P Deutermann - Darkside

“What?” she said.

“A plebe’s own squad leader sends him roaming? There had to be a major problem there somewhere. Usually, it would be someone else, and his squad leader would be in that guy’s face, raising hell about it. You look after your plebes. That’s the whole point.”

“So we need to talk to this Edwards guy, then?”

“Absolutely.”

She checked her case notes and discovered that they had already interviewed Edwards. “He didn’t come up with anything unusual,” she said. “Typical dumb-ass plebe, lower than whale shit, et cetera, et cetera. But we didn’t detect any personal animus.”

“I’d have asked about that roaming thing. And whether or not he knew about the late-night Gouge sessions. Antonelli assumed that’s what they were.”

“Okay, maybe we’ll pull that string again. What was that ‘hundredth night’ stuff?”

“A hundred nights before graduation, the plebes and the firsties reverse roles for a few hours. The plebes get to run the firsties. Like payback time. It gets real noisy.”

“Is plebe year over after that?”

“Nope.”

“So one would have to be careful how far he went with that?”

“Very.”

“I think I’m glad I asked you to get involved in this. I’d have never caught that bit about the roaming.”

“Some of it’s the blue-and-gold wall,” he said. “But you saw his reaction when we suggested there was something between Markham and Dell?”

“As in, Never happen,” she said. “Hot Wheels. I love it.”

“It’s a good thing you never went through here,” he said with a grin, glancing at her legs.

She gave him an arch look. “Eyes in the boat, sailor,” she said. “And right now, I want to get Markham back in here. I want an explanation for those clothes.”

He shook his head. “Interesting timing with those clothes, don’t you think?” he said. “Look, I’ve got paperwork piling up. Call me when you round her up, and I’ll come sit in again. By the way, how’s Bagger?”

“The same. The docs are of two minds. Most still say he’ll come out of it.”

“How the hell do they know?”

“Because he hasn’t died yet?”

Jim tackled his in-box for an hour, attended a department meeting with Commander Michaels, and made a call to Public Works in search of the senior tunnel supervisor. Just before noon, he called the commandant’s admin assistant and asked if he could get three minutes. The assistant said no way. There was a Saudi delegation visiting the Yard, and the commandant was joined at the hip to the duty prince for the entire day. As Jim was about to go find lunch, the assistant called back.

“I lied,” he said. “Come over right now. You got three minutes.”

Jim hurried out of the admin building and raced over to Bancroft Hall, where noon meal formation was just concluding to the boom and blare of the much-maligned Midshipman Drum and Bugle Corps. Jim saw the commandant standing on the front steps with several uniformed Saudi officers and one impressive-looking sheik in flowing white robes. He went in through the doors of the first wing, then trotted up one deck and through the corridors to the commandant’s office. By the time he got there, Captain Robbins was standing behind his desk, doing a rapid scan of his messages. Jim stood there in his doorway for a minute, and then the commandant looked up. “Report,” he ordered.

Jim gave him a quick summary of what he’d been doing. The commandant’s eyes lighted up when he heard Jim was actively participating in Branner’s investigation.

“And you’re a civilian, too,” Robbins said. “That gives us plausible deniability, somebody starts squawking command influence. Perfect. Well done. Now, suicide or accident?”

“No data, yet, sir,” Jim said. “But Midshipman Markham, the one whose-”

“Yes, yes, I know. What about her?”

“There was a room inspection this past weekend. Random OOD hit. Some of Dell’s clothes turned up in Markham’s room. OOD fried her for nonreg gear.”

The commandant sat down. “Son of bitch,” he murmured. “Then somebody’s lying.”

“Possibly, sir. Or somebody’s setting her up. If she were involved, she’d hardly keep anything belonging to Dell in her room, not with NCIS on the prowl.”

“What does she say now?”

“We’re going to interview her again, probably this afternoon. I’m waiting for Agent Branner to call and tell me when.”

Robbins looked at his watch. “My deputy, Captain Rogers, is occupying the prince for lunch in King Hall,” he said. “I have to get back. Dell’s parents were here Sunday. Tough scene. They’re asking questions. They’re not buying the accident theory, and they can’t believe suicide. Of course, the parents never do believe suicide.”

“Unfortunately, I’d say the case was open, sir,” Jim ventured, even though he knew his three minutes were up. “Branner is tough. With me helping to steer her questions, I think we’ll find out.”

“At this juncture, Mr. Hall, I’m not sure I can stand all the possible answers,” Robbins said. “And what was this incident with a goal rocket in the utility tunnels the other night?”

“I’ve been investigating a runner. It seems like he’s aware of it, and wants to play games.”

“Not a midshipman, I hope?”

“I actually think it is, but I can’t prove that. We arrested his companion, a Johnnie, but couldn’t hold her. It may be also related to a couple of beating cases in town.” He didn’t elaborate on his use of the “we,” not wanting to make a connection with what had happened to Bagger Thompson. He didn’t want the commandant calling for reinforcements. The runner was his. Just like Branner wanted an exclusive on the Dell case.

The commandant shook his head and looked at his watch. “All right. Thank you, Mr. Hall. Keep me advised. I’ve instructed my people to get you in whenever you call. Use that privilege sparingly, please.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jim said, more out of habit than anything else, as the diminutive commandant hurried by.

When he got back to the admin building, there was a message from Branner. Markham was to be on deck in the conference room at 1430. He looked at his watch. That gave him time to work out, get a sandwich, and still make the meeting. He went to the locker room, got into his running gear, and headed outside.

After a half hour out on the track, he fell in with another runner, someone he’d seen before. They paced each other through the noon-hour running crowd and then walked together along the Severn River seawall to cool down. An Academy YP boat sounded its horn as it got under way, bright signal flags fluttering on both yardarms. The glare off the river was intense.

“Jim Hall, security officer,” Jim offered.

“Ev Markham, Political Science Department,” the other man said.

“You’re a prof?” Jim said. “You don’t look old enough.”

“Thank you, I think. Actually, lots of folks tell me that. But I’ve been here for almost ten years.”

Jim stopped to redo a shoelace, and Markham stopped with him, wiping his face with a small towel. “I graduated in ’93,” Jim said. “Must have missed your class.”

“I teach firstie history,” Markham said, stretching an incipient cramp out of his calf muscles.

“Can’t say I did very well in history,” Jim said, wishing he’d worn his shades. “Still wouldn’t. Can’t remember all those dates. One of the reasons I went Marine infantry.”

“And now you’re security officer? Isn’t that a civilian position here?”

“Yep. Got out and moved sideways. I was OinC of the Marine detachment here for two years.”

“Lemme guess: After two years of dress parades, honor guards, and funeral details, you felt your classmates had passed you by?”