Chapter Six
Painful Answers
Malcolm Reed walked the length, breadth and depth of Enterprise for almost four hours in such a black abstraction that anyone who saw him gave him a very wide berth indeed, avoiding him as far as the corridors allowed. He did not know how long it was before he found himself again on D Deck, for the last of an unknown number of times, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and stresses. It was with some surprise that he discovered his undirected feet had led him to a stop in front of Patricia McCabe's quarters. Taking it as serendipity, or at least his mind working on a level below his willing consciousness, he tried to bury his feelings, to push back the memories, and finally pressed the annunciation button. A few seconds later the door slid open.
He had expected to see her as he had every moment of the previous day, dressed in her Clerical 'uniform' of royal blue shirt with white collar and black trousers. He was surprised to see her wearing a medium length yellow dress. For a moment he was stopped, unable to speak. Seeing her like this, it was as if the past few years had not happened.
He thought, somewhat irrelevantly, that the dress seemed to go well with her long chestnut hair before he caught himself, reprimanding himself for such thoughts.
"Yes?" She asked after a few seconds.
"I – I'm sorry; I didn't mean to stare. It's just, well, a bit unexpected."
"Do you like it?" She asked softly, hoping that now he might be a bit less uncomfortable than he'd been the previous night.
"Yes. You, well, you look … like a woman." As soon as the words were out of his mouth he could tell in her slowly parting lips, in the change in her eyes, in the subtle change in her body as she stood there, just how monumentally stupid he'd been.
"Oh."
"I – I mean-!"
She backed in, stepping aside, her emotions closed off. "Won't you come in?"
Rather than say anything as stupid again, he accepted her invitation, trying to keep his own mask in place.
When he was in, the first thing he did was glance about, taking in the entire room, as was usual for him, the behavior ingrained into him and every other Security Officer he'd ever known. He noticed, for instance, the closet standing open. The left side held 9 royal blue shirts with white collars, black trousers hanging down from within. The right side was given over to more secular clothing. The left side contained considerably more garments.
He turned to her with a small smile. "Looks rather like my closet."
"I dare say. We each have our 'uniforms'." The coolness, the careful reserve of her tone, got his attention better than any other. "Are you going to question me further now? I'd give you answers if I had them."
"I'm not here to question you. I'm … I'm here to…" He knew what he wanted. Why did the words just trail off before they got to his tongue?
"To what, Malcolm?" She asked in that same carefully reserved tone. "Please, tell me. Because I've had my heart torn out of my chest three times already. I don't think I'm ready for a fourth."
"I'm not here to hurt you. Neither of us wants to hurt the other."
"No, we don't." He started to look past her. "I didn't kill him, Malki."
He stopped, looking at her intently. "I know you didn't."
"Then why are you here? Are you Lieutenant Reed right now, or are you Malki?" For an instant, she realized she could see through his mask. She didn't want it to come back. "You see, I've lost a very good friend, and I'm not sure if you can tell that but it really hurts. I remember there was a time when you would come over to comfort me." She tried very hard to keep her voice steady.
He started to answer, but could not think of anything to say.
"It took hours to get a 'hello' from you. Now I'm really having a bad day, and I'm not sure just how much more I can take. My friend is dead and they think I did it. I'm alone among strangers, really miserable and depressed. I had hoped for your understanding." She allowed the imploring she felt into her tone, trying very hard and failing to keep the tears she felt from her eyes, but feeling her voice break. "If it's a struggle to get a 'hello' from you, just what would it take to get a hug?"
He stepped over to her and took her in his arms, but he still could not let himself relax. Though she wore a yellow dress, he could not get the Clerical attire out of his mind. That was the image that was the real Patricia McCabe for him now. After a few moments together, she could no longer bear his tension and stiffness: "This is worse than nothing."
"I sorry."
"I remember what it was like in your arms. I've dreamt about it for –." He let her go, pulling away. "I'm sorry."
He turned from her, taking a step away. In the small room, it was like a kilometer. She brushed her eyes, her hands coming away moist. "God, Malcolm, what's become of us?"
"I just… I don't know."
