“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?”
Jim was surprised. “Close,” he said. “You ex-Navy?”
“Yeah, flew carrier aviation. I was class of ’73.”
Jim looked him up and down. “Never know you were almost fifty. Good work. Didn’t I see your name in the crab wrapper this morning? Something about a rescue out in the bay?”
“So I’ve heard,” Markham said, wiping his face again. It was the warmest day of the spring so far. “Happened to pass by an overturned boat. A quick swim to get two people off the hull. Fortunately, I’ve been keeping in shape, so it was no big deal. Woman lost her husband, though. Big deal for her.”
“I saw that water yesterday. I work out regularly, but I’m not sure I’d have been ready for that.”
“It was salt water and I had a life jacket on,” Markham said. “You run every day?”
“Sometimes I swim, but usually I run, out in town. The women are better-looking.”
Markham glanced sideways as two fairly attractive female midshipmen jogged by, as if to say he wasn’t so sure about that.
“Those are girls,” Jim observed, turning back toward the admin building. “I’m talking about women.”
“My daughter’s a firstie,” Markham said. “She’d probably argue with you.”
Holy shit, Jim thought. That Markham. Whom he was going to interrogate-no, interview-in about forty minutes. And he hadn’t thought of Julie Markham as a girl that day at the pool. “No offense,” he said quickly. “But I’m on staff and still enjoying the bachelor life. I observe the sand-box rule.”
“Good thinking,” Markham said, staying with him as they jogged up the steps toward Michelson Hall. “I don’t know how the administration here deals with all those raging hormones. You know, four thousand healthy boys and girls jammed together in Mother Bancroft. All that pressure.”
Jim was beginning to wonder if their meeting had been entirely accidental. Next thing he knew, Markham might start talking about the Dell case. He wasn’t sure what the ground rules were now that he was working with NCIS, but when they reached the top of the steps, Markham waved and headed toward the Mahan Hall complex. Jim breathed a sigh of relief. Markham’s daughter had to be talking to her father about what was going on in her life. The next time he ran into the professor, the exchange might not be so cordial. He made a mental note to do his noontime runs in town for the next week.
Ev Markham didn’t give his interchange with Jim Hall a second thought by the time he got back to his office, especially when he read the message slip from Julie. “Meeting with NCIS again at 1430. Called Liz, but she was out. Please inform her. Julie.”