Darkside (2002), page 9
“Okay,” Robbins said. “Last item. Mr. Hall, you have an incident to report?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently, the tunnel runners are active again.”
The commandant shook his head in frustration. “I don’t understand that bullshit,” he said. “Why the hell would anyone want to go down there?”
“Because they’re not supposed to be down there, sir,” Jim replied. “It’s mostly a game. We chase ’em; they run. I think it’s the same guy or guys doing it, and of course they can get out into town through the tunnels. Running the tunnels has replaced going over the wall.”
“When I was here, no one wanted to get out into town that bad,” Robbins said.
Jim didn’t say what he and probably some others at the table were thinking: Speak for yourself, there, Dant. Jim had had two girlfriends during his last year at the academy, on two different sides of town, and he had always been interested in getting out into town.
Robbins reminded everyone that he was still focused on the emergency at hand—the death of Midshipman Fourth Class Dell. He emphasized the importance of information control through the Public Affairs office. Then he stood up, which was the signal that the morning conference was over. Everyone stood at their seats as the commandant left the room.
Jim hadn’t mentioned at the staff meeting that he was more than just a little familiar with the tunnels and the small band of “runners,” as they called themselves. After Jim had taken over as security officer, one of the little dears had shut the two main valves for the steam-heating line leading to Bancroft Hall. Jim had decided to take a personal interest. He’d obtained the underground as-built drawings from the Public Works Center, then made several daytime recons of the tunnel complex, compiling a detailed map of the entire underground system. After more than 150 years of operation, the tunnel system was much more extensive and elaborate than he had imagined, with some of the branches dating back to the Civil War.
He had discovered that there were no fewer than five routes out into the city of Annapolis, although three of these were somewhat dangerous as escape routes because of high-voltage cables and transformers. The other two, however, led to places where it would be easy for someone to get into town, especially late at night, without being seen, coming or going. He’d also discovered that there was at least one tagger loose down there, and he had taken some notes on the graffiti designs and signatures. Two months ago, he’d even sprayed over one of the more elaborate territorial markings with black paint, then laid down his own tag, a macabre cryptogram he’d bought from one of the local tattoo parlors, with the name Hall-Man-Chu embedded in it. Two weeks after that, he found that his tag had been defaced, the jaws of a silhouetted shark surrounding it. He’d taken it as a challenge.
After that, he had made some nocturnal excursions to see if he could catch the mysterious runner with the shark tag. Each time, he had notified his own police force and the Public Works duty officer that he was going to be going down into the system. Then the Academy’s police chief, Carlo Bustamente, mentioned in passing that the PWC people were listing his nocturnal inspections on their daily maintenance schedules. He changed his MO, telling only the chief when he was going to make a tunnel run of his own.
He hadn’t yet escalated his surveillance activities to go hunting, because this was, after all, just a game played by some mids who were defying Executive Department regulations. As security officer, he didn’t care if the mids wanted to live dangerously and risk a Class-A conduct offense known in Bancroft Hall as “going over the wall,” even if it was technically under the walls. He also wasn’t sure what he’d do if he actually caught up with one of the runners. He had the authority to put the miscreant on report, assuming it was a mid and not a townie, but he was more inclined simply to count coup and then make the guy knock it off. It was bound to be a firstie, because if a firstie caught a second classman down there, he’d be obliged to put him on report. Whoever it was, he wasn’t really damaging anything, and if it was just a game, well, hell, it was just a game. As CO of the Marine detachment, he could never have taken such an attitude, which was one of the reasons, he supposed, that he’d become a civilian. Besides Bosnia.
When he got to his desk, there was a message from Chief Bustamente. Subject: the Dell case. The tunnels forgotten, Jim called Carlo.
Bustamente was a retired Navy chief warrant officer who oversaw the Academy’s seventeen-man civilian police force. He’d done twenty-six years in the fleet, starting out as a master at arms, making chief, and then warrant. Now he was nearly sixty and an old hand in the federal law-enforcement business, having worked in naval base security offices all across the country. Carlo prided himself on knowing what was going on under the floorboards of any installation he’d been assigned to, and he had a large network of contacts in both federal and local civilian law enforcement.
