Stray articles of clothing littered the floor of the dim, stark quarters.  An overturned chair here, a stray data padd there, all grimly worked together to paint the perfect picture of hopelessness and pain.  The air hadn't been disturbed in hours, save for the faint sounds of breathing that issued from the wall on the far side of the room.

In the shadows of his room he sat against the wall, on the cold floor.  He was buried within the injured atmosphere of the silence, in near disbelief and not certain how to greet the coming dawn.  They would find her today.  She was sleeping softly on the floor of her quarters, waiting for someone to make the grim discovery of why she had failed to make it to work.

Laying sweetly, sleeping soundly, they would see her beauty shrouded by the redness that surely stained the carpets by this time.  He'd hit her so many times it blurred in his memory and he lost the count.  He couldn't even guess how long he'd let himself go inside the rush of what he was doing.  He'd barely thought straight enough to cover his tracks afterwards.

It was a good thing that he could bring himself out of that state quickly.  Good for him, bad for the rest.  He smirked in the darkness and marveled at just what obsession could do to a man.

The sound was soft to his distracted mind, but he noticed it soon enough.  The alarm was going off beside his bed, alerting him to the dread day before him.

His body was stiff from sitting in the same place and position so long and he groaned as he stood up.  He wandered through the shadows and into the bathroom.  Taking a long breath to calm himself, he turned on the sink and cupped some of the cool water into his hands, watching it run over the sides of his fingers.  There was something peaceful about it.

With a growl, he splashed his weary eyes with the water and rubbed his face.  "It's over," he told himself aloud, standing straight and grabbing a towel.  He gazed at his face in the mirror.  "She's gone.  It's done."

Taking a long, reflective breath and looking at himself, he threw the towel onto the counter and grabbed his razor.  Time to face the light of day.

"God, no," Captain Archer said from behind his desk, covering his face with his hands and leaning back in his chair.  He stayed that way for a long few moments, then met the eyes of his concerned Security Chief.  The room remained dauntingly silent as they held each other's gaze.  Finally Archer broke the quiet.  "Tell me what you just said isn't true."

Malcolm Reed shifted his weight and furrowed a worried brow.  "Sir, I wish to God it weren't, but there's nothing I can say that will change reality."  He had his arms crossed, his gray eyes holding shadows of anger and fear.

Archer glanced down at the desk before him, not really seeing the desktop, but the face of two respected crew members.  "No leads?" he asked, certain by Reed's silence that the answer would be 'no'.

"My team has gone through Hoshi's room with a fine toothed comb, Sir," the Security officer replied.  "They're doing the same with the Sub-Commander's quarters, but as of yet I've heard nothing in the way of leads."

The Captain remained quiet again, considering and searching his knowledge and himself for answers that were hidden.  "The same way?" he suddenly asked, finally sliding his eyes to Reed.

Malcolm shook his head, his face taking on an expression of disgust.  "No, Sir," he growled, not hiding his anger at the situation.  "She was killed in a much more brutal fashion."

His face puzzled and concerned, Archer sat up straighter and leaned forward.  "Just how was she killed?"

Reed exhaled deeply, shaking his head.  "Her meditation candles.  The fiend that did this took a candle stand and beat her with it.  Hit her quite a few times, Captain.  I couldn't believe what I saw when I was called to her quarters this morning."

Archer closed his eyes for a moment, his head down.  Shaking it slowly, he looked up.  "You were called to her quarters?"

"Yes, Sir," Malcolm breathed, sitting down at the gravity of all he had to say.  "Ensign Cutler called me there before breakfast.  It seems she was to eat with T'Pol.  She had expressed an interest in Vulcan dishes, so this morning T'Pol was going to teach her a simple Vulcan recipe."  Reed shook his head, obviously imagining what must have taken place this morning.  "Ensign Cutler went to the Sub-Commander's quarters and buzzed her door, getting no answer.  After a few more tries and a comm call, she called me to override the locks.  I went immediately and opened the door.  T'Pol was laying there close to the doorway, badly hurt.  There was blood everywhere, Captain.  We have got to find this bastard, but," he shook his head in frustration, "he's good at covering his tracks.  Too good."

