Darkside (12 page)

“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 up
perclassmen. 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.”

“Sounds like piling on.”

“Yep. That's what happens. They get loaded down until it's hopeless, and then they resign. Keep in mind, we're talking about the shitbirds here. Most plebes make it, one way or another.”

Ev could hear Liz get up and walk around her office. “What personal attributes would line a guy up for shitbird designation?”

Julie said, “I guess it's like art: We know one when we see one.”

“But how do shitbirds get in? I've read that there are ten thousand applicants who qualify each year, but only twelve hundred or so get admitted.”

Julie cleared her throat. “Everyone here, except the prior enlisted, is on a political appointment. Congressmen and senators from the fifty states. The president, the vice president. All appointments are supposed to be competitive, but—”

“But what?”

“Well, some people are more special than others. Football players, for instance. I can't prove this, but everybody knows that some of them don't belong here, academically speaking. Still, they get preferential treatment—their own tables in the mess hall, special chow, extra academic attention, curved grading. Some minorities get special breaks, too. These hug-'em-and-and-love-'em programs come along, to get people in here from inner-city situations. And some people just manage to fool the system.”

“What category was Midshipman Dell?”

“Category?”

“I guess I'm asking if Dell was thought of as someone busting his ass or a shitbird.”

“Oh. I think Dell was on the edge,” Julie said slowly. “Maybe someone who'd been busting his ass but was now sinking into the failure mode. You know those National Geographic programs, where they show an old or sick animal being eased out of the herd? Like that. I wasn't close to the Dell situation. The people responsible for Dell were the firsties and youngsters in his own company. You'd have to ask them.”

“And you didn't really know him in any other context?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Julie said with an audible touch of heat. “I've told you, and I've told everyone else—”

Liz interrupted her. “I'm having a problem with the notion that he chose your room at random to go in and heist a pair of your underwear,” she said. “Unless he was a panty fetishist, in which case they should have found a stash somewhere.”

Julie was silent for a moment. Ev could just see her expression—he'd heard the anger in her voice. “I can't explain that, and I don't know what else they've found. I did not know him, and certainly not on an underwear basis! And I can't help it if you don't believe that.”

“It's not just me, Julie,” Liz said. There were noises indicating she was sitting back down. “If this is indeed a homi
cide, the cops are going to pull that string until something emerges. Cops look for connections, in addition to motive, opportunity, and means.”

“Okay, so what's my motive supposed to be? And for that matter, opportunity? I was asleep in my bed when he went out that window. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Ev groaned out loud, but Liz waved it off, as if she'd been expecting his reaction. “I'm on your side. The point of this meeting was to introduce you to the tone and tenor of a homicide investigation. I don't know what the cops have, but something's gone off the tracks with the suicide or accident theory. There was something else going on here, and I need to make sure that you don't know what it is.”

Once again, Ev could almost see his daughter, sitting there in a barely controlled rage. She did not reply.

“Julie, look at me,” Liz ordered. “Did part of the problem with Dell have anything to do with sexual orientation? Was Midshipman Dell gay?”

“I don't know,” Julie said. Ev had heard that tone of voice, too, but not for several years. Joanne sometimes had to be restrained from slapping the shit out of her when she got that way.

“Let me try the question another way: Were there rumors that Dell was gay?”

“Possibly.” Ev perked up at that. This was new.

“Oh, c'mon,” Liz was saying. “Possibly? There either were or there weren't.”

“I don't really know. Sometimes upperclassmen call a plebe a faggot when they don't mean it. Faggot. Maggot. Worm. Shitbird. Fuckup. You know, DI stuff.”

“DI?” Liz asked. Ev heard Julie sigh.

“Drill instructor. Look, you're a civilian. I'm not sure you're going to understand all this stuff.”

“Try me.”

“Okay,” Julie said. “The whole point of plebe year is to break down the individual civilian teenager and remold him into someone with a military mind-set. To drive the plebes together so they begin to think like a unit—roommates, a
class within the company, then a class within the Brigade. To expose them to pressure, so they learn to think fast on their feet and to organize their hours to get it all done, their schoolwork, their plebe duties, their rooms, their uniforms, all of it.”

Liz said, “My first husband was a Marine pilot. He used to talk about Marine OCS. Same kind of thing, but with one big difference, I think: The Marines had professional drill instructors, whereas what I'm hearing now is that this program is run by the midshipmen themselves.”

“Not entirely,” Julie said. “The program is supervised by the company and battalion officers. There's a whole executive department in Bancroft Hall.”

“But basically, at the sharp end, it's kids running kids.”

“Well, that's the system we were handed,” Julie said sweetly. “We didn't invent it, and it's been succeeding for a hundred and fifty years. I went through it, and earned the right to continue to a commission. This crop of plebes is going to go through it if they want to earn that same right.”

Liz changed tack. “Back to homosexuals, whom, I assume, occasionally slip through the admissions process. I thought the official Navy policy on gays was don't ask, don't tell. They keep their sexuality a secret, their hands to themselves, and no one is allowed to go after them.”

“That's the policy.”

“And? You sound like it really isn't the policy.”

Ev could hear Julie sit back in her chair and take a deep breath, as if forcing herself to relax. “The Academy isn't the Navy, Ms. DeWinter,” she said finally. “Or so we're often told by the commissioned officers. As in, Don't confuse Bancroft Hall with the fleet.”

“What is it, then?”

“My father says that Bancroft Hall is like a big simulator. It looks like the Navy, but it isn't. Same thing at West Point, too, from what I saw during our exchange weekend. Being a plebe in Bancroft Hall is like being in a pressure cooker. Officer Candidate School is, too, but that only lasts three months. Plebe year lasts one whole year.”