“Hey, Cap,” he said when Jim called, in deference to both Jim’s now defunct status as a Marine Corps captain and the fact that Jim was his titular boss.
“Chief,” Jim replied, observing the protocol, “What’s up?”
“You heard any of the details on this flier we had?”
“Only that the powers that be haven’t decided whether he was a jumper or it was a DBM—death by misadventure.”
“Not misadventure, but maybe ADventure, Cap,” Bustamente said, lowering his voice. “Did you know our young Captain Marvel was dressed out in lace panties?”
Whoa, Jim thought. That’s a detail that ought not to be loose. “Yes, but I’m surprised that’s out there,” he said.
“An FAK fact,” Carlo said. “And I hear through the grapevine that the ME’s got some physical indications that he may have had some help in his final moments.”
Jim twisted his chair around so that his voice wouldn’t carry out into the admin office. “Physical indications? As in?”
“Bruising on lower arms, indicating he may have been gripped, with his arms pinned. Like maybe he was thrown or pushed, instead of jumping. Probably some other stuff, but that’s all I have.”
Jim was stunned. None of this had come out at the morning conferences—just bland generalities about continuing investigations and heightened sensitivity to indications of suicide or serious depression. This sounded like homicide. If it was true. He said as much to Carlo.
“Yeah, well, my source in town says the ME’s report’s been snatched up by NCIS and everyone’s been told to clamp their yaps and move along smartly, which tells me the rumor’s got some legs. I can just imagine how this is gonna play over in the admin building.”
“Man. The incident came up at morning staff, of course, but only in terms of a media-relations problem. No hint that it might be more serious than suicide.”
“As if suicide wasn’t serious enough.”
Got that right, Jim thought. According to the JAG this morning, the boy’s parents were already asking some pointed questions. “You got any traplines into NCIS?” he asked.
“Well, you know me, Cap,” Carlo said. “Nothing I could admit to.”
Which meant no, he didn’t. “I hear you, Chief,” Jim said. “I’m just curious—I have no role in this mess, for which I’m increasingly grateful.”
“Yeah,” Carlo said with a chuckle. “Don’t you just love that exclusive jurisdiction rule, though? Oh, and did you hear about the vampire?”
Jim saw a joke coming. “Haven’t heard that one, Chief.”
“No, no, not a joke. One of my buds downtown said they had a complaint of some guy getting the shit kicked out of him by Count Dracula.”
“Ri-i-ght.”
“Seriously. Somebody called nine-one-one, cops came, found two guys passed out, with their pants down in a—what’d they call it—a compromising position. Third guy, on the other hand, had to be scraped up off the concrete.”
“Sounds more like a general-purpose mugging.”
“Yeah, well, the injured kid claimed they were following a couple of those Goth girls out of a bar. You know, that all in black, abraca-fucking-dabra, white face, green hair scene? Anyway, kid says the girls were hot to trot, despite the weirdness.”
“They always are.”
“Yeah, right. So our poor vic and his two asshole buddies get misled, probably not for the first time in their miserable lives, an’ follow their dicks right into a—ta da—dark alley. Where, naturally, things turn to shit.”
“What a surprise. And this is when Count Dracula shows up?”
“Ten feet tall, cape, face to stop a clock. The vic in the hospital apparently becomes one helluva witness, comes to this face: dead-white skin, red lips, red eyes like coals, fangs, the whole salami. Had a serious hiss in him, too, apparently. The two nuclear physics majors with him heard the big hiss, but as they’re turning around, some thing knocks them flat on their asses. Fearless leader says he tried to defend himself, but the docs said he most likely fainted out of fright and then got his ass stomped. No defensive injuries, other than he pissed himself. I don’t know if that works on vampires or not.”
“A vampire in Crabtown. Hey, I gotta know: Did old Drac do his signature deed?”