Jonathan took a long breath, inhaling and looking at the wall in thought.  With some reluctance, he sighed and said low, "You don't think Ensign Cutler could have..."  He left it hanging.

Reed was silent a moment, then shook his head, his face betraying his uncertainty.  "I seriously don't think so, Sir.  I suppose the universe has seen stranger things, but I would be quite shocked if that were the case."

Looking at the floor, Archer stood up and watched the Security Chief do the same.  "For now, my previous orders stand.  Keep me posted on any and every detail you find.  I'm gonna go have a word with Dr. Phlox."

The Chief nodded.  "Aye, Sir.  I should probably accompany you to Sickbay, if that's all right.  I need to check in with the Doctor's findings."

Heading towards the door, Archer nodded softly, still appearing shaken.  "Sure thing, Malcolm.  Let's go."

With that said, both men left the ready room in silence, both concerned about what the Doctor might have to say once they arrived.

The Doctor's blue eyes mirrored his concern as he and the two Starfleet officers stood above the biobed where T'Pol lay.  Only a sheet lay between the battered form of the dead Vulcan and the eyes of her colleagues.  Phlox surmised it best to keep her hidden from their sight unless directed to show them.

Jonathan Archer was a deep feeling human, Phlox had noted.  While he didn't fully understand all the complexities of humans, he was sure T'Pol's death bothered the Captain enough without having to witness the horrible results firsthand.  He wasn't too sure what Malcolm Reed was feeling, though.  He supposed that Reed was naturally feeling sorrow and anger, as most humans did when one of their own - a term not always restricted to their own race - were killed, but the Security officer was hard to read to the Denobulan doctor.

Archer's eyes appeared worried on the surface.  "Phlox," he began, his voice heavier than usual.  His face was grim.  "How long has T'Pol been gone?"

Scratching his cheek reflectively, the Doctor glanced at the sheet below, then sighed.  "She died around 2 am according to my scans," he answered simply.

Malcolm Reed furrowed his brow at Phlox's strange reluctance to volunteer anything else.  "Doctor, have you found anything more than that?" he asked, his gray eyes narrowing slightly.

Phlox looked down momentarily, then nodded, meeting Reed's eyes and offering his gaze to Archer.  "As a matter of fact, I have.  I was a loathe to bring this up due to the already emotional state of things, but you should know what I discovered."  Phlox paused, looking between them.  "Upon first glance I would have guessed that blows to the head had caused her death.  She suffered many injuries both on her torso and head, having been hit repeatedly with a candle stand, as Mr. Reed guessed from the scene of the crime.  I later confirmed that, finding traces of the metal on her skin and clothing."

Archer glanced between Phlox and Reed.  "Are you suggesting it wasn't the candle stand that killed her?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

The Doctor nodded once and gestured with his hand.  "I'm not merely suggesting it, Captain.  The fact is she was killed ultimately by a poison.  Or at very least, was killed both by the poison and by the head trauma."

Reed cocked his head and crossed his arms.  "Poison?"

Moving away, Phlox went to a nearby terminal and brought up a comprehensive list of known poisons.  Motioning them over, he pointed to the term he was seeking.  "Morphial.  Originating from a quiet race known as the Hahdrai.  It's quite lethal to most humanoid species, but potentially even more so to Vulcans.  Their physiology makes them allergic to certain mixes of the compounds within morphial, speeding up the processes the body suffers when exposed."

The Captain read over the words on the screen.  "Shuts down the body, system by system, starting with the digestive and moving on, ultimately resulting complete neural failure," he read softly, shaking his head.

Phlox nodded sadly, looking back to the sheeted figure on the bed nearby.  "Yes.  T'Pol's death wasn't at all painless, Captain," he sighed, turning his eyes back to his Captain.  "My scans show a lack of oxygen in her blood."

"You mean she suffocated before her injuries caused her to die?" Archer asked, his green eyes wide.

Phlox looked down from Archer's gaze, nodding gravely.  He wasn't sure what more to say.  There was nothing he could say that would bring T'Pol back or ease their worries.  So he moved on.  "Mr. Reed, I've also discovered something you may wish to note in your investigation."

