FIC: Eleven Hours ~ Chapter Four

[bugsfic]

Title: Eleven Hours
Author: bugs
Genre: Suspense, Drama, Romance
Rating: T
Word Count: 4,800
Timestamp: Fourteen hours, eighteen minutes

A/N: Can days start having 48 hours please, thanks! Too much going on! And thanks to aussie for keeping this straight. Hopefully.


Chapter 4:

"How do you know it's suicide?" I said for the third time. I'd keep pushing at the Admiral until I got a straight answer, or at least get his gaze to meet mine.

The stocky man paced the Galactica sickbay like it was a cage. "It is. You have a case already. Don't go looking for another one," he demanded.

"But it's a suspicious death," I protested, ignoring his attempt to order me around as he would one of his crew. "Cally Tyrol was a deckhand. The President is missing, probably smuggled off the deck. Surely you can see this?"

"Listen--what was your name again?" rasped the crumpled-coated doctor standing by the sheeted body on the gurney.

"Lieutenant Stallworth," I said unpleasantly.

He raised his impossibly bushy eyebrows. "All right, Lieutenant. This woman was my patient. I'm tellin' you, it's suicide."

"So she'd expressed suicidal thoughts to you?" I pressed.

He fumbled in his pockets, and amazingly, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. "I can't tell you--"

"Your patient is dead," I said ruthlessly. "There's no need to maintain patient/doctor confidentiality."

"I've got to go," the Admiral said abruptly.

"Sir," I barked. "We must interview you, now--"

He ignored me. "I've gotta go tell a boy that his wife's dead. Do your job; find the President."

Mac dared to block the way of his old commander, but it only took a brief glare from Adama for him to step aside.

"I'll be back," Adama tossed over his shoulder at us. "When I'm done."

I turned on the doctor. "Then it's your turn."

"I told you. Cally wasn't well--"

"I'd like to interview you about the President."

"That patient is still alive." He offered me a cigarette through a blue haze of smoke and I fought the urge to snatch the whole pack from him and start puffing.

Shaking my head, I asked him point-blank: "How do you know?"

Mac made a strangled noise, but the doctor just squinted at me. "She wouldn't die on us."

"So she's fighting it this time?"

"I don't deal in prophecies. I deal with the living souls."

"All right, let's say she's alive. How long can she go without her medication?"

The doctor's already crumpled features deepened into harsh grooves. "She's just had her diloxin treatment, but there's daily meds she requires, as well as the chamalla she takes. That stuff kicks your butt in withdrawals--"

I led us away from the corpse to continue my questioning. "The President had her diloxin treatment--" I checked the clock on the wall. "--two days ago now?"

"Yes," he said. "I"m Cottle, by the way."

"I know who you are," I said, remembering him from New Caprica, when we dropped off the wounded under the cover of darkness. He didn't seem to be recalling my face. I probably looked different then; we all did.

"The President just received her treatment," Mac said, encouraging Cottle to continue.

"Everything went normally," he said in agreement.

"Did she seem tense? Worried or distracted?" I asked.

He blew a long stream of smoke and I surreptitiously inhaled. "She's distracted in the sense she doesn't want to be here. Treatment gets in the way of her work. She tolerates it to...Humor us," he said with a grim grin.

"How long is she here?" Mac asked.

"It's about an hour of infusion, then she must rest, we check her responses, for about another two hours. It starts at nine hundred, with the idea that she'll take lunch afterwards. She rarely does," he said wryly.

"If she's out of circulation that long, did she have any visitors? Her aide or the Admiral?" I said.

Cottle looked uncomfortable.

"There's no reason to avoid the subject, Doctor," I said. "We're aware of the situation."

He grumbled in the back of his throat. "The Admiral usually comes," he finally said, "he reads to her--it seemed to soothe her."

"So everything appeared normal between them this time?" I asked. "No tension?"

"I don't make a point of checking on their interactions," he said huffily.

He'd given me an opening. "We're told the President moved aboard Galactica to facilitate her treatment."

Lighting another cigarette from the first, he nodded, not meeting my eyes. "Yeah," he rumbled.

That was a ringing endorsement. "Is it another thing she tolerates, like her treatment?" I asked.

He looked around the dingy room. "I think she's come to appreciate this old girl."

It didn't appear as though he was going to give me much on this topic. Must not be a gossip. I moved on: "Have you been her doctor since the attacks?"

"Yes." He got that obstinate look again, expecting me to probe about her illness and treatment.

"What sort of person is she?" I said with a vague smile.

The doctor coughed. "That's under the doctor/patient confidentiality," he said when he finally had control of his breathing.

