by Eric Flint
Dorrman opened it with a dozen curious eyes peering over his shoulder. The cooler was full of melting ice. It held one tin box which read, "For Veterinary uses only." Inside were six little bottle-shaped holes formed in thin plastic. Three held little glass bottles. The other three were empty, but the box held a syringe. He shuddered at the thought of using a dirty needle, then looked at the date on the penicillin. Someone had been hoarding it on the very edge of freezing. He found himself praying. It should have been thrown out long ago.
Up-time he could and should go to jail for what he was about to do.
NCIS: Lies, Truths and Consequences
By Jose J. Clavell
"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
John 8:32
Naval Headquarters
Magdeburg Navy Yard
Magdeburg, USE 0900 Hours Local
In the charming vernacular of his time, the admiral was ready to have kittens. The tension in his office was thick enough to cut with a dagger and if I'd had my druthers, I wouldn't be here in spite of my supposedly princely salary. But then, I suspect that neither would any of the rest of the people in the office. Most especially, the quietly sobbing young woman sitting in front of his desk.
My name is Gunther Schlosser and as the up-timers put it . . . I'm a cop.
Actually, I'm the Senior-Agent-in-Charge, Magdeburg as well as the Director, Naval Criminal Investigative Service. And although the titles sound impressive, the reality is that I have less than fifty men and women under my command . . . and most of them are involved in bodyguard and security work through the USE. Still, that makes me the navy's top law enforcer and Admiral John Calhoun Simpson my boss. Like the bard says, the policeman's lot isn't a happy one and this was a case in point. The sobbing, pretty, young woman was Marine Private Angelina Rainaldi, a recruit with a seriously ill husband, a new baby and too much baggage, physical and otherwise. Her baby was the reason that we were meeting this morning.
Rather, the failed kidnapping attempt of said baby right out of her mother's quarters in the barracks, was the reason for the meeting. The attempt led to the murder of the floor duty firewatcher, radio-operator Edwina Haas, and to NCIS official attention. Luckily for all concerned, the perpetrator had met his just reward and the child was rescued unharmed, thanks to the quick actions of an off-duty military policewoman, Annalise Schuhmacher. I'd met her three months earlier during another murder investigation, our first. At that time, she had provided me with the critical clue that led to solving the murder. I'd decided that I was going to keep close tabs on her and her partner, Hans Leiss' careers. NCIS is always looking for good people and, as her actions demonstrated, my interest in Schuhmacher hadn't been misplaced.
But that still left us with two dead bodies and one of them was ours. Those of us in the navy take a dim view of those who harm our people. So, Rainaldi had been summoned to the admiral's office to answer some very pointed questions. She hadn't come alone. Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Von Brockenholz, her battalion commander, escorted her. Some up-timers had compared him with an Archibald Henderson, whoever he was. His top kick, Charles 'Duke' Hudson, another up-timer, stood at her back.
I think there are a lot of children in Magdeburg—and not a few Marine privates—who go to bed early under the threat of a midnight visit from Sergeant Major Hudson. Truthfully, he is one of the good guys and the top architect and founder of the new Marine Corps. However, he's not what you could call Rainaldi's number one admirer. But then, the way she became a Marine was one for the books.
I can surely say, without it being an understatement, that the pucker factor was decisively high that day.
Young Angelina was sworn-in as a recruit in the United States Marine Corps—not the navy, as everyone expected—and immediately thereafter married to a barely resuscitated groom. At the last possible moment, a supply of a powerful up-time drug had been secured, and Carlo's life saved, although he lost an eye in the process. Angelina delivered a healthy and beautiful baby daughter shortly after the wedding. A storybook ending, right? Well . . . not quite.
It didn't take long for our community's little old ladies—of both sexes—to start to count backwards in their fingers and, possibly, toes. It became painfully obvious that unless Carlo had some hitherto unknown magical power that allowed him to be with his beloved at the right time—or that Angelina suffered from a case of immaculate conception—the baby girl was probably not his. Nevertheless, Carlo, still recovering at the infirmary, stepped forward to do the right thing and accepted her as his own. That won him a lot of extra brownie points with the whole naval community and lost her just as many. The subject was still very touchy for the Corps, especially the servicewomen.
Like the rest of the females from Grantville, servicewomen have had to contend with my century's ideas of the place of women in society; ideas that are sometimes at great odds with what up-timers understand or implement. In the eyes of many servicewomen, Angelina's actions were not helping their case. So the poor woman found herself increasingly isolated and shut out. Don't get me wrong. She was treated correctly and assisted as much as possible with child care and such. But, unlike most new recruits, she was not welcomed into the comradeship of the Corps. In hindsight, that was a mistake that cost us the life of one of our own.
