Darkside (4 page)

 

Jim Hall perched on the edge of the conference room table, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand. He was trying not to stare at the female NCIS agent's legs, but it was difficult—she was sitting rather carelessly in the armchair at the head of the conference table while she read the report from the ER, and the view was expansive. Her partner, a young-looking black guy, who was sitting in one of the side chairs, saw Jim peeking and grinned at him. What the hell, Jim thought. She has great legs, even if she is a cop. Correction: special agent. As in Special Agent Branner. No first name, apparently. Branner was the head of the Academy's local NCIS office. She shook her head and looked up.

“Panties? This kid was wearing
panties
?” she said. Her voice was throaty, as if she might have been a smoker at one time.

“So it would seem,” Jim said. “There was a Naval Academy laundry mark. We scanned the lists and found out the underwear belongs to a firstie, one Midshipman Julie Markham. That's the one you're interviewing in a few minutes.”

Branner looked over with raised eyebrows at her partner, Special Agent Walter Thompson, who shrugged elaborately. Branner was a handsome woman in her thirties. If a bit of a hard case, Jim thought. Attractive face, bright red hair, wide-shouldered, athletic upper body, slim-hipped, and, of course, those racing wheels decked out in some shiny beige stockings. But an all-business set to her expression. He'd met this kind before, in the Marine Corps, women who knew they were attractive but, by God, were not going to allow that to interfere with their male counterparts taking them seriously. Except there she was, flashing the world like a pro. She looked back down at the report. If she was aware that he was looking her over, she gave no indication. And attractive women are always aware, he reminded himself.

“And the DOA? This Midshipman Dell?” she asked, flipping through the three pages of the report as if the answer would leap out at her. “What do you have on him?”

It was Jim's turn to shrug. “Plebe. We've sent for his admissions file, but they have to retrieve it from some records warehouse over in Baltimore. Full name is William Brian Dell. His roommate wasn't too much help this morning—still pretty shook-up. His company officer, one Lieutenant Gates, will be up here shortly, along with Dell's squad leader, the roommate, and his company commander.”

“Parents?”

“Parents live in Norfolk. His father is retired Navy enlisted. His stepmother has severe emphysema, confined to home care. Oxygen-bottle on wheels situation. Dell was his father's child by a first wife. She has not been located. The father and stepmother were notified in person at ten-thirty this morning by a CACO.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, have a nice day. Somewhat rougher for the kid, of course.”

“No take on suicide or accident?” she asked.

“That's all yours to investigate, Special Agent,” Jim said. “Although the dant probably has some preferences on that matter.”

She gave him a quick look to see if he was being facetious about her being a special agent. She apparently decided he was not, but she did rearrange her skirt. Slowly, though. Lady knows exactly what she's doing, he decided. “But of course the dant wouldn't think of indulging in any undue command influence over your investigation,” Jim continued.

“Much,” she said, and they all smiled. Everyone knew that a ruling of accident rather than suicide would be better for the Academy's image. Marginally better, but better. Midshipmen at Annapolis did not go around committing suicide, and certainly not on Capt. D. Telfer Robbins's watch.

Branner slid the report over to Thompson and got up to refill her coffee cup. Jim had scanned the report, which contained a brief medical description of Dell's injuries and a preliminary cause of death determination: massive trauma due to sudden impact with lots and lots of concrete. No surprises there. Initial toxicology screen negative for alcohol or drugs. Further analysis pending autopsy. DOA. No effort made to resuscitate. Got that right, Jim thought, remembering the strangely diminished, almost two-dimensional corpse, out of which an amazing volume of fluids had leaked.

The commandant had made it clear out in front of the mess hall that he wanted this matter to be labeled an accident until proven otherwise, and that no one, and he did mean no one, was to speak to the media except the Academy's own Public Affairs spokespersons. Jim had pointed out that there were civilian police and EMTs already involved, but Robbins simply told him to take care of that problem himself. Jim dutifully instructed Lieutenant Gates, the plebe's company officer, who had been throwing up in the bushes, to seal Dell's room and to make arrangements for the roommate to move in with someone else for the time being. He had then spoken quietly to the EMTs, relaying the commandant's request for discretion. He hadn't bothered with the Annapolis cops, who would have been insulted. The EMTs had taken the body over to the Anne Arundel County morgue for the required autopsy.