Holding up a hand, I tried once more. "If you can possibly answer this one question--"

He steeled himself.

"Often when ill, people become more fearful in general, easily led--"

He barked a laugh. "Hell no."

"No one could have forced her to go away against her will without a fight?"

"She's not a physical fighter," he stated. "But she's not going to make things pleasant for whomever has her."

Before I could ask any more questions, a thin medic, her dark hair tightly pulled back from her drawn features, hurried into the ward. "Doctor, Tory Foster has brought in Nicholas Tyrol."

I beat the older man through the hatch.

The President's assistant held a hot-faced little boy.

"I found him in the corridor, but when I went to the Tyrols' quarters, I couldn't find Cally or Galen," Foster babbled. "I thought I better bring him here--"

The medic took the boy from her and the aide wiped her hands together as though he'd been dirty.

"Ms. Foster, come with me," I said, drawing her aside.

"Wait a minute," growled the doctor. "I want to know where she found him."

"That's what I'm going to find out," I said tersely. "I'll get back to you."

The tartness in my tone made his thick white brows rise, but he allowed us to retreat to a quiet corner of the sickbay.

Foster leaned against an empty bed and gave a shattering sigh.

I jumped right in. "Cally Tyrol's dead."

The woman had an interesting reaction to the news; a sharp intake of breath and nothing more. "What happened--did she..."

"Did she what?"

"She'd been upset lately." The aide's large dark eyes blinked slowly, as though she was trying to control her movements. She clutched her arms tightly.

"You were friends with her?"

"I wouldn't say that," Foster said defensively. "I worked with her husband on New Caprica in the underground."

"And you still keep in touch with her husband?"

Foster was silent a beat longer than seemed necessary, as though she was weighing what should have been a simple answer. "We have drinks occasionally," she finally said. "If we're both at Joe's."

"Joe's is the local bar," Mac explained to me. "It was opened recently."

"An interesting addition to a military vessel," I mused. My attention returned to the overly nervous woman across from me. "So you think she committed suicide?"

She shrugged, but her shoulders were too tight for the gesture to be natural, and instead she seemed to twitch. "It's not my call," she warbled. "How did she die?"

"Out an airlock. Where did you find the boy?"

"In the corridor, like I said."

"Which corridor?"

This seemed to take her too long to answer again. "At the end of a corridor on deck twelve," she said naming a location that meant nothing to me.

"There's an airlock on deck twelve-starboard," Mac helpfully filled in.

"You knew she'd been upset lately. You found her child unattended. You didn't think to check the airlock?"

Foster gaped at me. "I couldn't know!"

"The airlock's alarm wasn't sounding in the corridor?" Mac asked.

I cursed my lack of knowledge of this vessel's working--we weren't on the streets of Caprica City anymore. "There's an alarm?" I asked him.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "There's an internal alarm when the airlock is about to open anyway, but ever since the exodus, there's a warning on the CIC, as well as an alarm in the corridor when the airlock is getting ready to open."

"Why since the exodus?" I asked.

Mac looked at the aide, but she was staring at her shoes' tips.

"People started disappearing," he explained.

I furrowed my forehead. "Suicides?"

"Looked like it," he said shortly. "Safeguards have been put in place so it's harder for the doors to be opened."

"But a deckhand would be able to open the doors, no problem," I suggested.

Foster winced.

"I can't believe she'd do it," Mac said. "Cally had gone out the airlock once; knows how much it hurts."

"A previous suicide attempt?" I asked quickly.

"No. She and her husband were trapped in one--a malfunction. The only way out was the doors."

"Lords," I muttered.

"I just can't believe," he repeated. "And to leave her baby--that kid's the world to her."

I felt as though I were interviewing him, not Foster now, but I kept an eye on her nonetheless. Her manner wasn't reading right. She was acting guilty, but why in the worlds would she want to kill a deckhand? Unless she had something to do with her boss's disappearance--

My thoughts still racing, I kept asking Mac more questions. "You knew Cally Tyrol well?"

"All the pilots knew her. She was our dirty-faced angel of the deck." His eyes were shining with tears.

I squeezed his arm. "Sorry, Mac."

"I just found the baby. That's all," Foster insisted.

"Where've you been since leaving the Admiral's quarters?" I asked.

There was that expression again, the whites of her eyes shining at me. "What do you mean?"

"The Admiral had men looking for you. I asked my men to watch for you. Your President is missing. Yet no one could find you. Were you back at your quarters?"

The overly long pause again. "No," she said finally. "I had a lot on my mind, of course. I was walking. I suppose those looking for me just kept missing me."

"And a crying baby in a corridor as well," I pointed out. "But you found him."

