Official Privilege

by P. T. Deutermann

  “You got it.”

  Santini buzzed the secretary, and Dan went back to explain the acronyms to Grace.

  “A CACO is a casualty assistance calls officer. He’s the guy who shows up in the black car to tell a family— the parents, or the spouse—that their service member has been injured or killed.”

  “Now there’s a wonderful assignment.”

  “Right, but it’s not a permanent specialty. Anybody can be tagged to go do the CACO job, just like I got tagged to do this JAG investigation.

  There’s a Bupers manual section, procedures, specific instructions, all of that, on being a CACO. And typically, it’s rank for rank: A commander dies, another commander is appointed CACO. Like that. And these days, if there’s press interest, the CACO’s main job is to beat the media to the prospective bereaved’s door. After that, he helps any way he can.

  Interfaces with the whole Navy personnel infrastructure to arrange burial, deal with a mortuary, shipment of remains, notification to insurance and the VA, obtain a death certificate, all the admin stuff that a death stirs up. It’s a good system.”

  “And we need one now?”

  “Yeah, I think so. It’s a judgment call—we don’t have a positive ID, but I think we owe it to the Hardin family at least to alert them that we may have found their son.

  Especially since it was a civilian who read the name off the uniform.”

  “And FITREP?”

  “Fitrep is an officer’s fitness report. His ship filed an unauthorized-absence report when he went missing. Sounds like the command was assuming that Hardin went on his own steam, which might indicate a less”&:

  ts.

  than-terrific officer. The fitness-report file—that’s like your performance-appraisal reports—may reveal why they reacted that way. The problem is that all his records—service, pay, medical, dental, fitreps—should have been packaged up and sent to St. Louis to the federal records depository for microfilming by now.

  Getting things out of a federal archive center can take |, six to eight weeks.”

  “I can imagine. And this man in Bupers—he’s going to try to expedite the retrieval?”

  “Yeah. But I have to get Comnavbase to send a message to start the process.”

  Santini appeared. “Commander, the base PAO, Lieutenant Commander Mcgonagle, is on her way over.

  She sounded a little peevish.”

  “I’ll handle that,” Dan said. But as Santini withdrew, Grace suggested that she handle that. Dan thought for a few seconds before agreeing.

  “Right. Good idea,” he said. “You fill her in. I’m going to call the Navbase EA. This thing could get real big real quick.”

  “One thing—what’s a PAO, again?”

  “Public affairs officer—Navy spokesman, or spokeswoman, in this case.

  And Disbo means disbursing officer —Hardin was the paymaster. NIS field offices specialize in bent paymasters, which is why Santini here ought to have a record of this.”

  Dan got on the phone to the Navbase headquarters and asked for the admiral’s executive assistant. While on hold, he tried to remember the organization. Back before World War II, the Navy’s shore establishment had been divided into geographic districts, with the entire country and some of the overseas possessions being allocated to sixteen naval districts. The naval district commander had usually been a two-star rear admiral serving his swan-song tour just prior to retirement. The naval districts handled administrative matters within their territories: the pursuit and apprehension of deserters, trials and court-martials, formal and informal JAG investigations, the appointment and support of CACOs, administration of transient barracks and brigs, and the general personnel and administrative infrastructure support for all the Navy commands located within the district. In the years of base and flag officer billet consolidations since the war, the districts had been done away with and these duties apportioned to the largest base command located in what had been the respective districts. Dan knew that Comnavbase Philadelphia, now a one-star rear admiral, had a small staff of people who tried to cover the catchall functions of the old districts in addition to their normal duties.

  “This is Lieutenant Commander Vansladen speaking,” said a voice. Dan smiled. Even in a backwater like Navbase Philadelphia, the EA sounded impressed with himself. Dan identified himself and then brought the EA up to speed on what had happened so far.

  “Commander,” Vansladen said. “I’m a little distressed to be hearing about you and your investigation for the first time a day after you’ve arrived in our area.”

  “Well, Mr. Vansladen,” Dan said, using the term appropriate to a junior officer’s rank, “Comnavbase Philadelphia is listed as a ‘copy to’ on my appointing order from the Navy JAG. If you’re surprised, you’re not reading your mail.” So much for your distress, bucko.

  There was a moment of silence on the phone. Actually, Dan knew that the appointing order probably had not even physically reached Philadelphia yet, a fact that Vansladen also very likely recognized. But Vansladen was a lieutenant commander talking to a commander.

  Dan also knew that he should have touched base with the Navbase commander’s office the moment he arrived.

  He decided to go smooth.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m having to move quickly here.

  Let me suggest that you call the EA down in OP-Oh six; that’s Captain Manning. Here’s the number. Or better yet, maybe the admiral should call Admiral Carson; he’s Oh-six B—the ADCNO Plans and Policy. That would be the quickest way for your boss to get the political slant on this situation, and a direct, flag-to-flag explanation for why I’m here instead of having the local NIS office running it. But more importantly, I’ve just sent for your base PAO, because I think there’s going to be a pack of yapping journalists at the front gate, probably today. And I’m going to need a priority message to go out from Comnavbase requesting retrieval of some personnel records and assignment of a CACO.”

