P Deutermann - Darkside

He hadn’t yet escalated his surveillance activities to go hunting, because this was, after all, just a game played by some mids who were defying Executive Department regulations. As security officer, he didn’t care if the mids wanted to live dangerously and risk a Class-A conduct offense known in Bancroft Hall as “going over the wall,” even if it was technically under the walls. He also wasn’t sure what he’d do if he actually caught up with one of the runners. He had the authority to put the miscreant on report, assuming it was a mid and not a townie, but he was more inclined simply to count coup and then make the guy knock it off. It was bound to be a firstie, because if a firstie caught a second classman down there, he’d be obliged to put him on report. Whoever it was, he wasn’t really damaging anything, and if it was just a game, well, hell, it was just a game. As CO of the Marine detachment, he could never have taken such an attitude, which was one of the reasons, he supposed, that he’d become a civilian. Besides Bosnia.

When he got to his desk, there was a message from Chief Bustamente. Subject: the Dell case. The tunnels forgotten, Jim called Carlo.

Bustamente was a retired Navy chief warrant officer who oversaw the Academy’s seventeen-man civilian police force. He’d done twenty-six years in the fleet, starting out as a master at arms, making chief, and then warrant. Now he was nearly sixty and an old hand in the federal law-enforcement business, having worked in naval base security offices all across the country. Carlo prided himself on knowing what was going on under the floorboards of any installation he’d been assigned to, and he had a large network of contacts in both federal and local civilian law enforcement.

“Hey, Cap,” he said when Jim called, in deference to both Jim’s now defunct status as a Marine Corps captain and the fact that Jim was his titular boss.

“Chief,” Jim replied, observing the protocol, “What’s up?”

“You heard any of the details on this flier we had?”

“Only that the powers that be haven’t decided whether he was a jumper or it was a DBM-death by misadventure.”

“Not misadventure, but maybe AD-venture, Cap,” Bustamente said, lowering his voice. “Did you know our young Captain Marvel was dressed out in lace panties?”

Whoa, Jim thought. That’s a detail that ought not to be loose. “Yes, but I’m surprised that’s out there,” he said.

“An FAK fact,” Carlo said. “And I hear through the grapevine that the ME’s got some physical indications that he may have had some help in his final moments.”

Jim twisted his chair around so that his voice wouldn’t carry out into the admin office. “Physical indications? As in?”

“Bruising on lower arms, indicating he may have been gripped, with his arms pinned. Like maybe he was thrown or pushed, instead of jumping. Probably some other stuff, but that’s all I have.”

Jim was stunned. None of this had come out at the morning conferences-just bland generalities about continuing investigations and heightened sensitivity to indications of suicide or serious depression. This sounded like homicide. If it was true. He said as much to Carlo.

“Yeah, well, my source in town says the ME’s report’s been snatched up by NCIS and everyone’s been told to clamp their yaps and move along smartly, which tells me the rumor’s got some legs. I can just imagine how this is gonna play over in the admin building.”

“Man. The incident came up at morning staff, of course, but only in terms of a media-relations problem. No hint that it might be more serious than suicide.”

“As if suicide wasn’t serious enough.”

Got that right, Jim thought. According to the JAG this morning, the boy’s parents were already asking some pointed questions. “You got any traplines into NCIS?” he asked.

“Well, you know me, Cap,” Carlo said. “Nothing I could admit to.”

Which meant no, he didn’t. “I hear you, Chief,” Jim said. “I’m just curious-I have no role in this mess, for which I’m increasingly grateful.”

“Yeah,” Carlo said with a chuckle. “Don’t you just love that exclusive jurisdiction rule, though? Oh, and did you hear about the vampire?”

Jim saw a joke coming. “Haven’t heard that one, Chief.”

“No, no, not a joke. One of my buds downtown said they had a complaint of some guy getting the shit kicked out of him by Count Dracula.”

“Ri-i-ght.”

“Seriously. Somebody called nine-one-one, cops came, found two guys passed out, with their pants down in a-what’d they call it-a compromising position. Third guy, on the other hand, had to be scraped up off the concrete.”

“Sounds more like a general-purpose mugging.”

“Yeah, well, the injured kid claimed they were following a couple of those Goth girls out of a bar. You know, that all in black, abraca-fucking-dabra, white face, green hair scene? Anyway, kid says the girls were hot to trot, despite the weirdness.”

“They always are.”

“Yeah, right. So our poor vic and his two asshole buddies get misled, probably not for the first time in their miserable lives, an’ follow their dicks right into a- ta da -dark alley. Where, naturally, things turn to shit.”

“What a surprise. And this is when Count Dracula shows up?”

“Ten feet tall, cape, face to stop a clock. The vic in the hospital apparently becomes one helluva witness, comes to this face: dead-white skin, red lips, red eyes like coals, fangs, the whole salami. Had a serious hiss in him, too, apparently. The two nuclear physics majors with him heard the big hiss, but as they’re turning around, some thing knocks them flat on their asses. Fearless leader says he tried to defend himself, but the docs said he most likely fainted out of fright and then got his ass stomped. No defensive injuries, other than he pissed himself. I don’t know if that works on vampires or not.”

“A vampire in Crabtown. Hey, I gotta know: Did old Drac do his signature deed?”

“Nope, no bites. Count Dracula apparently has his standards. But he did indulge in a pretty vicious beating. Guy’s seriously fucked up. Get this: The cops told this guy, he needs to check the mirror the next time the moon is full. See where he’s growin’ hair.”

“I love it. Poor bastard’s gonna wonder for a whole month. Guess a working vampire has to be careful these days, all this HIV going around.”

Bustamente laughed. “There you go. Safe-sex vampires. Maybe that’s why he beat the shit out of the guy. Frustrated. No blood and gore.”

Jim laughed and hung up.

And then he had a thought: as the Naval Academy’s security officer, should he not be telling his superiors that the word was leaking on a possible homicide? He hesitated. Was this his military mind-set talking? What would a civilian bureaucrat do in this case? A savvy civilian would probably keep his mouth shut and his head down in anticipation of a galactic shit storm, that’s what. On the other hand, the supe and the dant were probably operating under the mistaken impression that they had some maneuvering room and time, which, if the rumors were already flying, they probably did not have. He pushed the paperwork aside and picked up the phone.

Cmdr. T. Prentice Walsh, the elegant executive assistant, answered. “Rear Admiral McDonald’s office, this is Commander Walsh speaking, sir?”

“Commander, this is Jim Hall. Have some intel for you.”

“Ready to write,” Walsh said. The EA was very switched in to getting inside information.

Jim told him what he’d heard. Walsh whistled softly. “Damn,” he said. “Very well. Thank you.” Then he hung up.

Hey. Have you heard? The word’s out on campus. Not our campus, silly, the campus of King William’s School, founded a few weeks back, in 1696. Now called St. John’s. Not sure why old St. John won out over His Majesty, but, whatever. It seems the Annapolis cops have been on the campus, asking questions about the Goths. The Johnnies, being Johnnies, God love ’em, are telling the Filth absolutely nothing, other than there are hundreds and hundreds of Goths, and is there one in particular you might be looking for, Officers? Pretty good for a school of about four hundred lost intellectuals.