"Why do you keep asking me about the baby," she burst out. "He was sitting on the deck of the corridor. I don't know why no one else found him!"

I held up my hands. "All right, Ms. Foster. New topic."

She couldn't stop herself from blinking rapidly now.

"The President's appointment book. There's a curious entry and the Admiral didn't know what it was about."

"Her afternoon appointment," Foster said flatly. She was so relieved to be on familiar ground, she was clutching the bed to remain upright.

"Yes," I said.

"She didn't go."

"No, but what was it for?"

"She was to meet with Taylor Glenn," she said, lowering her voice. "He makes wigs. It's her final fitting."

Mac made a note. I nodded. "I see."

"No one else knew she was going there?" my partner asked.

"Not at all. She wanted this kept very private," Foster said with that proprietary manner of the close confidante. I wondered how long this intimate relationship with Adama had been going on. Had she felt cut out recently?

"I see," I murmured.

Foster became alert again; someone new had entered the sickbay. When I looked over, I saw Lee Adama searching the room.

He spotted us. "Have you seen my father?" he called out.

"He's gone to speak with Galen Tyrol," I said. "There's time for us to have a chat."

"A chat?" Lee asked, already appearing as though he planned to resist our interrogation.

"Mac, why don't you check with whoever can tell you if that alarm went off or not," I told my partner. "I'll take Mr. Adama to his father's quarters."

The younger man tucked away his notebook. "Yes, sir. I'll be back there soon."

"Find that Corporal Jaffee too," I added, "I want his confirmation that the President was in the quarters."

Mac nodded and hurried from the sickbay.

"Mr. Adama, you'll have to lead the way. I can't find my way around this flying city."

"Follow me," the young man said tightly.

In the Admiral's opulent quarters, I sat at the desk and motioned for Lee to sit in front of it. He gave a rueful grin, undid the button of his suit jacket and took the chair.

His gaze fell on the picture of his father and the President lying on the desktop.

I touched the frame. "Was this what you were coming for earlier?"

He glanced around the room. "It doesn't matter."

Rummaging in my jacket pocket, I found my pencil. "No, it doesn't matter anymore," I said. "We've found a number of things you probably didn't want us to see."

He pursed his chiseled mouth.

I flipped to a clean page. "How well do you know the President?"

"I've known her from the first day...After the attacks."

This wasn't really an answer. But I kept going. "So you know her well?"

He shrugged. "At times I've thought I've known her very well."

"And the other times?"

Lifting his wide shoulders, he shrugged again.

"She could be frustrating?" I suggested.

He looked grateful. "As any leader can be," he said carefully.

"I'm sure," I said smoothly. "And there's been a number of changes for you, I assume."

He started to speak, then narrowed his eyes. I smiled back, guileless.

"Are you having any luck finding the President?" he asked, shutting me out.

"It's early yet. And I'm having difficulty finding cooperative witnesses."

"I don't think there's anything I can help you with," he insisted.

"You're on the Quorum with her now. Did she seemed worried? Afraid of anyone or anything?"

"Laura Roslin's not a fearful person," he said, confirming Cottle's earlier statement.

"Was there someone she should have been afraid of?" I held his evasive gaze. I remembered the snatch of a press conference broadcast--a question for the President. She had insisted she held no animosity toward Lee Adama for Doctor Baltar's trial. But he had betrayed her in the most intimate way, before the entire Fleet. What more was he capable of?

"You'll have to ask the Admiral about that." He rose. "As I said, there are times I don't feel I know her well. This is one of those times."

"And yet she's probably never been closer to you," I said, looking around his father's home.

"Please let me know if you have any more questions for me," he said, quietly moving to the hatch.

I didn't stop him. Sometimes you get skunked when fishing. This was one such interview.

Alone in the quarters, I let out a tense breath. I glanced over to the drink cart with the full bottles.

Resolute, I picked up the book Laura Roslin had been reading. Love and Bullets by Nick Taylo. Not exactly the sort of literature I'd expect the Secretary of Education, let alone the President, to be reading. It had been years since I'd read it. Police work took the entertainment value out of blood and guts on the page.

I flipped it open to the first page:

From the moment I open my eyes, she's in my blood, bittersweet, tinged with regret. I'll never be free of her, nor do I want to be. For she is what I am, all that is, should always be.

Yes, Taylo had been an emotive writer, with a heavy helping of sex and violence. Interesting.

I opened the chapter on Roslin's marker.

The body is a stranger to everyone; face caved in, pockets empty, fingertips cut off. Blood trickles across the cracked concrete sidewalk toward the gutter like a dark mountain stream seeks a river. She--it was a woman--is a nobody now.

