Everything’s different when you’re underground, you know. Well, you’re a norm. Semi-norm? Maybe you don’t. But I do. For one thing, the air doesn’t move much. It’s always warmer than you expect, especially around the steam lines. A peculiar smell, steam. Actually, it’s all the old lagging that smells. Steam’s just hot water. You get a hint of it in the storm drain, but once you get into Broadway, it’s really strong.
Broadway is the main drag of the tunnel system. Ten feet square. Overhead lights in those little metal cages. Filled with steam pipes, telephone lines, electric power cable bundles, compressed-air lines, and even the sewer and water mains servicing Bancroft Hall. They have these underground concrete chambers that branch off of Broadway all along its route, where they have these huge chillers for air conditioning. Cross passageways that branch out to all the main academic buildings, the administration building next to the chapel, and the chapel itself. A whole world down there. My world.
Did you know I’ve been running those tunnels since the middle of youngster year? I have. A teammate on the swim team-guy was a serious sex hound-showed me something that not too many people know about: Ever since the Academy moved the power plant out of the Yard, every one of those utility lines eventually runs out into dear old Crabtown. Now, of course, as a firstie, I get town libs, but, hell, that’s no fun. And besides, my time is the deep night-time. Begins at midnight, because that’s when my little vampires come alive over in town. What a guy won’t do for true love, huh? Goth love. Now that’s a game to die for, right? So to speak.
3
There was a phone message from Liz DeWinter waiting when Ev got back to his office from his Tuesday-morning seminar. He’d left the kitchen the previous night to give Julie some privacy when she had talked to Liz, so he’d been expecting this call. He answered a couple of questions for a waiting firstie, then closed the door to return Liz’s call. From out in the Yard came the boom of the saluting cannon, signaling the arrival of a visiting foreign admiral. He reached a secretary, who put him through to Liz.
“Morning, Ev,” she said. “I talked to Julie last night. Any further developments?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” he said.
“Good. Oh, I need to fax you a client-representation form.”
“Why don’t I come out into town to get it, if that’s okay? I don’t want to use the office fax for that.”
“Of course. Walk up Maryland Avenue to State Circle, turn left, go down Beale Street and look for number one oh seven. Two-story Georgian with black iron railings. I’ve got to get over to court right now, so I’ll just leave the paperwork with Mary Angeles, our legal secretary.”
He hesitated before asking her a question but then decided to go ahead. “Did she-I mean, did you get the impression that there was something going on? Like between her and that plebe?”
When she didn’t answer right away, he wondered if he’d suddenly strayed into attorney-client privilege territory. “No,” Liz replied, “I got zero indication of any personal relationship. She sounded mostly baffled by all the attention. Except of course for that bizarre underwear business.”
“Yeah, that’s weird, isn’t it? Julie’s such a straight-arrow girl. Wearing academic stars, top swimmer, popular without working at it, and, as best I can tell, accepted by her classmates as one of them and not some damn complaining girl.”
“Good for her,” Liz said. “But of course, you’re a parent.”
“You mean she could have taken a walk on the wild side and I’d be clueless?”
“Clueless, yes. Synonymous with parent among the college-parent set.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess that’s always possible. Ever since my wife died, I’ve probably been looking at Julie through rose-colored glasses.”
“Julie’s your only child?”
As in, she’s all you’ve got left of your family. His voice failed him for a moment. She seemed to sense she’d intruded. “Look,” she said briskly, “I still just want to see what develops, if anything. I told her not to mention that I was in the picture unless someone really started to hassle her. That you would drop that shoe when you thought it necessary.”
“Good. I told her the same thing.”
“For what it’s worth, it just sounds to me like a standard investigation,” she said.
“Thanks, Liz. I’ll be by in about a half hour to do those papers. Oh, and should I bring a check?”
“’Fraid so,” she said, and named her retainer figure. He gulped mentally, thanked her, and hung up. He had time to go into town during his lunch break, but first had to call his bank.
Jim Hall watched sympathetically as the Public Affairs staff scrambled to prepare the admiral’s morning briefing. The executive staff was gathered in the superintendent’s conference room on the second floor of the administration building, waiting for the supe, Admiral McDonald. Captain Robbins was meeting privately with the supe, but most of the department heads were present: Operations, Administrative, Public Works, Supply, Management, and the staff JAG. Technically, Jim worked for Operations, but because of the NCIS involvement, he had been asked to sit in. The mood in the conference room was grim; this was not going to be a routine meeting. The Public Affairs officer, a harried-looking aviator commander named, interestingly enough, Berry Springer, was continuously running his hand through his nonexistent hair as he turned sideways in his seat, listening intently to two assistants as they briefed him in stereo.
“Gentlemen, the superintendent,” announced Admiral McDonald’s rather imperious executive assistant. The admiral came through the door, followed by Captain Robbins. McDonald was a distinguished-looking officer, tall, with bushy eyebrows, keen blue eyes, and a ruddy face that belied the submariner’s gold dolphins he wore on his uniform. He went to his chair at the head of the table and nodded at the Public Affairs officer, who went to the podium. Someone dimmed the lights and then the PAO went through a review of press articles and other media interest in the plebe’s death. It was not a pretty picture. Normally, when there was an untoward incident at the Academy, the supe would let the press briefing go on just long enough to get the flavor. This time, he let the PAO go through all the articles. No one spoke when he was finished.
“Tell me again how we are characterizing this?” the admiral asked.
“Under investigation; initial speculation from ‘informed sources’-that’s me-is that it was an accident.”
“At that hour of the morning.”
“Well, yes, sir, Admiral, but the alternatives are suicide, or worse.”
The admiral nodded. “Okay, so how about suicide? Any indicators?”
“None, sir,” the commandant said. “He wasn’t a star, but the company officer says he wasn’t a total goat, either. His roommate discounted suicide immediately. He said Dell was making it. Barely, but making it.”
“And this, um, other aspect?”
Robbins shrugged. “We’ve got NCIS into it, Admiral. The rumor’s out. Some questions on it, but Public Affairs says nothing until NCIS completes their investigation.”
“They buy that, Berry?”
“So far, anyway, Admiral.”
The supe looked over at Jim, who was never sure whether or not Admiral McDonald knew who he was. “Mr. Hall? You were at the scene?”
“Unfortunately, yes, sir, I was.”
“No knives sticking out of his back, or other indications of foul play?”
“The body was no longer thick enough for anything to be stuck in it, Admiral.”
This comment provoked an embarrassed silence.