| Speculating Speculation |
| Summary: | Stavrian brings Kincaid a break in Langer's death, but it leads to even more questions. |
| Date: | 4 Feb 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | A Delicate Inquiry |
| Players: |
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| Security Hub - Deck 6 - Battlestar Ceberus |
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| More than just an office for the Marines and their XO, this room has remote surveillance views of the Brigs as well as a state of the art communications center built into the far bulkhead. A locked and heavily armored door to the aft leads into another room, the white lettering on it reading 'ARMORY.' There are a few desks scattered around the room for getting necessary paperwork done and the Commandant's picture hangs on the wall next to one of the President. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #343 |
It's been a while since the last time Stavrian was here, but free time is hard to come by. And free time is all he has when it comes to digging around in things he was never meant to dig around in. He sent word up not long ago that he was on his way and now — here he is, wearing his off-duties. Personal backpack with him, a dark gray battered old thing. He stops at the check-in and is shown back with a grunt and a flick of someone's pen, then his bootsteps head for Kincaid.
Kincaid has a desk. It's not a big desk, but it's a desk. It's one of the small favors of being a MP as opposed to a rifleman; he gets a tiny modicum of administrative help. He glances up when Stavrian makes for his desk, kicking out a nearby chair in wordless invitation. "What's up?" he asks. How's that for an opening? The office is quiet, tense, the lead-up to "Silent Mastiff" deadening things.
The tension over the upcoming B&E hasn't escaped Stavrian. After all, he'll likely be right behind them, just in case shit goes wrong. Because when doesn't it? He nods stiffly to Kincaid, pulling his backpack off his shoulder as he sits. "Lance. Had a minute, figured I'd come by and touch base about things. How's it going?"
"Not too bad." Kincaid gestures to a wash of files on his desk. "I somehow picked up the title of 'Lead Investigator' on the MV Elpis scuffle that happened with Sholty." Stavarian might have heard of it from the other corpsmen; a civilian and a Marine had to be evac'd out. Apparently the civilian was defending AI programming, an unpopular position. Sholty and three other civilians went to kick the crap out of the programmer and had to be put down hard by security forces. "So I'm busy. In addition to that other thing. How about you?"
"Fine." Stavrian settles the backpack between his feet. "I heard what happened on the Elpis. Wasn't involved, though. Small blessings." One dark brow makes a drily sympathetic tic upwards. "I won't keep you. But I've hit a wall myself, and…well, perhaps you've run across something that might help. I don't know."
Kincaid holds his hands open, gesturing towards the corpsman. "I might have. I've heard a few different things. What's your dead end? Any way I can help, Doc." He even keeps his pad and paper in his pocket.
"Have you had a chance to look at the photo I sent up?" Stavrian lets his voice drop a little bit. Not that he needs to much; the Sagittarian is naturally a soft-spoken man. Almost a contradiction with his harsh accent. "Or perhaps any record of the location itself?"
Kincaid shakes his head once. "I looked at the photo, but I've got it sent out for a second opinion. I mean, I don't really have the medical know-how to figure out what was post-mortem." A beat. "As for the location, I mean, do you have anything there? The whole thing was bleached and washed down."
"Damn." Even Stavrian's cursing is lullaby-quiet. "There's nothing, no visual records of the night at all?" He gently scratches his chin. "I'll be frank, I'm asking because I think I finally have evidence of another cause of death. But as to what exactly made the injury, I'm lost unless someone knows what might have been around her at the time."
A beat. "Well, what's the evidence? I can always try to round up witness statements or — something. Try to see. What about your source? The one you got the photos from?" Kincaid is now just thinking out loud. But softly out loud.
"He didn't see it." Stavrian shakes his head slightly. "That's the problem." He reaches down past his knee, unzipping his backpack. From inside he pulls a folder, letting that sit on his legs as he talks. "This is the one causing the trouble. You remember in the picture I sent you, the injury right here?" He taps his open hand against the front of his head.
"He didn't see it." Stavrian shakes his head slightly. "That's the problem." He reaches down past his knee, unzipping his backpack. From inside he pulls a folder, letting that sit on his legs as he talks. "This is the one causing the trouble. You remember in the picture I sent you, the injury right here?" He taps his open hand against the front of his head.
"Yeah. Sure. Of course. That's the suspicious one." Kincaid looks down at the folder, clinically, taking this all in. He seems to have a thought, then, getting to his feet. "I think the Marine units compiled some photos before the area was cleaned. I can try to pull the file." He heads towards a filing cabinet.
"Suspicious, yes." Stavrian twists his back slightly as Kincaid gets up, talking only long enough that he doesn't have to raise his voice to cross distance. "Especially because now it looks like there's another."
