Large swells rocked the R/V Coriacea, back and forth, like a slow silver pendulum on foaming white waves. Some of the waves spun off the port side sending emerald tinted cats’ paws swirling back out to sea. The little research vessel swayed and staggered like a man that had come right out of a bar, but its two person crew, the captain and a man dressed in a tight black wetsuit with a scuba mask in his hand, stood still and steadily. The captain stood in the shelter of the R/V, with his hands on the wheel, periodically looking up to the contour map at the top of his window. He glanced from the map to the wide ocean outside of his window and back to the map twice.

“Judgin’ by the amount o’ white horses out there, it’s a 5 on the Beaufort scale,” the captain shouted, leaning out of the shelter. The diver nodded.

“A 5’s not bad, Ward, I’ll be fine.” The diver felt a sharp tingling in his hands, arms and back. He always felt this way before an observational dive. He took in a deep cleansing breath and smelled the fresh tangy salt in the air.

“I’m just going to dive down there, take some pictures, record some data and come straight back,” he said in a single breath.

“Yeah, well you better be safe out there Marc, it seems a little rough t’ me,” Captain Ward replied. Marc Roget pulled the mask over his head and pushed it to his eyes. He attached a long dark cord from his waist to a little yellow buoy and gave Captain Ward a thumb’s up sign with his left hand. Captain Ward shook his head, and touched his bristly red beard. After a moment, the captain sighed and fixed his orange hat down over his ears.

“All right, no use in tryin’ t’ persuade you otherwise. In four, go,” he said. Marc felt the tingling intensify, almost to a painful level, but it matched his excitement and anxiety. Observing the nudibranchs in their natural habitat was his true passion. He remembered the nudibranch he’d seen the last time he dove here. He recalled how this flat wide creature seemed to undulate and move like a Spanish flamenco dancer. Simple waves would not stop him from having another amazing experience like that. Ward tossed the yellow buoy into the waves and it bobbed nearby. Marc sat on the edge of the boat and did a quick head check to ensure that the buoy was not directly behind him and did another to make sure that the trawling wires were not going to trip him up when he flipped. Then, when he saw through the slight fog of his mask that Ward’s fluorescent orange hat was moving up and down briskly, he knew that the captain was nodding for him to go.

He held the regulator to his mouth and let his body tumble backwards into the cold Atlantic water. Marc landed in the water as a swell passed and the boat rocked into his glossy black flippers. He kicked off swiftly and dove down twenty feet. Everything was silent, as if trapped in a slow motion film. He couldn’t even feel the waves above him. It was an unexplainable bliss, a solace that was unmatched anywhere on the mainland.

Marc breathed in, and out and then continued his way downward, towards the ocean floor. After ninety feet, he paused to make certain that he would not contract the Bends. He had heard stories of careless divers who had died painfully from the nitrogen bubbles in their bodies because they hadn’t stopped at every atmosphere depth during a dive. He could almost see the bottom, so he knew that he was in the bathyal zone already. He was feeling a rush of excitement, and the incessant tingling increased. This was unusual because the tingling usually disappeared once he dove into the water. Marc spread his arms forward to continue his dive, but stopped abruptly and brought his hands to his face, and looked at the palms of his gloves.

He gasped in pain and surprise; his hands felt as if they were on fire. Marc knew that he had to stay calm; he looked around to see if he could identify what had stung him, in confusion. In the back of his mind he was deeply disturbed because he couldn’t recall of anything in these waters that could sting him through his wetsuit. Perhaps a jelly, he considered. He scanned left and right and above, panic close to seizing him. There were two or three fish, possibly barracudas, in the distance, but he didn’t see anything else around. Panic underwater was dangerous, Marc reminded himself. But then the fire in his hands spread and he could feel a shooting pain like scalding thorns racing through his arms. Marc tried to be calm, he tried desperately to ignore the aching in his body. Just breathe, he reminded himself. He began to swim back to the surface, and he felt his whole body groan in protest. Marc began gasping for air. He gulped in air, yet his lungs didn’t seem to register. He felt like his body was contorting, his lungs shrinking and his eyes hurt so badly he couldn’t resist closing them. Marc didn’t know what was happening and fear gripped him tightly. I can’t panic, I need to breath slow and calmly Marc thought. In desperation, he felt for the cord around his waist and started to pull himself up to the surface. His head was pounding from the adrenaline.