* * *
Despite the admiral's inclination for kitten-bearing, he had maintained a remarkably even temper so far. For those of us who knew him well, this was not considered a particularly good sign. In addition to three Marines, a yeoman, my partner and me, the navy Judge Advocate General was also present. Commander Tomas de Kratman, a former professor from Louvain in the Spanish Netherlands, came to Magdeburg to study how the navy implemented the American Uniform Code of Military Justice. How he ended up in uniform could be attributed to the admiral's uncanny ability to cultivate and recruit capable individuals. Hudson, an earlier victim like me, once told me that it was akin to selling refrigerators to Eskimos. So Professor Kratman found himself with the unique opportunity to both see the code in action and be responsible for its implementation. Prior to Angelina and her escort's arrival, he had solemnly informed the admiral that, in his considered legal opinion, she couldn't be held liable for Haas murder under the U.C.M.J.
That was fine with me and my partner, Brunhilde Spitzer, who was sitting calmly beside where I stood against the wall of the crowded office. It had also moved the investigation from the realm of criminal activity back to the one of force protection, another of NCIS' core responsibilities. That still left some very important questions in our minds. Simply put, who was the intruder, who sent him here and would that person send more? The answers to all those questions required Angelina's willing cooperation.
That cooperation was not forthcoming.
By my calculations, Angelina was one wrong answer away from having Spitzer read her rights under Article 31 as the first step in the process that would see her drummed out of the Marines. Everyone in the room was aware of this, most especially her, which explained the waterworks as she faced the admiral. I felt sorry for the girl, in some ways. There was not much sympathy for her in the room.
Spitzer, as the only other woman present, might have been presumed to be at least an understanding listener. But she had known and liked Haas, and I could read her determination to bring those behind the killer to justice. If Angelina stood in her way, she was going to suffer the consequences. That was scary in so many ways. Of the two of us, Spitzer is the cool, analytic one who complements my tendency for more direct and aggressive action.
My partner's current inclination for bloodthirstiness and "no quarter" attitude was, in part, my own fault.
Spitzer is not only my colleague, but also my wife. Three months earlier, she announced that we were pregnant. Of course, I was delighted, but as a man born in my time, the idea of my pregnant wife doing the kind of work we do at NCIS appalled me. And when she informed me that she didn't have any plans to quit, I objected for
all I was worth.
She had other ideas. There was a reason she took the name of a Valkyrie warrior maid out of the old sagas after heeding Gretchen Higgins' message. You quickly learn to not stand in her way, and even with my well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness, I do know when to back off. My dear mother didn't raise a fool. Although I suspect that she's having a good laugh at my expense, up there in heaven. So Brunei stayed on the job and I was introduced to the wonderful world of morning sickness and hormones. She isn't getting too much sleep; neither am I.
It's a good thing that I love her with all my heart.
Meanwhile on this case, I have to do without her usual cool head and use my own in its place. That's a great departure for me, as I'm . . . a bit notorious for my preference to knock heads together instead. So, as I looked at Angelina's anguish-stricken face, I decided that she needed someone in her corner. One, we were not getting anywhere with her. Two, we needed her wholehearted support. And finally, her silence wasn't making any sense at all. Suddenly, an idea about the why of it sprung forward, as well as a plan. But I needed help to go with it, and looked around the room. I confirmed that there was not a sympathetic face in this bunch. Of course, that never stopped me before.
"Admiral, can we take a break? I think Private Rainaldi could use the time to pull herself together."
Simpson was caught by surprise at my request, but he recovered quickly, looked at her and then back at me. "Okay. Everyone take twenty and be back here on the hour. I need to use the head anyway."
We all stood and waited until he left the room before attempting to make our own escapes. Not Brunei. She stationed herself at my side with a puzzled expression. Angelina didn't try to leave, but sat heavily back on her chair, looking like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. I motioned to Brunei and left the room with her in close pursuit.
She waited until we were out of the room and Angelina's hearing before tearing into me. "Gunther Ignatius Schlosser, what are you and that devious mind of yours thinking?"
I smiled and looked down at her, which isn't difficult. I've got at a head and half height advantage on her. "Spitzer . . . my love, I need to find a sympathetic ear, preferably another woman, for that poor girl in there to talk to. And today . . . you're not it. And I doubt our local version of the inquisition is going to make her talk."
I swear there were sparks in her blue eyes. She snarled, "Good. You can be the good cop and I can be the bad cop this time." Then she turned to march back into the room.
As I said before, I'm taller than her. As tall as most of the up-time males and rather well muscled, characteristics that came handy on my prior line of work as a thug and enforcer. My face isn't that of a great beauty, either, after one too many bar fights only my mother—or a certain pissed-off blue-eyed lovely—could love it. You can see why I'm more accustomed to frightening people. I can't do cuddly too well—much less sympathetic "good cop." So, I grabbed Brunei by the elbow before she went too far and used my greater physical strength to lead her in search of the aforementioned "good cop."
I needed to find a sympathetic female ear, preferably of the Marine variety, in the next twenty minutes. Luckily for me, I remembered that I'd seen someone who could fill the bill when I came to work this morning. However, I needed a phone because I doubted that I could convince my companion to take a romantic stroll just now. Dietrich Schwanhausser, the admiral's chief yeoman, head clerk and administrator, looked up from his work with some amusement at my better half's efforts to get rid of me by sinking her nails into my forearm.
