It took one to know one, or so he’d heard. He nodded, motioning for the lab attendant to take care of Mehta before joining Kov. Together, the two men walked down the well-scrubbed corridor of the TSC’s regional science facility, Gard reflecting absently on the progress of technology. The first time he’d tracked a joined Trill, there had been no such thing as harnessed electricity. But then, there’d been no such thing as criminal psychology, either; Trill had believed that the Butcher of Balin had been possessed by evil spirits. Considering his crimes, perhaps they hadn’t been so far off the mark.
“You ever seen one of these?” Kov asked, as they stepped into yet another of the laboratories that made up the facility, a dimly lit room dominated by a holotank in the center. Gard shook his head, taking in their new surroundings. The walls were lined with banks of softly blinking lights and various key-panels, monitored by a rather nervous-looking male tech. He knew of them, of course; using all of the information that the forensics teams could gather, the reconstruction program would show the most likely sequence of events leading up to Mehta’s death; Gard doubted it would be much, but it was worth a look.
“Run it,” Kov said simply, and the tech started pressing buttons. Gard fixed his attention on the tank, watching as a small set of rooms flickered into view—a student’s apartment, decorated neatly but cheaply. The sight of the inexpensive wall-hangings and fresh flowers wilting in a chipped water glass by the front door made Gard clench his jaw. Her first apartment.
A featureless humanoid appeared in the living room, and seemed to be pacing aimlessly, walking in circles. Although there was a slight possibility that the killer was a tall female, Gard allowed his intuition to decide for him: a man. The unknown male carried a sh’uk and wore a dark gray tunic; after a moment of restless agitation, he moved across the room to stand behind the girl’s desk.
Want to be in the shadows, hiding, waiting. What’s on the desk? Pacing ... nerves? Excitement? When will she come home?
A part of Gard’s mind was formulating lists as he watched—males implanted in the last year, Academy students, museum patrons, collectors of weaponry ... friends of Mehta’s? A lover? The lock hadn’t been forced, although someone could have stolen the override entry code easily enough. ...
The door opened again and Mehta Bren entered, a shopping bag balanced on one hip. She dropped her key card next to the makeshift vase, calling for lights as the door closed behind her—
—and the killer sprang, across the room in a flash. Mehta dropped the bag, various purchases flying, a container of soup splashing everywhere as she fumbled for the door—
—and it was too late. Gard watched the ensuing struggle, determined not to feel what was welling up inside as Mehta fought her attacker, as she fought for her life. The forensic interpretation was graphic if not bloody, the expression of terror on the girl’s face painful to see—but as he watched, his experience pointed out a flaw that nullified the program’s effect.
That’s not right. He wouldn’t have—wrong, they have it all wrong.
Gard let it play to its inevitable conclusion before thanking the tech and with Kov, retreating to the hallway; he saw no reason to be rude, and the program might be valuable in other circumstances.
“Worthless,” he said, and was pleased that Kov didn’t seem surprised. “The time that he took to disable her, his actions before and after the crime—it was carefully planned, not some bloody rampage. Just like the pilot.”
“So what next?” Kov asked.
“We go to Mehta’s apartment, and see if we can figure out what really happened.”
* * *
They’d played for hours, their spontaneous harmonies forming a sensual tension between them that only grew as their music progressed. Temzia did not have a piano or syn lara, but Joran had some skill with the instruments she did keep—the Vulcan lute, a li’dswed, a Tellarite hollow bell line. He tried all three while Temzia played a cello, an Earth string instrument that produced deep, rich sounds. It made him think of polished stone and age, of wealth and oceans; it was almost as beautiful as she.
For long periods, he thought of nothing at all, simply reveling in the sounds they created, lost in the joy that filled her rooms. With each pause, however, he felt the fear return. It simply wasn’t possible—that this incredible, passionate, talented musician, as sure of her brilliance as he was of his own—that she was alone. Unjoined.