Branner returned to the table, ran her fingers through her hair, and sat down with her knees primly together this time. Jim was almost disappointed.

“By rights, he should have gone to Bethesda,” she said. “This is a federal case.”

Jim shrugged again. “I should think an autopsy is an autopsy,” he said. “The city cops and EMTs got there first, so that's the gutting table he went to. You want to object, get him moved?”

Branner shook her head. “Not now. It's just that we'd control the reporting better if he were in Navy channels. But, what the hell, they know what killed him.”

“So it would seem. You guys ready for Midshipman Markham?” Jim asked.

Branner nodded. “Midshipmen in panties,” she muttered.

“Actually, this one ought to be wearing panties,” Jim said. Just like you always should, he thought.

Branner just looked at him. “Okay, Mr. Hall.” She sighed. “Let's talk to Midshipman Markham.”

 

“Professor Markham, good morning,” Captain Robbins said. He didn't offer to shake hands, and his expression wasn't promising. The commandant of midshipmen was a short, intense-looking officer with graying hair. He appeared to be all edges: taut face, prominent beaked nose, and Marine-style buzz cut. His service dress blue uniform, with its four shining rings of gold on the sleeves, was pressed into straight lines wherever possible. His mouth was a thin sliver of determination. Ev had met the captain, soon to be a one-star admiral, but had never had occasion to speak to him one-on-one until this morning. The academic department and executive departments were, by design, worlds apart. Robbins was a surface ship officer and had a reputation for being a stickler for detail, a strict disciplinarian, a workaholic, a physical fitness nut, and a walking, talking personality-free zone. In short, the ideal commandant. But Ev wondered if the chronically choleric captain might not also suffer from short-man's disease.

“My daughter just told me she's to be interviewed by NCIS, Captain,” Ev said. He wasn't sure whether or not to address Robbins as captain or admiral, but since he was still wearing four stripes, he settled on captain. “She need a lawyer here?”

Robbins's eyebrows rose. “A lawyer? I should think not, Professor. NCIS is here because of the unexplained death of an active-duty midshipman on a federal reservation. They have exclusive jurisdiction to investigate. Standard procedure, within the overall context of a JAGMAN investigation. If it makes you feel better, Midshipman Markham is just one of several people being interviewed.”

Julie was looking straight ahead, her arms still at her sides. “She has the sense that someone thinks she's involved with this incident,” Ev said, realizing that they were talking as if Julie wasn't standing there, listening to every word.

“‘Someone'?” Robbins said contemptuously. He glanced around the rotunda as if in search of the world-famous “someone.” A few midshipmen had slowed down to see what was going on when the commandant appeared in the rotunda area. His quick glance sent them scurrying. When Ev didn't say anything, Robbins continued. “The county medical examiner called with an initial report,” he said, lowering his voice. “No one's accusing anyone of anything at this moment, Professor Markham. But there may be issues here.” He looked at his watch. A tall civilian had appeared from behind the partition. He looked to Ev like a Marine masquerading as a civilian. He signaled to Julie.

Issues,
Ev thought. It had become the latest buzzword when people couldn't or wouldn't be specific. He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, Julie,” he said to his daughter, “if you get the sense that someone—excuse me,
anyone
—in authority is even thinking about holding you responsible for what happened this morning, you stop talking and call me.”

“It's not going to be like that,” Robbins protested, but Ev raised a hand. With the height disparity between them, an observer might have thought Ev was going to swat the captain.

“Captain, I had to deal with NCIS before, back when I
was on active duty. I'm sure you have, too. I submit that you have no idea of how it's going to be, especially since you can have no direct influence over their line of questioning, correct?”