Just breathe, he repeated, just breathe. But Marc couldn’t breathe and his entire form was shaking, bubbles were erupting from his mask. He felt his legs stiffen and his neck refused to move. Marc felt the paralysis proliferate and extend. And the fear and panic of a slow agonizing death enclosed him in a tight shroud. Marc. In a last attempt to swim, he fought the paralysis and stretched his right arm upwards. Father God forgive me, he thought, this is the end. He thought he felt the torrid fires of Damnation, and begged to be cooled. His mind zipped around, frantically, spiraling past thoughts and trying to process something, anything. Anything but the pain.

Marc pulled his mask off in one swift movement and hastily detached the tank from his back. He could feel the paralysis painfully squeezing his arms into taut frozen positions. Hoping to quench the flames inside, he opened his mouth and let the water flow in.

* * * * *

“She did it! She did it! She did it!” Kirsten Roget screamed in hysterics. She paused, closed her eyes and sat back down in her seat whimpering. The jury looked at her impassively, as one would look at a dangerous badger frothing at the mouth. She wiped tears from the corner of her eyes with a black cloth.

“Why won’t you believe me? Marc is my husband! He tells me everything,” Ms. Roget cried throwing the cloth onto the floor. She put her fist to her mouth and closed her eyes tightly as if she was in pain. She placed one hand shakily on her lap and attempted to cross her legs under her ebon dress and wine colored dress coat. The coat had dark stains on the sleeves, as if she has spilled coffee on herself. Coffee being the most likely beverage considering how shaken she was. Kirsten uncrossed her legs and shifted nervously in her seat.

“Your Honor, is it not apparent that the widow of Marc Roget has suffered enough? She is so unyielding to reality in her grief, she shouts out falsehoods in pain. She just said, did she not, that Marc is her husband, but Your Honor, with all due respect, he was her husband. In her despair, her mind creates lies, in order to understand her husband’s most recent and seemingly incomprehensible death,” the blonde haired lawyer said. He shuffled to the grieving woman on the stand. His white suit matched his bright blue tie and his fierce blue eyes seemed to bore straight into the poor woman’s soul.

“Ma’am, is it true that your husband has died?” He asked her.

“Objection, Your Honor, he’s harassing her,” snapped a loud female voice. It came from Kirsten Roget’s black haired lawyer.

After a brief moment, the judge clasped his hands together, “Sustained. Mr. Gumcshei please continue, and ask carefully.” The blonde lawyer repeated the question in a softer tone of voice.

“Has your husband drowned? Did he die?”

Everything was silent in the room as they all awaited her answer.

She looked down at him sorrowfully, sighing and replied, “No, but-”

“Thank you, Ms. Roget; you may step down from the stand. I have no further questions.”

“He was murdered!” She screamed again. Kirsten jumped to her feet, and flailed her arms, “Kit Machiavelli, his partner, she murdered him!”

“Ma’am, your husband drowned! There were traces of toxins on his skin, but he could’ve been stung by some creature, could he not? Your husband died a death that all evidence shows to be a natural one. Ms. Roget, the head toxicologist, Sylvia Muse, her fellow toxicologist, Kit Machiavelli and her intern Michelle Adler, have all been questioned and reviewed! They were all witnesses to each other on the day that your husband died, last Monday, May 14. They were all at the Coriacea Marine Lab, and there are cameras by that door that prove it!” Mr. Gumcshei retorted swiftly and exasperated. He took a breath and then continued.

