P Deutermann - Darkside

“Not if it’s a homicide investigation,” she said. “If this were simply some outrage to the Navy’s dignity at a football game, then, yes, our focus would be on what the Academy was going to do about it. But if it’s murder, law enforcement is going to drive it.”

“I can’t believe a midshipman has been murdered,” he said, meaning it.

“I can’t, either. That’s not what the Academy’s supposed to be all about, is it?”

He found himself shaking his head at his desk. “The world turned upside down,” he said, remembering what General Cornwallis had ordered his band to play at Yorktown. Then, not wanting to end their conversation on a negative note, he added, “I enjoyed dinner last night. Sorry for the emotional spaz.”

She didn’t say anything, and he wondered if he’d misspoken.

“You’re entitled,” she said finally.

“Yeah, but I’ve got to get over that. I hear it all the time.”

“Not from me.”

He thought about that. It was true: She hadn’t said anything like that. “Well, yes, and I appreciate that.” Then he surprised himself. “I’d like to see you again.” More silence. Was he getting this right? “I mean, if-”

“Sure,” she replied, interrupting him. “When?”

Relieved, he grinned, although she wasn’t cutting him any slack whatsoever. “How about tonight? You come out to my place this time. Call me when you leave and I’ll order up a pizza. This time, I promise: no waterworks.”

“Sounds fine. I like anything but anchovies. Hate anchovies.”

Ev loved anchovies, but he decided he could accommodate her. This one time. “Roger no anchovies.”

“And Ev? I’m really glad you asked me. See you in a little bit.”

He felt his face flush a little as he hung up. For some reason, he felt apprehensive. Why? Being too forward? No, that wasn’t it. Julie was the problem. He hoped Liz wouldn’t drop an “Oh, by the way, your father and I are going to have dinner tonight.”

On the other hand, Julie would be leaving town in a couple of weeks, and then it wouldn’t matter.

Right.

Good.

But he decided he was going to get anchovies on his half, just the same. Might as well establish some boundaries here.

Liz arrived at Ev’s house at 7:30. She’d brought along a bottle of Joseph Phelps Alexander Valley cabernet. He smiled when he saw it. “Fancy fixin’s, counselor. I usually have beer with pizza.”

“Force of habit,” she said. “Come to someone’s house for dinner, you bring some wine.”

He took her through to the kitchen and opened the wine, pouring them both a glass. “I know I’m supposed to let this breathe, but-cheers,” he said. The kitchen had a spacious breakfast nook that overlooked the backyard and Sayers Creek. They sat on cushioned stools at a semicircular counter facing the windows. Liz hadn’t changed from work clothes, and the way she was sitting made it difficult for him to keep his eyes above counter level.

“So, how’d it go with Julie?” he asked.

She reached for her purse and extracted a small boxy tape recorder. “Why don’t I let you listen to this?” she said. “Then you tell me what you think.”

“You tape your clients?” he asked, surprised.

“Always,” she replied, punching on the tape. “For mutual protection. This is interesting.”

Ev listened as Liz welcomed Julie to the office and got her some water. She made a comment about Julie looking in her service dress blues like something right out of a recruiting poster.

“They already did,” Julie said, and then there were chair noises. “For the catalog.”

“I can believe it,” Liz said. “And those stars on your uniform-those indicate academic achievement?”

“Yes, they do,” Julie said. “Although it took me two years to qualify for them. The really smart kids do it in one.”

“Your modesty is most becoming,” Liz said. “Now, do you remember what I told you in the car, that first night we met at your father’s house?”

“About always being straight with you?”

“Precisely.”

There was a pause. “What do you want to know, Ms. DeWinter?”

“Please, call me Liz. And I want you to refresh my memory on how well you knew Midshipman Dell. Take your time to think.”

“I don’t have to,” Julie said. “He was one of about twelve hundred entering plebes this past summer. He ended up being assigned in my battalion for the academic year, but not in my company.”

“That means you were in the same building?”

“In the same wing, yes. There are six battalions, five companies in each. There are eight wings to Bancroft Hall, so the battalions overlap, but, for the most part, company rooms are adjacent.”

“So you’d know everyone in your company pretty well, but not necessarily everyone in your battalion?”

“That’s correct. As a firstie, I know my classmates very well. The second class also-they’ve been right behind us for three years now. The youngsters are last year’s plebes, so they’re the new guys. This year’s crop of plebes are sort of a probationary class: Those who survive into youngster year achieve a class identity.”

“So all plebes look alike, then?”

There was a shuffling sound as Julie moved around in her chair. “Not entirely,” she said. “There are some plebes who stand out-at both ends of the spectrum. The ones who get with the program, who rise to the challenges of plebe year, become gung ho-they stand out. And the ones who are barely keeping their heads above water-they also stand out.”

“What happens to them?”

“It depends,” Julie said. “If they’re busting their asses to make it, the plebe year system will cut them some slack. Not a lot, but enough to keep them trying. Sort of a subliminal message to penetrate all the plebe year bullshit: You can do this, and we actually want you to succeed.”

“And if they’re not busting their asses?”

“If they’re lazy, dumb, or dishonest-you know, making it, but doing it by climbing over the backs of their plebe classmates-we’ll run them out.”

“‘Run them out’?”

“Make life so miserable, they ask to quit. Resign.”

“The Academy countenances that?”

“The Academy created the plebe year system. They want as many quality plebes as possible to succeed, to make it to their youngster year. But they expect some to fail.”

“How does that happen?”

Julie gave a short laugh. “A million ways. Look, what I’m telling you is how I see it, as a firstie. The official Academy line would probably be to deny everything I’m saying.”

“Okay, I accept that. Tell me how you’d do it.”

“It’s usually not a conscious decision or anything,” Julie said. “It’s not like we get together and declare someone a shitbird. It’s more like a collective conclusion among the upperclassmen. So-and-so’s a weakling and doesn’t belong here. And that doesn’t happen out of the blue, either. Usually, people will try to help a plebe who’s struggling. I’m talking about the ones who don’t struggle, or who whine and complain, or who try to skate.”

“And what happens to them?”

“Basically, a plebe’s day is supposed to be split between plebe year stuff and his academics, with a strong emphasis on allowing time to do the academics work. We reverse that. They get eternal come-arounds. They get sent on daily uniform races. They get ordered to roam the mess hall, where they report to a different table of strangers every meal, who harass the shit out of them. They get asked professional questions at meals and then get come-arounds when they show up without the answers. They get no free time, so pretty soon they’re on academic probation, too. They get fried-that means put on report-three, four times a week for small infractions: unshined shoes, failing room inspections, having nonreg gear, failure to get to places on time. Any number of things.”