No clue jumped off the page at me. Closing the book, I stood and then drifted around the large space, seeking answers. I stopped before the drink cart and fiddled with the decanter stopper. The answers weren't there, for sure.

The hatch swung open. "Sir, are you here?"

I came out and greeted my partner. "What do you have?"

"Not much," he said, frustration on his ruddy face. "The alarm did go off on the CIC. It rings in on the LSO station. As it was one hundred hours, and no patrol was out, there wasn't any crewman on that station. By the time someone identified the airlock and the Marines could get there, Cally was dead."

"And yet no one saw the baby?"

"They weren't looking for him. I guess he could have been silent, back against the bulkhead as they ran by," Mac said doubtfully.

I shook my head. "I suppose. I just get a bad vibe off that Foster woman. But why would she help someone kidnap or kill her boss? She was her right hand on New Caprica--"

Frustrated, I moved on. "What about this Jaffee--did you find him?"

"Yep, all the Marines are up in their duty locker.; no sleep for that corp tonight."

"What did he have to say?"

Mac grinned. "That the President was in the rack, as she always is."

I didn't return the smile. "So was she really there? Or did he just expect her to be there? Did you ask if he spoke to her?"

"Yes..." he said slowly, flushing.

"And?"

"He just puts the breakfast tray down and leaves."

"Every morning," I repeated.

"So you think they could all be lying?" Mac asked indignantly. "Why are we bothering to question anyone?"

"It's not the answers. It's the way they answer."

My partner grimaced, impatient with my tutelage. I kept hammering away: "Perhaps the Admiral's having an affair with Tory Foster. That would explain her manner, his reticence, the condom--"

Mac opened his mouth to reply, but didn't get a chance. The Admiral stormed through the hatch. Every motion by the man was strong. I'd say a bull in a china shop, but it would be a Tauron joke.

"You have time for us now?" I said, my tone snippy.

He pulled up, glaring at me from behind his glasses.

"Yes," Adama said, coming around to sit behind his desk. Cursing inside, I took the chair before the desk and nodded to Mac to pull another one over. He took out his notebook.

"How'd the husband take it?" I asked.

"How do you think," Adama said rudely. "Not well."

He looked at the disassembled picture. He glanced at the wall to see I'd removed the bullet.

"Let's start there," I said.

He waited.

"There's a bullet hole through this photograph," I said, teeth gritted.

"Yes."

"How did that happen?"

"It was an accident."

I leaned back in the chair and pinned him with my gaze. "Who fired the gun?"

I did not expect him to say, "The President," and neither did Mac from his stifled gasp.

"She carries a weapon?" I asked carefully.

"No."

"You keep one here?"

"No," he repeated.

I put my pencil down. "Admiral, every moment counts in this search. We don't have time to drag every response out of you."

His mouth became a thin, obstinate line. Finally he gave a short nod. "She was having a discussion with one of my pilots. The pilot gave her the weapon. It went off and hit the picture. There are no weapons kept in these quarters."

I raised my eyebrows. Oh yes, that was much more forthright.

"What sort of discussion was this?"

"It had nothing to do with the President's disappearance."

"How can you be sure--"

"The pilot was Kara Thrace. She's gone--she couldn't have done anything to the President."

His imploring tone intrigued me but I kept my manner low key. "Why did she have a weapon with her for a discussion with the President?"

"She's an emotional young woman."

"She's not on Galactica," said Mac, "Hasn't been for a month."

I gave him a quick glare. "So the President fired the weapon--when was this?"

"About a month ago," Adama said.

"Right before you sent Thrace on this mission--" I had vaguely heard that a crew was out scouting for Earth. I would pay attention when the order came for us to abandon the Fleet.

He nodded.

I took a stab in the dark. "Was that the night you ended up sleeping in the President's other quarters?"

And I hit a target. He gave a quick, sheepish smile. "Yeah."

"So how did it go from her taking a shot at Thrace to tossing you out?" I said.

He shrugged. "Does a man ever know why he's tossed out?"

Before I could share my thoughts on that, he protested, "She didn't shoot at Starbuck. I told you it was an accident."

I suddenly remembered Tavel's discomfort when he said the President wasn't a good shot. It was easy enough to imagine an argument with this stubborn old mule insisting Roslin hadn't intended to harm Thrace. It would sure piss me off, particularly if I had been trying to kill someone and just couldn't hit a target. I glanced at the bisected picture again. Or perhaps she had.

"Do you fight a lot?" I asked next. I looked around the quarters as though searching for more bullet holes.

That earned me another tightly held mouth from the Admiral.

"No." He was back to one word answers.