Kincaid takes the file and comes back, clutching it close in hand. "Another injury?" asks Kincaid as he settles back down, furrowing his brow. "Frak. What's this one?" He leans in, as if expecting a picture or some such.
And it appears there is a picture this time. Stavrian's blue eyes make a reflexive flicker around, being sure they're the only two paying attention to Kincaid's desk, then settles the folder on the table top. "Another skull injury," he says under his breath. "Back of her head. Not the easiest to see, but if you use a magnifier it's more obvious. It's got an…odd shape."
"And I take it you don't know what the shape might be. What might have caused it?" Kincaid reaches into his desk, looking to pull out a small magnifying glass that he has stashed there. "That's why you want to know what was around her when she died? To have a sense of might have made this mark?"
Kincaid frowns down through the magnifying glass, staring down at the two breaks in the skin. "The — what — back of a hammer?" suggests the Lance Corporal, clearly guessing. Speculating, perhaps. "I mean, if it's the back of the head —" Pause. "Do you mind if I keep a copy of the photo?"
Stavrian shakes his head. "Not deep enough for a hammer, and the marks are too close together." He gestures the folder towards Kincaid, moving his fingers twice. "Go ahead, please." He folds his arms on the desk, exhaling through his nose as his lips purse into a thin frown. An upwards nod to Kincaid's own file. "Find anything?"
"No. No. Not her. Not her. Here. Here." Kincaid moves his magnifying glass over a picture of a crumpled body in the stairwell, the back of the head of one. He pulled it from the file he’s got in front of him. "This one. This is Langer." He hands over the magnifying glass. "There's like some sort of — thing in her collar, like an earring. You see that?"
"Yeah. Here. Here you go." Kincaid slides picture over to Stavrian, putting them side by side so that he can see. "You think the mark was made by the jewelry? The small mark could be the backing of the earring and the — pointy part." He's not good at this lingo.
"Might've been…" Stavrian's eyes flicker left and right and left again as he looks between the two photos. His mouth screws up to one side and he pushes the original photo back towards Kincaid. "Except. Tell me what's wrong with this picture."
"Her ears aren't pierced. So where the frak would an earring come from? It had to be someone else. Whoever — pushed her? How would it get there otherwise?" Kincaid bites his lower lip, trying to figure this out. Just talking it through.
Stavrian gently sucks his teeth, scratching fingertips through the left side of his thick hair. "What if it's not an earring?" He looks up at Kincaid, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
Kincaid kicks up his speculation. "A ring? What would be male jewelry? Or — some sort of decoration on an item?" The brow furrows hard. "You have any thoughts?"
"Do men wear rings with little stones like that?" The Sagittarian sounds as clueless as Kincaid. Stavrian frowns, resting elbows on the desk and rapping the backs of his fingers against his cheeks. "I don't think it was a ring. The marks are like…" He straightens his hands, tapping the second and third knuckles of his left hand. "This. Too wide. What the hell else has stones?"
Kincaid shakes his head. "No. Not generally. Not with stones. Men's rings tend to be smoother. Hang on. I've got a list of the personal effects found on the body." He shuffles through his autopsy file. "I don't know if it'll be noted, but …"
"Her things?" Stavrina arches a brow curiously at this new track. "You think whatever it was might've ended up on her?" He touches fingertips to the stairwell photo, drawing it closer for another glance.
"Or it might have gotten catalogued," explains Kincaid. "Somewhere. Military police usually are good at sticking things in bags and inventorying them, even if they don't have an idea of what it all means." He pulls out the inventory logs from the scene, trying to scan down them, figure out what might fit the description.
Stavrian doesn't reach for anything, letting MP information stay MP information. "Well, I'll hope something's there. If I just had an idea what the hell it was, I could give you a better sense of exactly what happened, but until then…" He shakes his head. "I can come back if you prefer. I know time is rather pressed tonight."
Kincaid just tosses the files on his desk. It's a frustrated gesture, perhaps, but one that's directed at the mystery rather than the corpsman sitting next to him. "Yeah. Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it. I really do. I'll just need to sift through all of this and see if I can come up with something." He flashes a grin. "Thanks for coming by, huh? We'll nail this guy."
Stavrian mutters, "If this were one of those films …" 'Films', as though they were quite foreign to him "… in the library, you'd say something now about how diamonds aren't a girl's best friend after all." He blows a thin puff of air out the side of his mouth. "Thanks back, Lance. Stay in touch." He stands up, the loop of prayer beads on his wrist clacking softly against the table. "Gods keep you."