P Deutermann - Darkside

“Wait a minute. He would have been working the plebe bench, so she-”

“Yes, Julie explained that. But in their words, she could have had daily contact with Dell. It is possible.”

“But hardly likely.”

“You understand that; I understand that. But a jury might not understand the system, the fact that plebes and firsties don’t associate, other than in the Sturm und Drang of plebe year.”

“O-kay, I guess I can see that.”

“You’re thinking like a human, Ev. I’m thinking like a lawyer.”

He chuckled. “Got it,” he said. “And my assignment?”

“I want to know more about Julie’s love life, if she has one.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?”

“I intend to. But I’d like you to corroborate and elaborate.”

“Well, as you observed, I might be the least informed in that area, and I don’t exactly pry. She is an adult, about to be a commissioned officer.” He moved his appointment book to make room for his drink, knocking the book off the table in the process.

“I know, Ev, but she talks to you. I’m just asking for some backup here.”

There was some frustration in Liz’s voice. Ev reached down to retrieve the book while he considered it. “Sure, Liz, I’ll try,” he said. “There’s Tommy Hays, of course, but I think he’s on the outs right now. I can make up a list of the kids she’s brought back here on weekends this past year. But I’m going to guess the swim team is the place to look. They’re together for hours a day in practice, and then at the away meets, long bus rides, parties after the meets in away towns.”

“Do they practice a lot?”

“Oh, hell yes. Actually, I was on the swim team when I went through. That’s where Julie gets it, probably. We used to get up before reveille, zero dark-thirty. Hit the pool until zero six-fifteen, then went back to our rooms for regular reveille and morning formation, then did it all again after class.”

“Really,” she said, and he heard something in her voice.

“What?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but they asked her where she was when Dell died. She told them, asleep in her ‘rack,’ as she called it.”

“Rack, right. Mids love their racks.”

“Then they asked her if she’d been there all night.”

Well, of course, he thought. Then he understood. “Ah. And she said?”

“She said yes.”

“But you had the sense that she would have preferred not answering that question.”

“Right.”

Ev thought about that. “Well,” he said slowly, “if she’d gotten up for swim practice, then technically she was not in her room all night. Oh, I get it: If she wasn’t in her room, then she could have been what-throwing him out a window?”

“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous, but visualize the interview transcript being read into evidence: ‘Were you in your room all night?’ ‘No, I wasn’t. I was-’ ‘Thank you, Midshipman Markham, you’ve answered my question.’”

“Holy shit!”

“Cops. Case-building cops. That’s how they do it, Ev, which is why potential suspects do not go to interviews without their shysters.”

“Damn. Does she fully understand that?”

“I think she got a glimmer today, although she’s still resisting it. I told NCIS there wouldn’t be any more interviews. They can, of course, tell me to pound sand. If they detected what I detected, they’re going to pull the string on the early-morning swim practice routine. I’d like to know in advance.”

“Well, that’s easy enough. I’ll find out if there was early practice, and if she was there. I can do that through the Athletic Department. Although, the season’s over. And she’s graduating. I would guess they’re not doing that anymore.”

“I need to know, and then I’ll sort it out with Julie. And Ev? Let her call you. Let her tell you about the interview. I’m going to go through all of this with her. What I need from you is-”

“Right, ‘corroborate and elaborate.’”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “If you’re uncomfortable with this, I can do it on my own,” she said.

“Hell yes, I’m uncomfortable, but I want her protected. You’re the protector. It’s my job to help you.”

“Thank you. I do understand how you feel.” She paused. “There’s this eight-hundred-pound gorilla that’s beginning to materialize in the back of the room, isn’t there?”

“You do have a way with words, counselor,” Ev said wearily. “But yes, there is. You’re saying Julie, in some fashion or other, might be involved in this mess after all.”

“I’m sorry, Ev.”

“Thank you. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Hold that thought,” she said, and hung up.

At ten o’clock on Friday evening, the two investigators met in back of Mahan Hall, by the grating entrance. Jim indicated the map. “I propose to take you down the way I went the last time. Show you the main tunnels, the access points. See what you think about catching this turd.”

“Let’s do it,” Bagger said.

Jim took Bagger into the main tunnel that ran under Stribling Walk, heading back toward Bancroft Hall this time. He showed the agent the main utility vaults, the access flap doors to the big storm drain, and the branches leading to the various academic buildings. The closer they got to Bancroft Hall, the more pronounced was the hum of machinery and electricity.

“This system is supporting all eight wings of Bancroft Hall, and the four thousand people inside,” he said. “Heat, lights, potable water, sewer, telephone, electricity, computer networks, and, pretty soon, chilled water for air conditioning. Every dorm room has water, steam heat, computer lines. Group heads for men and women. It’s big.”

“Yeah, it is,” Bagger said, speaking softly. Something about being in the tunnels had them lowering their voices. “Can they get directly from Bancroft into any of these tunnels?”

“I don’t think so, not without knocking a hole in a basement wall, which, of course, somebody may have done. When I ran the tunnels, I did it from one of the grates, although that one’s been moved. You know, diggers and fillers.”

They came to a three-way junction, where only one branch was man-high; the other two were filled with utility lines and narrowed down to what were basically crawlspaces. The smell of steam leaking through lagging was strong. “And they run why, again?” Bagger asked.

“It’s a game, mostly. The Academy is all about discipline, uniformity, maximum conformity. Some guys like to show a little outlaw attitude.”

“That you?” Bagger asked, looking doubtful.

“Nope. I was chasing late-night skirt.”

“Yeah, that would be me. What’s that archway down there? That looks old.”

They followed the main tunnel as it bent around to the right and then back to the left in a gentle S-turn. They came to a section of the tunnel that wasn’t made of concrete, but of huge granite blocks. On the left, or bay, side of the tunnel was a recessed alcove, which contained two arched doors side by side. They appeared to be made of very thick oak, reinforced with three-inch-wide cast-iron straps. Bagger played his light over the surface of the left-hand door.

“This area is the old part, the really old part,” Jim said. “The Academy was started in 1845 on the grounds of an army fort, Fort Severn. There were underground ammunition magazines in this area, and these tunnels ran from the nineteenth-century seawall guns back to the ammo. No utilities in there. Of course, what had been the seawall in 1845 is now buried in the landfill that created the ground for the seventh and eighth wings.”

“Yeah, but look,” Bagger said, hunching down into a squat. “Bright metal scratches around the keyhole.”