Things couldn't be going better.
Rick Eisler stood quietly in the civilian apartment, a little amazed that they had covered so much ground in so little time. It was difficult to impress him - his standards were impossibly high - and yet, in the four hours that he'd spent in the company of Commander T'Pol, the Vulcan had done exactly that. From her analysis of station recordings involving the conference room which had identified their primary suspect, to tracking him down - in the morgue, unfortunately - to arranging for an autopsy of the body, the commander had demonstrated a frightening efficiency at investigation.
There was no way she was just a science officer.
By the time Eisler had returned from Endeavour, dressed now in dark civilian clothes that were loose enough for him to conceal his non-standard tac-vest, Commander T'Pol - in a silver jumpsuit that left nothing to the imagination - was already racing through station records, analyzing everything on the screen at an amazing speed. Two and a half hours passed before she had isolated a suspect and, by that point, Eisler was hardly surprised at how quickly she was able to get the man's entire station history. The administrator of Thor's Cradle - a large Boomer by the name of Maddox - had balked at giving her complete access in the early minutes of her investigation and she had broken his will with a single imperious stare, a look that promised black and terrible retribution against any who opposed her, without even a single gram of emotion displayed.
Administrator Maddox hadn't been seen since.
When her efforts revealed that Reginald Perkins - her chief suspect for planting the explosive - had turned up in the morgue, Commander T'Pol hadn't even seemed surprised or particularly bothered. They made the quick trip to the morgue, and it took her less than five minutes to arrange for the body to be transferred to Endeavour for Phlox to conduct an autopsy; she then spent nearly an hour examining Perkins' personal effects before deciding to visit his rented quarters on the station.
In a particularly rundown part of Thor's Cradle, the apartment itself was quite small, an economy with only a single room that served as sleeping quarters, living room and kitchen all at the same time. A small refresher - barely the size of a walk-in closet - was in the far corner, its door half-ajar. It was patently obvious that Perkins had been a slob as the entire apartment reeked of weeks-old laundry (most of which appeared strewn haphazardly on the floor) and was littered with half-empty food containers, many of which had begun to grow mold. An offensively bright purple couch dominated the room and, from the pillows and blanket that were draped over it, had served as the occupant's bed; oddly, two duffel bags were propped up on the sofa as well and both appeared to have been packed in a hurry. Two wall hangings immediately drew the attention upon entrance and Eisler felt his lip curl in disgust. One of the hangings was of two extremely (some might say impossibly) well-endowed Andorian females involved in an explicitly intimate embrace. The other was a framed velvet print of dogs.
Playing poker.
Commander T'Pol barely looked at the pornography beyond giving it a cursory glance, but she studied the second picture for an inordinately long time, tilting her head several times as she took in the improbable situation. Twice she shifted her stance, as if attempting to see the picture from a different angle in order to discern its secrets.
"Fascinating," she murmured and, had he not been utterly embarrassed for the human race at that moment, Rick would have found the sight of the slim Vulcan examining the picture with such intensity to be hilarious. The way she stood, one would think that she'd just found the Holy Grail, or at least her culture's equivalent.
He just wished he had a camera.
Turning away from the dogs, T'Pol let her eyes roam over the room, taking in the mess without even a hint of condemnation on her face. She gave no sign as to what she was thinking, no hint about what clues - if any - she was deciphering from the chaos, but Rick had grown accustomed to her silence and waited patiently for her next move. He'd be loath to admit it, but he found himself ... eager to see what she did next. It was almost exciting.
Despite himself, he began to see why Tucker was so infatuated with her.
Among the dirty clothes in the two duffel bags, T'Pol found a civilian PADD and quickly downloaded its contents to her tricorder - a specialized tricorder/PADD combination, Rick realized. She then spent nearly twenty minutes in complete silence as she studied its contents.
"It appears," she informed Eisler as she lowered the tricorder, "that Reginald Perkins recently booked first class transport to Andoria." The last was said with a brief scornful glance toward the pornography that decorated the Rimward wall.
"First class?" Rick frowned, glancing around the apartment once more. "He can't afford that." Not without a decent-sized payoff anyway ...
"Indeed." Her communicator suddenly beeped and she pulled it out, flipping it open with a practiced gesture. "T'Pol."
"Ah, Commander." Phlox's voice sounded odd coming from the communicator, hollow and flat yet still exuding cheerfulness. "I have completed my autopsy. Do you wish me to forward the results or should I summarize?"
"Both. Forward the complete results to my tricorder."
"Very well." There was a brief pause before the commander's tricorder beeped, an indication that data had been received. "Your Mister Perkins was killed by a single disruptor shot to the face, fired from a distance of no more than ten centimeters." That much had been obvious from the state of the body; Eisler had seen a lot of nasty things in his life, but the ruin that had been Perkins' face ranked near the top.
"Time of death?" The Vulcan had yet to study her tricorder as she looked over the room once again. Rick imagined that he could almost hear the wheels spinning.
"Between twenty and twenty-two standard hours ago. I cannot narrow it down any further."
"Was he conscious at time of death?" Eisler gave her a look from where he stood; clearly she had seen something that he hadn't.
"Unlikely." Phlox paused briefly. "There was bruising on the left shoulder suggestive of a nerve pinch." Rick tensed up; as far as he knew, only Vulcans were able to do the pinch. "There is also a trace amount of theta-3 radiation in his system. I don't know if that is helpful ..."
"It is. Thank you, Doctor." T'Pol closed the communicator and replaced it on her belt before turning her eyes to the tricorder. Eisler watched her absorb the information for a moment, wondering how to ask what he wanted to ask. She must have felt his gaze on her. "You have a comment, Commander?"
"You knew about the pinch?" He tried to keep accusation out of his voice, tried to sound as if he were discussing something bland and boring ... like golf or or bowling or water polo.
"I suspected." She inclined an eyebrow slightly at the data that flashed across the tiny screen.
"So a Vulcan killed him."
"That appears to be the most likely explanation." For a moment, she was quiet. "The time of death presents an alibi for the crew of the Ti'Mur but not for any unregistered Vulcans on Vigrid station."
"Unregistered?" His distrust of her began to dwindle, followed quickly by self-recrimination.
"Vigrid Station has extremely lax security; infiltrating it on a mission of deception would hardly be difficult." She sounded as though she knew what she was talking about, and Eisler wondered briefly how many such stations she had infiltrated on 'missions of deception.' Frowning slightly, she continued to study the small viewscreen. Silent minutes crept by.
"You told Doctor Phlox that the theta radiation is helpful ..." He prompted. Deactivating the tricorder, she returned it to the belt holster she wore as her eyes drifted back to the dogs playing poker.
"Theta-3 radiation in these levels on a space station is indicative of malfunctioning class II grav plating," T'Pol replied. One of her eyebrows crept up as she once more tilted her head, studying the print with open curiosity. "The docking ring is the only zone on this station that still utilizes class II plating." As she finished speaking, she gave him a sideways glance. "Commander, please explain the purpose of...this," she said, gesturing to the velvet print.
Oh ... God.
"It's an American thing, ma'am," he replied hesitantly, hoping that it would be enough. "You should really ask Captain Tucker." She gave him a brief appraising glance before nodding slightly.
"I look forward to his explanation," she said wryly. "I am sure it will be ... elucidating." Giving the print yet another long look – this one complete with a slightly inclined eyebrow – she turned and walked from the apartment. Without a word, he fell into step behind her.
Around them, lights began to dim ever so slightly as Vigrid Station began to enter its artificial night shift.