be in her chair, but six of one, half dozen of another. I knew we could do it. It wasn't the first time things had gone to pieces and we put them back together." He looks from one agent to the other and raises his hands in a helpless gesture. "Then Erica screamed, Mike called for a doctor, Judy hollered that this wasn't part of the play, I saw the blood spreading and knew we were done."