The music ended, finally, and they talked into the early morning hours, curled together on the thick carpet of her living room. There was no question that the attraction was mutual, but Joran found himself resisting, dodging Temzia’s attempts to touch him. At last she sighed, leaning back against her couch and studying him, a playful scowl dancing across her lips.
“What is it?” She asked. “You are interested. ...”
It wasn’t a question; already she could read him, and it added to his fear. The circle, the eternal—becoming joined to Dax had been the key, unlocking his true understanding to music, to himself as an artist and as a being. Without Dax, there had been no focus. How could this girl—this child—have achieved such clarity of purpose without a symbiont?
She was waiting. “I’m—my last serious relationship ended badly,” he said. Not really a lie, considering his last relationship had been as Torias Dax, who’d left his wife a widow. He clamped down on the thought, not letting it go any further; he didn’t like remembering the others. Not any of them.
Temzia smiled. “That’s your past. I’m your present.”
No hesitation, no question. He stared at her, the fear making him uncertain. “It’s all connected. ...”
She shrugged, throwing away his beliefs in that single, uncomplicated motion. “I know the joined believe that, but I don’t agree. How can you deny yourself what is here, now? What does this moment mean if you spend it remembering another, or planning the next?”
For a beat, Joran had no answer. “You’re saying we shouldn’t deny our true natures ... ?”
Temzia nodded slowly, and in that moment, she was the teacher, a truth greater than the circle, the connection between the infinite and the need—it wasn’t enough to understand the concept, he wanted to feel it, to touch her and know more.
They kissed, and for a little while there was silence, and it was sweeter than any music he’d ever known.
They stood in the wreck that had been Mehta’s apartment, the same as the final image from the holographic recreation. What the program had been unable to include were the smells of dead flowers and spilled soup, the quality of sluggish shadow, the flush of violence that still tinged the air like some half remembered dream—in effect, the reality of murder. There was nothing else like it.
While Kov tampered with the police holoprojector mounted in the northeast corner of the room, Gard checked out the student’s desk. He stood in the same place the killer had waited, breathing deeply, letting himself know what the killer had known.
It was dark, and she would be home soon ... anticipation building, the sh’uk warm, watching the door open and ...
Gard frowned. Why here? It was the murderer’s luck that she hadn’t escaped while he’d been dashing across the room. He looked down at the desk, at the blank screen of her personal computer, at the scattered mass of Academy disks—music, history, composition—at a framed holo of a younger Mehta proudly holding what appeared to be an alien flute, the front cracked, distorting her smile into a toothy scream.
Gard felt they were looking at three distinct sets of memories so far, although he suspected more. At the museum: planned for privacy, timed to avoid security, and a careful adjustment to the lighting prior to the attack, but the recklessness of allowing himself to be caught on camera. At both sites, the humidity filters had been reset, possibly in consideration to the indoor plant life—in Mehta’s bathroom, a dying fern had been lovingly trimmed and watered after her death. The killer had chosen an antiquated weapon for both murders, unused for centuries, yet in both case
s had taken great care not to use the weapon as intended, paralyzing his victims first—
—a perfectionist, consumed by details, suggesting a background in mathematics or engineering, perhaps some kind of artistic connection. An interest in botany. A historian, or someone with an interest in capital punishment. So many possibilities—
A flicker of light diverted his attention; Kov had the projector working. The image of Mehta’s body as she had been found appeared on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. Her face was turned toward Gard, and like the shuttle pilot, her limbs had been arranged to denote rest, her eyes closed and head tilted as if she were listening to something. ...
“Was there music playing?” Gard asked.
Kov shook his head. “Nothing was loaded—unless you count a misfed data ring. The reads taken indicated that her computer was on at the time of death, but it was a glitch.”
“How can you be sure?”
Kov pulled a notepad from inside his coat and tapped a few keys. “According to the memory log, a single tone was produced by the sound card for something like an hour—didn’t change in pitch or volume, and there was no evidence that the attacker tried to access anything. Malfunction.”