  There was a moment of silence, in which Dan thought he could hear scratching on paper. Then the EA spoke up. “I’ve got all that, Commander. What office are you operating out of?”

  “I’m working out of the NIS office here; I think we’re next door.”

  “We’ll get back to you,” the EA said, then hung up.

  Dan grinned. EAs always talked like they had a mouse in their pockets.

  “We’ll” get back to you, indeed.

  He quickly dialed up the OP-06 front office number in the Pentagon and told the yeoman chief to alert Captain Manning that Comnavbase Philadelphia might be calling 06B with a “what the hell” query. The chief took it in stride—06B was a senior two-star; Comnavbase Philadelphia was a one-star. But he did agree to alert the EA. Dan hung up and found Grace Snow standing in the doorway. Standing next to her was a tall, very Irish-looking redhead, who was wearing the service dress blues of a lieutenant commander.

  “Commander Collins,” Grace said, “this is It.

  Comdr. Helen Mcgonagle, the base PAO. I’ve briefed her on what we have so far. And here’s the fax from that master whatever down at the bureau.”

  “That’s master chief. Good morning, Miss. Mcgonagle,” Dan said, taking the fax from Grace. He was always somewhat at a loss as to how to address women officers—by their ranks, or Miss., or Ms. He had personally settled on using rank for lieutenants and below; Miss. for lieutenant commanders, because of the two words in the rank; and the rank again—Commander, Captain—for the higher grades. Inevitably, the women would correct him. But Mcgonagle was all business, and indeed peevish.

  “Commander Collins, your friendly PAO can be of much better service to my boss and yours if she gets cut in from the start.”

  “I agree, and I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I didn’t expect this thing to move quite so quickly.”

  “Well, our dear shipyard commander should have been on to us the moment they found the body. We weren’t even info on their incident-report message, but that’s o
ur little domestic problem, not yours. You’re assigned to Opnav and directing a murder investigation in the field?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And not NIS. Why is that?”

  Watch it, boyo; here’s a staffie with her brain engaged, Dan thought.

  “I’ll have to duck that one for now, Miss. Mcgonagle.”

  “The name is Helen, and, no, you can’t duck it. Look, think of me as your lawyer or your accountant—smart line officers always tell the PAO the whole truth so that their PAO can then efficiently keep the media jackals from holding a feeding frenzy on their collective haunches.

  Sir.”

  Dan laughed out loud. “Yes, ma’am. Ten thousand gomenesais. Come in and close that door, will you?”

  With Grace listening, Dan reviewed the outlines of the story of the body in the battleship and also explained that the VCNO had decided to appoint a line officer to do the investigation to avoid any public association of the NIS with another battleship.

  “Precisely because there might be media interest in the body in the battleship, and possibly invidious comparisons made with the Iowa flap,”

  observed Mcgonagle.

  “Um. Yes. Better make that a hundred thousand gomens.”

  “Accepted. But if that question comes up, we can point to Miss. Snow here and say that the NIS is indeed involved in the investigation. And you’re operating out of the NIS offices. Okay. That’ll wash for the moment.

  Probably won’t survive Washington media scrutiny, though.”

  “And what do we do then?” asked Grace.

  “Washington heat is CHINFO’s problem, isn’t it?”

  muttered Mcgonagle. Dan liked this woman a lot all of a sudden. “Did you say you had identified the dead man?” she asked.

  “Yes. A It. (jg) W. Hardin. He was a pork chop, the assistant chop in Luce when she was here a few years ago.”

  “Hardin? Hmmm.”

  “You recognize the name?”

  “Well, yes—but not his. There was a It. Elizabeth Hardin who worked in CHINFO when I was down there two years ago, got killed in a hit-and-run accident over in Washington. As I remember, she had a brother in the Navy. But—” She was interrupted by the chirping of her beeper.

  “Ah,” she said, looking at the readout. “This is the CBS affiliate. We begin the beguine.”

  Using Dan’s phone, Lieutenant Commander Mcgonagle called the reporter at the local CBS affiliate and found out that it was indeed a query about the body in the battleship. She told the reporter that the Navy would have a statement by three o’clock, in time for the evening news, and, no, they could not release a name, because the next of kin had not been notified.

  Yes, there would be more details at three. No comment on any homicide angle.

  “I’ll get a quick statement typed up and have the calls shunted over to my shop at the headquarters. I’m going to go back there and brief my boss. I propose a meeting at the Navbase headquarters at fourteen hundred, so we can coordinate what we’re going to tell the little dears.”

  “Will you fill in the CHINFO?”

  “Yes, sir, I will. You let me know when Bupers has a CACO in the loop.”

  “Will do. And Helen, many thanks. This press stuff is scary to us ship drivers.”

  “Right. Just remember, I can’t help you if you keep me in the mushroom mode.”

  When Mcgonagle had left the office, Dan called a quick meeting with Grace and Santini in Santini’s office.

  He briefed Santini on what they had so far and on what was going on in the media loop.