“Nope, no bites. Count Dracula apparently has his standards. But he did indulge in a pretty vicious beating. Guy’s seriously fucked up. Get this: The cops told this guy, he needs to check the mirror the next time the moon is full. See where he’s growin’ hair.”
“I love it. Poor bastard’s gonna wonder for a whole month. Guess a working vampire has to be careful these days, all this HIV going around.”
Bustamente laughed. “There you go. Safe-sex vampires. Maybe that’s why he beat the shit out of the guy. Frustrated. No blood and gore.”
Jim laughed and hung up.
And then he had a thought: as the Naval Academy’s security officer, should he not be telling his superiors that the word was leaking on a possible homicide? He hesitated. Was this his military mind-set talking? What would a civilian bureaucrat do in this case? A savvy civilian would probably keep his mouth shut and his head down in anticipation of a galactic shit storm, that’s what. On the other hand, the supe and the dant were probably operating under the mistaken impression that they had some maneuvering room and time, which, if the rumors were already flying, they probably did not have. He pushed the paperwork aside and picked up the phone.
Cmdr. T. Prentice Walsh, the elegant executive assistant, answered. “Rear Admiral McDonald’s office, this is Commander Walsh speaking, sir?”
“Commander, this is Jim Hall. Have some intel for you.”
“Ready to write,” Walsh said. The EA was very switched in to getting inside information.
Jim told him what he’d heard. Walsh whistled softly. “Damn,” he said. “Very well. Thank you.” Then he hung up.
Hey. Have you heard? The word’s out on campus. Not our campus, silly, the campus of King William’s School, founded a few weeks back, in 1696. Now called St. John’s. Not sure why old St. John won out over His Majesty, but, whatever. It seems the Annapolis cops have been on the campus, asking questions about the Goths. The Johnnies, being Johnnies, God love ’em, are telling the Filth absolutely nothing, other than there are hundreds and hundreds of Goths, and is there one in particular you might be looking for, Officers? Pretty good for a school of about four hundred lost intellectuals.
Seems like one of the town boys had to be hospitalized after a run-in with—are you ready? A vampire! Yes! A vampire. Right here in River City. The cops apparently talked to one of my tasty little moths, started questioning her about her vampire associations. She’s a devotee of Anne Rice, so she comes back with a laundry list of famous vampires, starts in on a regular lecture. Lestat, et al. Annapolis’s finest finally figure out they’re being diddled and give it up for Lent. But now, of course, the girls want to lay low for a while. Problem is, I don’t have awhile. I’m out of here in a few weeks with the rest of my very upstanding, honorable, ethical, and supremely righteous classmates. And I’m enjoying this shit, you know? It’s great practice for my upcoming career in the Mameluke Brigade.
So here’s the hot flash: I’m going solo, just like I told you before. Only this time, I’m going to lure one of the locals back into the tunnels. My tunnels. Assuming he’ll be brave enough.
One little problem, though: It seems as if somebody on the Dark Side has been poking his cop nose into my tunnels. Messing with my art. At first, I thought it was Public Works, you know, the diggers and fillers who chase down steam leaks and electrical grounds. But now I’m not so sure. I found a new cryptogram. Got the impression that, whoever this Communist is, he’s trying to tell me something. Like, Stay the fuck out of here.
As if.
Say, what do you hear about the Dell thing? I hear they’re questioning midshipmen. Anyone you know? They still think he jumped, don’t they? They might be wrong about that.
At 12:45, just as Jim was getting ready to go over to the Natatorium for a swimming workout, his boss, Commander Michaels, stopped him in the hallway. There had been a hurry-up department head meeting, at which it had been announced that the Dell incident might have been a homicide. He instructed Jim to beef up security on the gates to keep media types from sneaking in and interviewing mids. Town liberty for all midshipmen had been canceled under the pretext of the security alert, and the Public Affairs office had been told to apply the “full armadillo” posture to any questions about this development. The Academy chaplain had been ordered to Norfolk to talk to Dell’s parents.
Jim went back to his cube and called the chief to pass on the new marching orders. Then, once again, he tried to get out of the building to get his exercise in. This time, he ran into the commandant, who was walking back over to his offices in Bancroft Hall. Captain Robbins indicated he wanted Jim to walk with him.