"Well, will you answer me one question? Just one? And all I want is a simple 'yes' or 'no' Nothing elaborate, nothing else. Please, just a 'yes' or 'no'."
"What is it?"
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
x
Patricia McCabe could not believe how much tension, how much heartache, vanished at hearing that word. It was like stepping from Hell into Heaven in one moment. "You do love me?"
"Yes, I love you." She started to rush into his arms. "But it's wrong."
She froze, barely a step taken, feeling as if he'd punched her in the stomach. "Wrong? Why?"
"Because … because we can't be together. Not that way. It'll only hurt us."
He'd added a slap to that punch. Desperately she prayed for the words to say to make it all different.
"Malcolm, if yesterday I boarded this ship looking like I do now, and you did not see me in my raiment until this minute, would it have been different?"
"Yes."
"But you've seen me on Earth in virtually everything there is, over more than twenty years. And you saw me out of a lot of things too. In all that, in all this time, you've known my heart. You've known the real me."
She saw in his face, that face she had learned to read so well, that he was not denying her words. But she could also see the conflict within him. And she knew she had pushed as far as she could. "Malcolm, please do me one favor? Don't answer. Just think about it, okay? Just think about it?"
"Okay."
x
But in the silence that ensued, he realized he had no idea what there was left to say. Finally, looking at her in the pale yellow dress, he had an idea. "Would you like some dinner?" She was so deeply surprised at this turn that she stared at him, unable to know what to say.
"Dinner?"
"It's nearly 2000 hours. I just thought you might be hungry."
She smiled, amazed that she could. "Malki Reed, are you asking me out?"
"I guess I am." She was about to accept until she remembered. The dress might be good for the privacy of her quarters, but if she was going out in public, there were the standards of her profession to be observed. And yet;
"I don't want to change."
"I wish you wouldn't."
She smiled, casting off expectations in favor of seeing the chance to get her life back into some kind of control, or at least back to where she so desperately needed it to be.. "In that case, I'd love some dinner."
xxx
Within the hour, Archer and Tucker were back in Sick Bay, receiving from Phlox what was interesting news indeed.
"Forensic tests on the knife turned up some interesting things." The Denobulan reported. "It is indeed a common knife from the Mess Hall. Chef takes very good care of them, cleaning them, sharpening as needed. However, it takes extraordinary measures to completely remove DNA and other traces, even from metal." He realized he was starting to sound like an instructor in a lecture hall, but once begun he found he was on a 'roll'.
"There are certain chemicals not normally used in the cleansing of silverware, such as bleach, that would do it, but on the whole neither fingerprints nor DNA are completely eradicated by ordinary methods, except by many repetitions of those methods. For instance, Security has identified seven sets of superimposed fingerprints of people who used the knife, and traces of eleven others, including you, Captain."
"Who's were the most recent prints?"
"Now that was interesting. They were Father Pineda's own."
"All right, let's assume he was not asleep, that he at least tried to prevent himself being stabbed or try to pull the knife out. If so, how much time would he have?" Phlox shook his head.
"Not long at all. The blade severed the aorta; loss of blood pressure to the brain would have been immediate and catastrophic. He'd have been unconscious in less than three seconds."
"Time enough to grab the handle, but nothing more?" Phlox shrugged; a casting of arms from his sides.
"I suppose so."
"All right, that explains his prints. Maybe." Archer concluded with that proviso. None of the 'evidence' thus far had pointed in the directions that they'd expected. "Whose prints and traces do his superimpose?"
"Crewman Mark Gallagher." Phlox reported evenly.
Trip shook his head. "Mark was on duty in Engineering, Gamma shift. He and Ensign Watkins were together. I've already talked to them."
"Talk to Watkins again. Was Gallagher in his sight all during the time from 0200 to 0230?"
"Aye, sir."
"Were Mother McCabe's prints or DNA on it?"
"No."
Archer realized he was actually relieved. He hadn't believed they would be; had not really wanted to. It was good to be reassured. At least there was one piece of 'good news'. "All right, go over that knife again." He told Phlox. "It's our only real piece of evidence. I want it to be able to stand up and sing by the time we're done."