Gard frowned. “And it was still playing when they found her?”
“Actually, no ...” Now Kov was frowning. He walked across the room, Gard noting that he stepped carefully around the image of the body almost without thinking about it. Kov leaned over the computer and started punching in commands.
After a moment, a low sound spilled out into the silence from the dead girl’s computer, a single unvarying note, flat and tuneless. Gard closed his eyes, listening, but it reminded him of nothing.
“Malfunction,” Kov said again.
“I doubt it.” Gard saw Kov move to turn it off, and shook his head. “Let it play. Anything like this at the museum?”
“I don’t ... They checked for tampering with files, but nothing else. It’s possible. I’ll find out as soon as we get back to the facility.”
As Kov spoke, Gard moved to the still image on the floor, letting his thoughts carry him. He crouched next to the body, then lay down in the projection of light, merging with her, assuming the same position. He closed his eyes again, letting the monotonous note fill his mind, hearing what Mehta heard as she died. What the killer heard as he took her life.
A single note, he wanted her to hear it ... or wanted it to be playing so that he could hear it, so that he could connect the sound with the memory of her death. ...
Gard opened his eyes and without moving, studied as much of the room as he could see, paying close attention to the wall behind the desk. Once he knew what he was looking for, he found it in a matter of seconds: three tiny holes set in a triangular pattern, high in the room’s southwest corner. If he were to remove the police holo projector’s mount, he would find the same pattern.
Gard sat up and ran his hands through his hair, his sudden certainty making him feel very tired. There was no question in his mind that one of the museum’s computers had also suffered an aural “glitch,” or that whoever checked the scene would find an identical trio of holes somewhere in the room.
“He’s recording them,” Gard said softly. He had to repeat himself to be heard over the unchanging note, the sound clogging his senses with echoes of a madness he was only beginning to understand.
Things weren’t happening the way he’d planned. The quinary circle wasn’t half finished, the perfection incomplete—and since meeting Temzia, the need to conclude had ceased to dominate his every waking thought. He knew he had to finish, knew that someone would be coming. ...
... stop. Breathe. Now is not the time.
“... without further ado, I present our friend and colleague, Joran Dax. Mr. Dax will be playing an original composition for us, a symphonic ode, Unfitted, To a Truth.”
Joran stood up, smiling and nodding to the assembled group of teachers and graduate students as he walked to the raised platform, trying to clear his mind of everything but the music. The quarterly recitals were tiresome but necessary if he meant to maintain his status as one of the Academy’s finest; he’d seriously considered skipping this one. Temzia had almost coaxed him to spend the day with her—but now was not the time to draw attention to himself.
And why not? Why not, when your grand composition lays untouched, when you allow doubt to cloud your brilliance, to keep you from action? Why not quit now, retire into obscurity with an unjoined as your playmate, leave the important work to those with the strength to follow through—
Enough!
Joran humbly thanked the woman who’d introduced him, an aging spinster of little talent, and moved to the piano, an antique Steinway imported from Earth. It was time to play, the one thing that could still soothe away his troubles.
He sat at the bench, closing his eyes to fix the piece in his mind’s eye. It was one of Belar’s, simple but dulcet, not his best work but easily better than the insipid noise his audience was accustomed to hearing. He could worry about the circle later.
Joran began to play, the gentle lines of the ode working their magic. From the first stanza, he ceased to exist, becoming the spaces between the notes, becoming each delicate, ringing sound, the eternal inside of him finding a place to rest. The melody was uncluttered by fear or indecision, there was no morality to be concerned with; it was what it was, and it was good.