“Ladies and gentleman of the jury, people of the court, did you not hear Mr. Stephen Ward, the captain of the research vessel that took Marc Roget out to sea that day? His testimony states fully and accurately that Marc was well and healthy before the dive and had no problems when getting into the water. To uphold the values of the Roget family, all that his mother asks is for his memory not to be tainted by meaningless and inane police investigations, but to be remembered for his work of which he was so fond of.”

Kirsten stood on top of the stand then, and shouted, “Kit Machiavelli did it! She murdered my husband!” In surprise, Mr. Gumcshei jumped back. The jury looked as if they were on the edge of their seats and Ms. Roget’s lawyer herself refused to take her eyes off of her employer. Kirsten shook her hands and pointed to a red haired woman in the crowd. She looked as ready as a starving panther to pounce and attack the woman. Even her stance as she stood on top of the stand displayed that such feeling.

The judge looked over to her and said, “You do realize how serious of a charge that is? Another word, and you will be taken from this court, understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then get off my stand,” he ordered dismissively. The judged shifted his green eyed gaze to the audience before him. She jumped off the stand and landed on both feet. The movement made Mr. Gumcshei jump slightly. The loud “clack” of her flat black shoes reverberated throughout the courtroom. She stood quietly, eyeing the judge peculiarly.

Fixing his black robes over to the left slightly, he addressed them, “People of the jury, disregard anything that Ms. Kirsten Roget has said after being dismissed-”

“It’s Mrs.! I’m married! I am Mrs. Kirsten Roget!” She screamed, running towards the jury and then turning on her heel she faced the judge, head on. He ignored her outburst and continued, making a brisk gesture to a policeman off to the side. As the policeman stepped forward, Kirsten closed her mouth and backed away from the judge and towards her lawyer in silence.

“There will be a short thirty minute recess while the jury comes to their conclusion.” He hit the block on his desk and a voice from the back of the room told the people to rise. When they did so, the jury and the judge exited the courtroom.

* * * * *

Gregory Briggs leaned back thoughtfully in his comfortable black office chair. His black hair was cut short, with a succinct kind of air to the style. He had a small goatee to accompany the dark sideburns that reached down his face almost in such a way that it looked like a tiny black monkey was sitting on his scalp and leaning downwards, hugging his head. He spun around nonchalantly in his wheeled office chair three times with a distinct grin on his face. He was thinking about buying a cappuccino, a nice warm cup of caffeine topped with a swirling mass of whipped cream. He could almost smell it, even though he was still working he couldn’t help but let his mind drift away from the drone in his patient’s voice and towards a beautiful mouth watering cup of java. Gregory Briggs breathed in and exhaled slowly, almost in a dreamy sort of way. He could just picture the rising steam. Suddenly, a sharply pitched voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Are you even listening to me?” She asked angrily.

“Yes, of course I am. I’m listening to the beautiful sound of the silence in between your words,” He replied finally looking at her. She looked distraught and distraught women were annoying. They did have that air of amusement however, when he gave them a witty comment or two. He loved to watch their faces flush with anger. But this patient didn’t flush, she just snapped at him again with her horribly sharply toned voice.

“You’re supposed to be listening to me, Dr. Briggs. They sent me to you. They said that you were an expert psychologist. So, why aren’t you listening?” He frowned, scrutinizing her face with his big blue eyes.

“Ms. Roget, Kirsten, dear, I am listening. I just don’t find it all very interesting. It seems to me that you have deduced and proven that others think you are insane. How can I work with that? How can I diagnose what you’ve so cleverly figured out already?” He asked her with a serious look. Then ne gave her a smile, “Now, should I take my cappuccino with whipped cream and crushed chocolate, or-” Kirsten clenched her hands in her lap. Her rosy lips twitched and her brown eyes flashed and fixated on his.