Exhaling loudly, the Security Chief pursed his lips and looked up.  "Yes, Doctor?"

"The poison was injected using a needle," the Denobulan answered, crossing his arms.

Reed frowned at that knowledge.  "A needle?"

Phlox nodded his head.  "I found a small puncture in her neck.  The poison entered her body there."

Licking his lips thoughtfully, Malcolm exchanged a glance with his Captain, then asked, "Doctor, do you have needles here in Sickbay?"

"I don't employ the use of needles," Phlox replied, narrowing his brows.

Holding a hand up and looking down, Reed nodded and said, "Please, just answer the question.  I need to know, Doctor, in case someone's stolen one of them."

The Doctor exhaled and started towards a small cabinet across the room.  Opening it, he pulled out a box and opened it.  Reed wandered over and looked inside, seeing that the contents included several types of needles.  He looked at Phlox seriously.  The Doctor handed over the box.  "I have them here for study purposes.  They are all accounted for.  You can scan them for traces of the poison and T'Pol's DNA."

Reed took the box carefully and swallowed.  He had one more question.  "Doctor, do you keep poisons on Enterprise?"

Phlox nodded and indicated another cabinet.  "I have a few poison samples in there for uses in antidote making.  Morphial isn't among my inventory, but of course you may check for yourself."

Malcolm sighed and went to the comm, calling a few members of his team to Sickbay.  Archer crossed his arms and looked at the Doctor neutrally.  Reed returned shortly.  "I have a forensics specialist on my team coming here to examine your inventory, Doctor," he said in a low tone.  "You understand that this is merely procedure?  Nothing personal."

Phlox inclined his head slightly.  "Of course, Mr. Reed.  I have nothing to hide."

Archer frowned and shook his head.  Sickbay suddenly felt small and claustrophobic.  "We have to find this bastard."  The other two nodded their silent agreement.  He looked up at them, his eyes troubled.  "I'll be in my ready room.  Keep me posted."

"Aye, Captain," Reed replied.  Phlox merely nodded his head.  They both watched as their Captain exited quickly.

He sat there at the funeral, silently watching from the back as the crew paid their respects to not just one lost colleague, but two.  A line of grieved friends and fellow crewmen formed between the two coffins.  Hoshi had been placed in her dress uniform, made up prettily and laid within her final bed.  Enterprise would deliver her to Earth personally to be buried with her family in a personal mausoleum.

T'Pol had been placed in sedate Vulcan robes after the damage to her face had been repaired as well as Dr. Phlox could manage.  Her face had been made up in plain colors and she now awaited departure from Enterprise.  A Vulcan transport would be on it's way by now, heading steadily towards Earth to meet up with Enterprise on the way.  They would take her from there on home to be taken care of.  He wondered idly what Vulcan customs concerning death were.  He'd never taken the time to find out.

Strangely enough the urge had quelled.  Of course he had no false notions that this would be the end of his unnatural cravings, but for now they were at bay.  At another time seeing the two forms at the head of the room might have stirred up his blood, but now there was just emptiness.

His sharp ears caught a few bits of conversation now and then.  Fragments of grief and fury found a path to his hearing and made the nothingness inside seem all the more deep.  A 'sick bastard' they called him without even knowing it was he who they were speaking of.  None of them understood, did they?

Not that he claimed to really understand what was going on, but it wasn't like he meant for these things to happen.  He didn't feel like the deranged psycho that they branded him.  Sometimes he could barely recall the strange feelings that drove him to do what he did.  All he wanted was to understand...for someone to understand and help him.

But of course that would never happen.  Who in their right mind would help a murderer?  They'd help him into a cell for the rest of his life, that's what would happen.  And he did deserve it.  He knew that, but everything in him wanted the cosmos to tell him why he deserved to be the one to do these things?  Why was he the killer?  Why did he suffer these tormenting temptations?

Couldn't the universe have chosen someone cold to the core?  Someone who didn't care who it affected or that his life would be ruined?  Funny, when the temptations came he never asked these questions.  He simply did.