There was some movement in the audience as he played, but he recognized it as if from a great distance, entranced by the miracle that was music, that he was blessed to share in. Still, a part of him wondered how anyone could be so rude, to detract from the others’ experience. At the calando bridge, he glanced across the small assembly—
—and lost his place, the timing horribly jumbled, three notes in a row buried. Dr. Hajan, here, now! There was no mistaking the stern countenance, the faded spots of his hateful, white head—the disapproving gaze of the man who’d recommended that Joran Belar be expelled from the initiate program.
After his joining, he’d been told that it wasn’t uncommon for evaluating staff to visit, unannounced, those they’d recommended be dropped—it was even encouraged by the Commission, the idea being for the doctor or field docent to witness the success of the joining they’d discouraged, to lay to rest any lingering doubts.
Dr. Hajan’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Not now, not with so many unanswered questions, so many doubts of my own!
Except ... poor timing was a matter of perspective, wasn’t it?
All of this flashed through his mind in a split second, before his shock was replaced with a renewed sense of purpose. He had been weak, he had almost lost his connection to the circle, but in that instant of awareness, he saw what had to happen next—and it filled him with pleasure, almost physical in its intensity.
Joran regained his composure and finished the piece without another flaw.
The call came just after dark—a third murder, this one committed within the very walls of the Symbiosis Commission, not an hour’s flight from where Gard was staying. The details were few, but gave Gard his first real hope that the hunt might soon be over; the killer had been interrupted at his work by security, fleeing the victim’s office before he’d had a chance to complete his ritual. The guards had lost him outside, but Gard’s hope was undiminished; he could feel how close they were to understanding him—and understanding inevitably led to capture.
Kov picked him up and they rode in near silence to the Institute, a steady drizzle raining down on them from the gathering night that did little to dampen their guilty optimism. Earlier, they’d received confirmation on the museum slaying connections, the holoprojector marks and the single tone—a different pitch, but doubtlessly for the same as-yet unknown purpose—and now a third murder, less than two hours old, the site secured and waiting for them. The victim was one Dr. Foris Hajan, a senior member of the Institute’s evaluation team, and a TSC tech was already compiling a list of his recent r
ecommendations, as well as an itinerary for the past few months. Gard had little doubt that the killer’s name would surface—but Gard had no doubts either that the murderer had accelerated his spree, and that they needed to find him as quickly as possible.
Dr. Hajan’s office was in the Institute’s west wing. Kov and Gard hurried through the dimly lit hallways, past ashen-faced guards and the few staff members who’d still been working, who lingered now in aimless confusion. As they neared Hajan’s office, Gard heard the sound he’d been searching for—the flat, featureless tone that they now knew as the killer’s signature. Apparently, he hadn’t had time to silence his strange obsession.
Kov stopped at the door to talk to one of the techs while Gard stepped into the nightmarish scene that had been Hajan’s last. Chairs and bookcases had been overturned, various ceramic pieces shattered, the debris cast randomly about—and in the middle of the room, eyes open and staring, lay Dr. Hajan himself, a single stab wound through his throat. Above it all, the relentless drone from the undamaged computer played like some endless mechanical shriek, somehow all the more terrible for its utter lack of emotion.
Gard knelt next to the body, assessing the attack. Hajan had been surprised, surely, the entrance to the wound at the back of his neck, a change in pattern that suggested a different relationship. The killer hadn’t wanted for Hajan to see him, had perhaps wanted to avoid the condemnation in his eyes—
—couldn’t bear to be seen, but wanted Hajan dead so badly that he didn’t care whether or not the doctor’s death could be connected to him. Whatever he’s trying to do, he means to finish it soon. ...
“Here it is.”
Gard stood up and saw that Kov had joined him, and was pointing at a triad of marks on the far wall. Even rushed, the murderer had been determined to take his trophy, to have his prize. Gard nodded thoughtfully as he moved to the still-crying computer, his trained mind working at the details, fitting them and refitting them; the ancient weapon, the recordings, the seemingly random destruction, the obviously obsessive nature—there were contradictions everywhere, but only because he didn’t fully understand.
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Lives of Dax Page 20