“Look, I am paying you and-”

“Technically, your insurance company is paying me to say what I think of you. So, I can say whatever I want. And I want a coffee.” She got to her feet and put her hands on her thin waist. Adorned in a brown skirt, tan turtle neck, and a deep wine red dress coat, Kirsten looked quite fierce. She also looked nervous; he could see it in her eyes, the way that they dodged around never really meeting his own. She was fearful of what she would say next. Gregory Briggs noticed stains on her sleeves, as if she’d spilled coffee on herself. Hypocrite, he thought. She pointed to herself and exhaled in an effort to remain calm.

“Listen doctor, I need to move on. Everyone says I am crazy, so crazy I must be. All I’m asking for is for me to explain to you what I am thinking and for you to give me your best advice. If that includes a psych ward, so be it.”

“Very well, Kirsten, because what I want to talk about is so much less important than what you want to talk about. I’m listening,” He grumbled, leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He could count 3 holes in his white ceiling. Briggs recalled the patient who’d gotten so angry with him that he’d accidently thrust his fingers into the ceiling. That was a good day.

“You have to make eye contact with me, doctor,” Kirsten ordered. He groaned. Then he leaned forward and stared intensely into her eyes, so close it was almost provocative. But Kirsten ignored it.

“Thank you, Dr. Briggs. Now, my husband has died.”

“My condolences, sweetheart,” Briggs said, continuing to stare her down, a foot away from her seat.

“I believe he was murdered.”

“What would you give you that idea? Could it be the fact that he died?” Briggs interrupted, mockingly, “Why that does make you sound insane.”

“Let me finish,” Kirsten snapped. She was losing her patience with this guy.

“He worked at the Coriacea Marine Lab, up by Miller Point. He had a very ambitious coworker named Kit Machiavelli. I believe that it was she who murdered him.”

“What would make you think that? Where’s the evidence?” Briggs asked her. Kirsten wasn’t sure whether he was seriously asking her or being sarcastic again. After a moment, she decided to humor him by replying.

“Marc was always very safe. He doesn’t put his wetsuit on until he’s on the boat even, so that there is no way for the wetsuit to be torn. His captain, Stephen Ward is an honest man. He mentioned a slight twitch in my husband’s hands before he went down for his dive. There was evidence of an untraceable toxin on his skin, and if it’s untraceable that must mean it is a new toxin or one that is already known of and kept in high security,” She paused. Briggs was actually listening to every word that she said. She wondered if he even cared.

“So, the fact that all evidence shows that he pulled off his own divers mask while underwater, or that it fell off, doesn’t matter? He drowned, Kirsten. I read the file.” She was struck by his frankness, and even more struck by the fact that he was thinking of this as thoroughly as she was.

“He wouldn’t commit suicide. He was a happy man, a brilliant scientist. He wouldn’t have.”

“That’s what the wives always say in a suicide case,” He argued.

“He did not commit suicide. He was murdered. Kit Machiavelli did it.”

“Why would his partner have any reason to kill him? It leaves her one pair of hands and a brain short of doing her research. Killing him would have been stupid mistake, way too obvious. She has access but so does the head right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you assume that that his partner murdered him?!”

“She’s a very ambitious woman, I know she has something to do with it,” Kirsten snapped. He sat up straight and let out a long exhale.

“You want my honest opinion, Kirsten, dear, or do you want me to lie to you?” Briggs questioned. He tapped his hand on his desk and then spun himself around in the chair twice. She reached out, grabbed his chair and held it still. He could smell coffee on her breath and rolled his eyes. This woman did not need any caffeine. He almost yawned, but held it in when she started to speak. His cheeks stretched out in an awkward way. Kirsten stared at him with an almost pleading look in her eyes and an aggressive hint to the way her mouth moved when she spoke.

“I want the truth,” She said, putting emphasis into every word.

Briggs cleared his throat and touched his goatee.

“You’re crazy and you need a lot help,” He said. Then he pushed her hands off the chair and spun it around and around and around, staring at the ceiling.

A steaming hot cup, Briggs thought to himself, with a lot of cream.