A monster who had possession of a soul.  How perfectly ironic.  Dreadfully ironic.  He grunted at his momentary introversion and gazed at the two coffins ahead.  Please understand, he begged the two women who would never hear the question put to them.  It's not me.

But if not he, then who?

There were only so many times you could ask yourself certain questions before you either stopped caring or were driven mad.  There was no one else to ask, though, but himself and sometimes it seemed he would go mad if he wondered at the things gnawing him a moment longer.  No one would understand this.  No one would help him.

He stood up slowly and wandered to the front of the room as most of the crew cleared out.  Gazing down upon the two women, he sighed.  Two angels, perfectly innocent and trusting.  He'd taken everything from them and their families.  Ended two lives in two days.  "Forgive me," he whispered, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

He wasn't aware of the eyes that saw and the ears that heard.

Malcolm Reed sat alone in the mess hall, reading over a data padd and scowling.  The days seemed to stretch on now and he felt restless.  The double funeral had been a full three days gone and still he couldn't get the grievous night out of his mind.

Sitting back, he rubbed at his forehead and looked around the room.  Phlox sat at a table nearby, silent and deep in thought.  He used to have dinner with Hoshi quite a bit before she'd been killed.  He had been teaching her his language.

Sighing, Reed turned his attention elsewhere.  He wanted nothing more than to get the events of the past week out of his mind - if even for a short while.  Ensign Mayweather sat directly ahead of him, facing away.  Crewman Cutler sat across from him, listening to whatever it was Travis was talking about.  "What would you do if you heard something that bothered you, but wasn't sure you should tell anyone?" Reed heard him say.

Cutler appeared confused.  "What do you mean?" she asked, her brows furrowed.

Mayweather leaned forward and Reed found himself doing the same.  "At the funeral I heard something strange.  Someone said something a little weird, but I don't know if it's really anything important.  Maybe I misunderstood."

Reed unconsciously held his breath and waited.  "Who said what?" Cutler replied.

There was a pause before Mayweather continued.  "I won't say who, but I was standing near the front when a member of the crew came up and whispered "Forgive me" and then left."

Cutler's eyes were wide.  "Travis, you should tell the Captain," she advised.

Reed frowned and continued to eavesdrop on the two.  Mayweather seemed to sigh.  "But what if he meant something else?  We don't know he was talking about killing them.  Maybe he'd been fighting with one of them.  I can't see this person doing something like this.  Maybe I should talk to him about it first.  See what he says."

Pursing her lips, the Crewman leaned back in her chair and caught sight of Reed listening.  She ignored that fact for the moment and reaffirmed her previous suggestion.  "That could be dangerous.  I think you should tell someone first."

Mayweather sighed and gathered his tray together.  "Maybe," he breathed, his voice still very uncertain.  "I'll think about it.  I've got to go.  Thanks for the help."

"You're welcome," Cutler said back, blinking and fixing her eyes on Reed.  Standing up, she quickly came to stand by him.  "Lieutenant," she greeted.

"Crewman," Reed replied, frustrated at the conversation he'd just overheard.  He pushed his chair back to get up.  "Is there something I can do for you?"

She frowned at that and gazed at him for a moment.  "Did you hear what Travis said?"

Standing, Reed exhaled and picked his tray up.  "Yes, I heard.  Unfortunate he left out the name."

"Perhaps you should tell the Captain what he said.  Maybe he could convince Travis to tell him who it was," she offered, stepping with him to return the tray.  "I could go with you and report everything Travis was saying."

Malcolm took a breath and looked over the room.  Phlox was watching them curiously.  "Perhaps you're right," he grunted, glancing at the Captain's private dining room.  "You don't have to join me if it's any trouble."

She shook her head.  "No trouble at all, Sir."

Reed turned away and headed for the private room, frowning in thought as Cutler followed close behind.  He buzzed the door and waited, then entered at Archer's voice.  He and Tucker were sitting at the table together.  "Sir, I hate to bother you," he began.

"No bother," Archer replied, smiling at the two of them.  "What can I do for you two?"  He pushed his seat back and stood, motioning them to the two empty chairs.