“That department head meeting was the result of your warning,” Robbins said. “Good headwork. Now, I have an assignment for you.” He paused for a moment as a gaggle of midshipmen walked by, saluting by the dozen. “You were CO of the MarDet here? Before you got out and took this security job?”
“Yes, sir.”
Robbins nodded slowly as they resumed walking. “Why’d you get out, if I may ask?”
Jim knew he had to be careful with what he said. He didn’t know whether or not the commandant knew about what had happened in the Balkans that brought him to the Academy in the first place. “I figured out that I didn’t want a career in the Corps,” he said. “I decided to take some time out, to work out what I really wanted to do with my life. This job came open at the end of my tour as CO of the marine detachment, so I took it.”
“Hmm. Yes. Not exactly a young man’s job, is it?” They turned up Stribling Walk toward Bancroft Hall.
“It’s a job, sir. I give it good measure. But, no, I don’t look at it as a career. On the other hand, I may not be the career type.”
He thought he saw Robbins smile, which was unusual. “We tend to forget that, those of us immersed in the career Navy,” he said absently. “I seem to remember something about a problem in Bosnia?”
So much for that little secret, Jim thought. “I was involved in a friendly fire situation,” he said. “Some Brit artillery went blue on blue. I was the spotter.”
“Ah,” Robbins said. “Were you actually responsible for the error, or were you the designated goat?”
Jim was surprised. Robbins looked sideways at him. “Oh, I know something about how the Corps operates, Mr. Hall. Whenever there’s a screwup that embarrasses the Marine Corps, somebody has to take a fall. ‘Disciplinary cut,’ I think they call it. They pick somebody who was involved, not too senior, hopefully, and hammer him to the satisfaction of whichever general’s been embarrassed. Guilty or not.”
“It was the Brits who screwed up,” Jim said. “To their credit, they admitted it. The UN commander called it another way, so then the Corps was on the hook. Plus, I had expressed some reservations about what we were doing.”
“How convenient. You were a natural target. I understand. Well, here’s what I need: I want you to find out as much as you possibly can about the NCIS investigation, using whatever resources you can muster. Ditto for anything being worked in the county or state law-enforcement channels, such as the Anne Arundel medical examiner’s office, from whence I suspect the leak cometh.”
“I can tap the chief’s web for some of this,” Jim said. “Bustamente knows everybody.”
They had arrived at the Tecumseh monument. “Don’t care and don’t really want to know,” Robbins said, “if you catch my drift. Just feed me as much intel as you can. Directly to me. As you know, I can’t lean on NCIS—that Branner woman would squawk command interference. But we need to be in the loop, one way or another, Mr. Hall. This thing is going to get bloody. I’m sure of it.”
“It already has,” Jim said. “For Midshipman Dell.”
Robbins gave him a pained look but then nodded. “I don’t for one moment believe that this young man was killed,” he said. “A homicide here is just inconceivable. I think this was some kind of end-of-plebe-year stunt that went terribly wrong. But, be that as it may, please be discreet. No James Bond stuff. I don’t want anybody on the staff to know you’re doing this.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Jim said. He resisted the impulse to salute as the commandant turned away abruptly and headed into Tecumseh Court. Jim turned left and went down along the sidewalk flanking the first wing.
The commandant had been right on about what had happened to Jim’s career over there. His commander at the time, a major with very serious career aspirations, had sat him down and told him the bad news after the incident and the ensuing investigation. He was to be relieved of his duties and sent out of the theater. No further disciplinary measures. An assignment to a ceremonial post somewhere. When Jim had objected that he hadn’t done anything wrong, the major had just looked at him. You were involved. That means the Corps was involved. Henderson Hall needs somebody to take the fall. You’re young, with lots of time to go. I’m at the twelve-year point, with half a career invested. You’re the goat. Suck it up, and the Corps will take note of your sacrifice. That’s how it works. He’d ended up at the Academy one month later.