I motioned to Mac. He stared back at me for a moment, then slowly removed one particular evidence envelope from his bag.

I took it from him and opened it for Adama to see its content.

His heavy brows furrowed until he identified it. Disgust quickly flitted across his face before it returned to an impassive mask.

"What about other women? Fight about that?" I suggested.

He appeared truly shocked, then an expression I remember well from my son when accused of taking the last cookie. That I could possibly accuse him of doing such a thing! Then he looked the tiniest bit pleased, as though this meant there was some life in the old dog yet. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes.

He relaxed back in his chair. "We have to use condoms. Her medications are toxic. You can confirm that with Doctor Cottle."

I felt the flush rising on my face, even as I saw Mac's shoulders slump in relief.

"I will," I said stiffly. "I still need to interview the doctor as it is."

Adama focused on his clasped hands at his waist. He must have felt that he still needed to explain himself. "I don't need or insist--it's her choice."

I slowly twirled my pencil. So eager to be noble, he couldn't see that a strong woman wouldn't want to give anything up, whether it was her sex life or her hair. No, I wouldn't show him the mat of hair we'd found or explain what i'd learned about the appointment quite yet.

Mac's clear voice rang out, surprising both of us at the desk. "Sir, can you explain this?" He opened the box of knives from the drawer.

"You have searched everywhere." Adama was looking at me, not my partner.

"I know those knives weren't used recently," I said, not wanting to appear the fool twice. "But they are assassination weapons, right?"

The Admiral nodded to Mac. The younger man rose and brought the box to him.

Lifting one of the knives, Adama looked it over carefully. "Haven't had these out in years. Forgot they were even down in there."

After returning the weapon to its indentation in the velvet, he explained, "They were my uncle's. Not mine."

"He left them bloody?" I said.

"It's--" Adama removed his glasses. "You can't use them again until they're clean. So he didn't clean them that last time. And gave them to me when he felt the urge to wash that old blood off."

"I'm surprised you kept them all these years. I assume this uncle is dead?"

"Yes." He closed the box's lid and fastened the latch. "They are a family heirloom," he said with no irony.

I was suddenly struck with a thought. "Does your son know?"

The quick grin flashed again and then was gone. "No."

His gaze fell on the President's appointment book, still out from when I'd checked it again earlier.

"What'd you find out from Tory about that appointment?" he asked, putting me on the spot.

"That's a dead end," I said.

Before he could protest, I slid Love and Bullets across the desk to him. "Would you be able to tell how far she read today?"

"I read to her last night." He grumbled, "She was reading ahead of me."

"Hadn't you read the book before?" I pointed out. After all, it had his bookplate in the front.

Frowning, he didn't look up. "That's the not the point...We ended here last night...." He flipped to Roslin's marker. "Here," he said, handing it back.

"How long do you think it would take her to read that far?" I said after glancing at the page.

"About forty-five minutes, assuming she didn't stop for some reason."

"So a tight window before the guards discovered she was gone," I mused.

Adama looked pleased.

I thought over everything I'd learned so far. It all came back to that hour in the observation lounge. Who was behind this kidnapping wasn't as important right now as following Laura Roslin from the room.

"Everyone's told me how fearless she was, sir. But would she go away with a stranger, even if they had a compelling story?"

"Never," he said definitely. "She's very aware of how dangerous our existence is, even on Galactica." He grumbled, "She's not a damn fool," with pride.

I stood. "I'll need the ability to make a public announcement on the ship--"

He hopped up from his chair. "No, she doesn't want that--"

"I won't ask if anyone's seen the President. I'll ask if anyone can help us find the young, dark-haired woman with the President between 12:45 and thirteen hundred hours."

"Then you know who took her?" Adama asked.

Mac turned his face up to me in wonder as well.

"No, I have no idea. Private Tavel noticed a girl fitting that description hanging around recently." I began to pace. "But even if it's not her, I would say the President would only willingly leave with someone with whom she felt safe."

I stopped and grinned. "Besides, maybe we'll strike it lucky and someone will say, no, but I saw the President with Tory Foster at that time."

He raised his hand in protest. "Tory wouldn't hurt her--"

"That woman did a lot of lying tonight. I don't know--maybe she's just frakking Galen Tyrol and was covering that, but she's covering for something."

He growled under his breath, wanting to fight me. Then he suddenly relaxed and the first true hope was in his gaze. "Do you think this will work?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Don't know. This situation is outside my experience. I'm making this up as I go along."

Adama squinted at me and slipped his glasses back on. "You're gonna roll the hard six," he said admiringly.

I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded good to me. "Yes, sir," I said definitely.

End ~ Chapter 4