"Senior Chief, would you be kind enough to call the gate and ask Lance Corporal Schuhmacher to report to me immediately." Brunei stopped struggling and looked at me in surprise. I gave her a toothy grin while hiding my discomfort—she has long nails.
"Sure thing, Herr Director." To his credit, Schwanhausser kept any comments to himself but then he's a husband and father, too. The look he gave me clearly said, "oh, you poor bastard." What the heck, I thought. I can do six more months of this standing on my head . . . I hope.
We spent the time waiting for Schuhmacher in thoughtful silence. Brunei knows about my hunches and is smart enough—now that she was out of Angelina's aggravating presence and somewhat relaxed—to start wondering what I saw in the situation that she failed to see. My own version of the same process pulled several curious factors in the back of my mind together, and I was finding that they were forming a very interesting mosaic.
Angelina was a rather well-educated woman and I was betting that it was not as your typical well-brought up merchant's daughter, a factor that got lost at the beginning because her mastery of English and German was so awful. But she had picked them up fast and now spoke them better than Carlo, who had been around these parts close to two years. Kratman once told me that her Latin was nothing to sneeze at either, and he suspected that it was better that his, which was really interesting. There was also the fact that she arrived in Magdeburg with enough resources of her own to hire a nurse to watch baby and another to watch over Carlo while she was doing her Marine training. Finally, like I mentioned before, her silence made absolutely no sense if her main interest was to protect her family. My conclusions were all of an unsavory nature, but went together with one last thing that everyone seemed to forget in the middle of all the commotion. Carlo was as reticent about discussing that past as she was.
Schuhmacher, warily, popped her head into the office, looked around and when she saw us, smiled and walked forward, confidently ignoring the senior chief's stare at the impudent jarhead who was impinging on his domain. The light sweat and the flush on her face told me that she had run all the way from the gate. It was strange to see her without her usual partner, Hans Leiss, but he was now on paternity leave, getting acquainted with his new son and helping his wife around the house with his other two kids. Oh yes, paternity leave was one of those twentieth-century concepts that the women of my time intuitively understood and quickly adopted. One I expected to come to understand intimately—enthusiastically or not—in six months, more or less, together with the one about the honey-do-list. At least I hope so. Seriously, cross my heart, etc.
Schuhmacher popped herself to a stiff parade rest on arrival; as civilians neither Brunei nor I qualify for the more formal "attention." The wet-behind-the-ears Marine who came to my notice three months ago had gained poise and confidence in the meantime and was no longer the farm girl I was certain was going to lose her dinner at our first crime scene. Her parents could be very proud of the woman that she's growing into, although I suspect that Herr and Frau Schuhmacher were not thinking about the Corps or law enforcement when they sent their daughter to Magdeburg to seek service as a maid. "Lance Corporal Schuhmacher reporting as ordered."
"At ease, Marine. I need your help."
"I'm at the Herr Director's service." She probably thought that whatever I had in mind would be more interesting than gate traffic control and ignoring the stares of those who have never seen a woman MP before.
"Good. We need your help. Angelina Rainaldi is in the boss' office digging herself into a dishonorable discharge. We would appreciate it if you'd go in there and talk to her and make her see that is to her advantage to be candid with us." I watched her face. The smile was gone and she was giving me that expressionless cop face that seems to be issued to us with our badges. I didn't need a sign about her head to understand that she was not a card-carrying member of the Angelina Admirers Club. "Herr Director, is there someone else that you could ask?"
I gave her one of my best looks. "If she's thrown out of the corps, there isn't going to be anyone between her baby and the next fiend who's sent to steal her, is there? Has she ever done anything that would warrant that her baby girl deserves such a fate?"
I was counting on her basic sense of fairness. You couldn't be in our profession without one. Still, I was on pins and needles while she thought it over.
"Herr Director, as far as I know, she's never done anything that w
ould bring disgrace to the Corps. I could talk to her, but what can I say that would get her to cooperate?"
Before I could open my mouth, Brunhilde beat me to the punch. "Annalise, just be truthful. The security of her child needs to be foremost over any sense of guilt or modesty."
Schuhmacher looked at her for a second before nodding her head and then walking toward the admiral's office. I watched her go in and close the door before turning towards Spitzer. My surprise at the change in her attitude must have been written all over my face.
"Oh, Gunther, stop looking at me like that. You're not as enigmatic as you like to think you are. By the way, how's the arm? I'm sorry, but you do make me crazy at times."
"Never fear, my love. It was just like a kitten's caress." I lied, smiling and wondered if the senior chief had a first aid kit in his desk, or at least some alcohol nearby.
Brunhilde snorted, recognizing BS when she saw it but didn't say anything else as I went looking for the supplies.
* * *
I was dabbing disinfectant on my arm when the admiral, Kratman, Von Brockenholz and Hudson returned, coffee mugs in hand. The vile stuff seems to oil the inner workings of the naval establishment and I'd have killed for a mug, too. But I was abstaining in support of my bride, who was forbidden to touch the stuff. Sighing mournfully, I stopped them and explained the situation.