"Yes, sir."
xxx
It was 2200, two hours before the start of Gamma Shift, when Crewmen Watkins and Gallagher reported to their Commander in Engineering. He knew he could have sent for them at any time and they would have reported, but to rouse them from sleep would not be part of the casual tone he'd intended to establish. He hoped that, the more normal he acted, but more at ease the men would be and the more revealing their responses would be.
But within about a minute, he had changed his mind. Sometimes the direct approach was the best one. "Gentlemen, you were both on duty here last evening."
"Yes, sir." Watkins answered.
"Did either of you leave Engineering, for any reason at all, between 0200 and 0230?"
"No, sir." Gallagher replied.
Looking into the man's eyes, Tucker hid a satisfied smile. Gallagher was his absolute favorite across the poker table; and not simply because the other did not know how to play. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, Gallagher's were as revealing as the bay windows in a department store.
Further, he had not needed to depend on either of their testimonies. The computer log reported that the two had been going through the lengthy checklist of all the department's systems. This 'checklist' was a visual and hands-on confirmation of the system diagnostics, and usually took two people about two hours to complete. Last night it had taken two hours, nineteen minutes, with three anomalies located and adjusted.
"Mark, when was the last time you were in the Mess Hall?"
"Last evening at dinner, about 23:40." Tucker looked at him curiously.
"You had dinner at 23:40?"
"Well, technically, it was breakfast. It was Sue Harrison's dinner."
"Ah."
"Sir," Gallagher asked, concerned, "you don't think that either of us –?" Tucker held up his hand.
"We're checking everyone, Mark."
"Yes, sir."
"Someone on this ship seems to have known Fr. Pineda and had a reason to kill him. And we'll find that person."
"Sir, who could kill a Priest?" Watkins' tone showed that, even hours after the fact, it was still so appalling as to be unimaginable to the man.
"We're going to find out." Tucker assured him.
x
He wished, however, that he himself could be as assured. As disturbing as the thought was that someone capable of murder was serving with them, someone he had doubtlessly worked shoulder-to-shoulder with as a comrade or a friend, there was a worse thought cropping up.
Reed and his Security Force, Archer and T'Pol, Phlox and he, along with others had, systematically, been eliminating one potential suspect after another. Despite Malcolm's testimony, with the possible exception of Mother Patricia McCabe, there was virtually no one left.
xxx
Malcolm Reed was sitting in the dimly lit Mess Hall, the lighting all over the ship slightly reduced for the ship's 'night'. It was 23:30 hours, and Gamma shift was just finishing up their 'breakfasts' preparatory to going on duty. The room was not crowded, but he and McCabe were not alone either.
Malcolm found that, if he pushed his reserve and concerns down hard enough, often enough, he could actually force himself to forget his tensions long enough to have a good time. Every time they crept up, he would 'remind' himself that he was having dinner with an exceptionally beautiful woman who was an old and dear friend, and he could make himself forget his reservations.
In fact, he realized with a full measure of surprise, he had forgotten them for over three hours!
This lasted right up until the time that a young man approached the table. "Begging your pardon, sir?"
"Yes?" Reed tried to keep a casual tone, to keep behind the mask what he thought of the interruption, polite though it had been.
"Sir…" He looked at Patricia. "Ma'am, am I right that you are one of the Priests who came aboard yesterday?"
She nodded, extending her hand. "Patricia McCabe."
He took it. "Tim Anopoli, Computer Control. I just wanted to extend my condolences. I imagine it was quite a shock."
"Yes, it was."
"We only got to chat for a little while, but he seemed very nice. I was sorry to hear about what happened."
"Thank you. I –."
"Just a minute." Reed interrupted. "When did you speak to him?" At the same instant McCabe realized she had not met the man during the 'whirlwind' tour of the ship the previous evening.
"Last night, here in the Mess. I came in; he was by the portal, 'stargazing' as it were. We talked for a few minutes; then he left."
"About what time was that?"
"Oh, it had to be around quarter after two, or thereabouts."
Reed and McCabe exchanged looks of mounting dread.
"I think we started with a horrible assumption."