“Well, of course, Professor Markham,” Robbins said, visibly angry now. He was trying to be polite but barely making it. “We just need to find out what happened, and why, if that's possible. A young man's dead, sir. His parents are going to want to know why.”

“I understand, Captain Robbins,” Ev said, matching the commandant's formal civility. “But this parent wants to make sure there's no rush to judgment for purposes, say, of getting this unfortunate incident rapidly behind us.”

Robbins stiffened at that. Ev was speaking in code, but it was a code they both understood. The Academy was highly sensitive to bad news, and the administration had become very adept at damage control in recent years. From the look in Captain Robbins's eye, Ev realized he might have pushed things too hard. The commandant was the number-two executive at the Academy, reporting only to Rear Admiral McDonald, the superintendent. A civilian professor, tenured though he might be, was well down the food chain from the commandant of midshipmen. But Ev sensed he needed to put the administration on immediate notice: Any attempt to railroad Julie was going to light some fuses.

“Midshipman Markham,” Robbins said, turning to Julie. “Please go with Mr. Hall there. He will escort you to my conference room, where you'll meet with the NCIS people.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Julie said, and headed for the rangy civilian standing next to the partition. Ev waited for her to disappear into the executive hallway before turning back to the commandant. “The word in the Brigade is that the plebe jumped,” he said.

“The ‘word' in the Brigade is more properly called
scuttlebutt
and is almost always bullshit, Professor,” Robbins said. Ev noticed that Robbins was beginning to do what the mids irreverently called the “Dant's Dance,” popping up and down on the balls of his feet whenever he became impatient.
It probably didn't help that he had to crane his neck to look up at Ev. “Look, we'd appreciate it if you would back off for the moment and let the system work. I guarantee you that your daughter will be treated fairly. She has an excellent reputation in her class. Again: Our objective here is to find out what happened and why. That's all.”

Ev started to reply, but the way Robbins had said “That's all” sounded very much like a dismissal. It was not an unreasonable request. Julie was an adult, twenty-one, and about to be a commissioned officer. Even as a parent, Ev had no legal standing here; thus, discretion was probably the better part of valor at this juncture. If he got too far up the commandant's nose, it would be Julie who'd take the heat for it. He nodded and left the rotunda. The commandant, still rocking up on his toes, watched him go for a moment before heading for the partition that separated the public Academy from the very private one.

It would take Ev five minutes to walk from Bancroft Hall back to Sampson Hall, home of the Division of Humanities and Social Sciences. It was 1:30, so the mids were all in class by now. Except for tourists, he had Stribling Walk to himself. The central Yard was a beautiful parklike setting, with its many marble monuments to famous people or incidents of naval history. The brick walk began at the imposing circular colonnade in front of Bancroft Hall and ended one thousand feet away at the equally imposing marble facade of the Mahan Hall complex. There were statues, cenotaphs, an obelisk, heavily oxidized bronze busts, and cannons littering a landscape of brick walks and bright green grass, all presided over by stately old trees. The towering dome of the Academy chapel rose twenty stories through the trees to his left, and the glimmering surface of the Severn River shone between the academic buildings to his right. Stubby gray Yard Patrol boats, YPs, used for seamanship training, blatted their horns out along the quay wall. He had to step around some open trenches, signs of the Academy's notorious “diggers and fillers” at work on their seemingly perpetual endeavors.

An NCIS investigation, he thought, mentally shaking his head. Overseen by the Academy's administration. Hell, maybe the FBI would even get into it, depending on what those mysterious “issues” were. There were already too many bureaucracies getting involved in this incident. And once the media engaged, Ev knew the administration would begin to circle the wagons, if they weren't doing so already. He was determined to make damn sure they didn't leave Julie outside the circle. He stopped halfway down Stribling Walk, thumbed his cell phone open, and called Worth Battle, Esquire.

“Rivers, Linden, Battle and Hall,” a smooth female voice answered. Ev loved the title of the firm: It had such a reassuring resonance.

“Hi, Felicity,” he replied.