Shaking his head, Reed passed on joining them.  "Crewman Cutler has some possible new information on the case, Sir."

Sitting back down, Archer turned his eyes on Cutler.  "Go ahead."

Cutler swallowed and explained Travis' situation and how bothered he had seemed.  The Captain and Commander exchanged concerned glances.  Archer looked down at his plate, then met her eyes with an uncertain frown.  "Mmm.  Thanks, Crewman.  I'll have a word with him when I can."

"Thank you, Captain," she said, then with a glance at Reed, left.  She seemed a little less worried now and Malcolm grunted.

"If that's all, I'd like to make some notes on this," he said, waiting for his Captain to dismiss him.

Archer nodded slowly, and exhaled.  "Yeah.  Keep me posted, Malcolm."

Reed turned on his heel and headed for the door quickly, muttering a quick, "Sure thing," as he walked out.

Killing was something that brought a rush of adrenaline and even some strange sense of joy at times, but it was also a necessity.  Standing at the window, he waited for Mayweather to arrive.  He'd contacted him not five minutes ago, asking if he could talk to him about something.

Of course he knew what Mayweather would say.  A polite, "Hello, Sir," followed by an uncertain declaration of what he'd heard and an even more uncertain, "I know you couldn't possibly, but..." and then he'd waited expectantly for his fears to be explained away.

And that would be that, except his fears were true.  "Brave, Travis," he muttered, gazing at the stars.  Brave and foolish.  What was Mayweather thinking, coming here and confronting him?  If he were so worried about what was said at the funeral, why would he come here alone?

He wouldn't be leaving alone.  Or alive.  Travis Mayweather wouldn't be telling a soul about what he'd overheard.

Travis just pissed him off.  It wasn't his fault, but that had been a private moment and he didn't like private moments like that one intruded upon.  He would pay dearly for that unfortunate mishap.  Licking his lips as the door buzzed, he called out, "Come in."

The door hissed open loudly and slow footsteps sounded gently.  "Sir," Mayweather said, clearing his throat.  When there was no reply, he went on.  "Something's been bothering me."

"Go on," he finally said to the Ensign.  He looked down at the object in his hands, twirling it around.

Mayweather was quiet for a moment, then finally began.  "At the funeral for T'Pol and Hoshi you said something that's been bothering me for a few days.  I know it's probably nothing, Sir, but I have to get it off my chest."

Turning his head slightly, he frowned.  "What's bothering you?"

"Well," Mayweather sighed, hesitating to bring up such an awful suspicion.  "You looked at the coffins and asked for forgiveness.  I just..." the Ensign trailed off.

Finally turning, hands behind his back, he looked hard at Ensign Mayweather.  "You just...what?  Thought I'd killed them maybe?  You've come here so that I'll tell you I had done something wrong to one of them and was apologizing as a good-bye?"

Mayweather seemed taken aback by his coldness.  "Sir, I didn't mean it to sound..."

"Oh, but you did."  He began to advance on Travis, his eyes revealing nothing.  "You thought I was the killer.  Admit it."

Licking his lips and returning the terrible stare, Mayweather stood his ground.  "Yes, I did."

A smile broke across the other's features.  He even laughed, looking the wide eyed Ensign over.  "Travis!  You thought I was some killer?"

Mayweather backed away slightly, but slowly smiled.  "Well, it crossed my mind.  I didn't really believe you were."

"Travis.  Travis," he said, stepping close.  "You were right."

Ensign Mayweather stopped laughing abruptly.  People with knives in their chests sometimes did.  Taking a final breath, Travis grabbed the other and collapsed into him, his eyes wide with shock.  "Sorry," he told him plainly, dragging the limp form away.  He would have to hide Mayweather until a proper time he could take him to the hall and leave him.  "I couldn't have you telling anyone, could I?"

With that he left the no longer laughing Ensign in his own bed, covered with a blanket.  Now the bed clothes would have to be destroyed and the floor cleaned of it's blood.  It was going to be another long night and another long day tomorrow when someone found poor Mayweather.

And another funeral soon.

~
Sorry it's been long in the coming.  Thanks to my reviewers!