  “What I need now, until I get the records back from Bupers, is anything local that you—or maybe even the base cops—might have on the disappearance. I know it’s nearly two years back, but surely there must have been at least routine paper on an officer supposedly going over the hill like that—especially if he was a disbursing officer.”

  Santini made notes. “I made a quick check yesterday,” he said. “But lemme look some more. And maybe we ought to call the Navy supply system—I forget their acronym, but those guys who do audits on disbursing officers when somebody thinks something isn’t kosher.

  We work with ‘em when a Disbo goes wrong.”

  “Yeah, shit, I know who you mean. Gobbledygook name.”

  “How could you tell?” said Grace. Both men smiled.

  “I’ll find ‘em,” Santini said. “Jerry Watkins over there just worked a disbursing case. He’ll know it.”

  “Grace,” Dan said, “can you call downtown and see what’s happening with the autopsy, maybe speed it along, federal case and all that. I’m going to check in with Oh-six and then with the Navbase EA.”

  The meeting broke up and Dan returned to his cubicle to call the Pentagon. Grace went to an empty desk out in the main office to make her calls. Dan’s call was handed over to Captain Manning.

  “Admiral Carson told me to call in from time to time, Captain. This case is going public this afternoon, so I thought now was a good time.”

  “Indeed. The admiral is down in JCS. Give me a precis of what you have and I’ll relay it to the ADCNO and to the vice’s EA.”

  “The vice chief?”

  “Yes, Commander. He’s the one who started this little food fight with NIS, remember?”

  Dan glanced over at Grace Snow, who was busy on the phone.

  “Yes, sir. Well. Here’s what’s happening.” Dan gave the EA a three-minute recitation on where the case stood. “And how are your relations with the NIS?”

  “Actually, pretty good. I think. It started out testy up here in the field office, but now I’m apparently getting cooperation. The critical path time wise is the autopsy to confirm that this was a homicide, and the records from Bupers so that we can positively identify Hardin, as well as some people in Luce who were there when he was there and can maybe shed some light on why this guy was murdered.”

  “I see. And the press interest?”

  “Body in a battleship. There’s at least one TV station that’s on it; the base PAO is going to have a statement for the media at fifteen hundred.”

  “And you are not going to be part of that, correct?”

  “Uh, I hadn’t decided. They haven’t—”

  “I’d tell you to watch my lips, but that would be difficult.

  You will not be part of the press conference. The Navbase PAO can identify you as the officer conducting the investigation, if that’s absolutely necessary, but otherwise we want you to keep a low profile.”

  “Yes, sir. But may I ask why?”

  “You want to be a TV star, do you?”

  “No, Captain. But the PAO will have a tough time fielding questions about the investigation if I’m not there.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh. If your PAO is a professional, he’ll have a lot less trouble than you think with questions.”

  “She. The PAO is a woman.”

  “How wonderful for you.”

  Dan thought for a moment. There was something else he had wanted to tell the EA. Then it came to him.

  “Sir, one other thing. The PAO, Lieutenant Commander Mcgonagle, said something that might be relevant, especially if the press begins to dig.”

  “And that is?”

  “That she knew another Lieutenant Hardin, a woman officer, down in CHINFO a couple years back. She remembered because the woman was killed in a traffic accident of some kind over in the District.”

  “And why is that germane?”

  “I’m not sure it is. But if this lieutenant and that one were related, brother and sister, say, it would mean that the family had lost two children in the service in two years. If nothing else, the CACO ought to be told that.”

  “I see.” Manning’s voice softened a micron. “Yes.

  And it might be more effective for me to transmit that information to the bureau than for you to.”

  “Yes, sir, it might. I don’t know that it’s true, though.


  Hardin isn’t that unusual a name.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “No, sir. When we make some more progress, I’ll phone in again.”

  “Very well.” Manning hung up. Dan put the phone down and rubbed his face. He always felt uncomfortable talking to the EAs. They wore their bosses’ stripes so arrogantly, most of them, and yet they certainly seemed to be in synch with their flags’ way of thinking.

  Like the bit about not going to the press conference.

  Having not yet had command, Dan had had little direct experience with the media, but he had heard stories about innocent lamby-pie naval officers sticking both feet in their mouth under the skillful questioning of a reporter. The EA was probably entirely correct in telling him not to go. EA. He had to check in with Navbase. There was a base telephone list on the blotter at his desk, and he dialed the number for the Navbase commander’s office and asked for the EA.

  “Sir, the EA’s in with the admiral and the PAO. May I take a message?”

  “No, not really. Commander Mcgonagle will be bringing them up to speed with what’s going on with my investigation. I’m Commander Collins. I was mostly checking in.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, you’re that commander. Hold, please.”

  He was put on hold for a minute, then switched over to a speaker phone.

  The voice that came on identified itself as Rear Admiral Bostick.

  “Commander Collins, this is the admiral. I’ve got my PAO and my EA in the room with me. Why am I finding out about all this secondhand and a day late?”

  “Yes, sir, I apologize for that, Admiral. I assumed that since the initial message came out of Philly about the body being found that you at least knew about that, Admiral, which is why I went straight to the NIS field office. As to my heading up the investigation—”

  “Yeah, what the hell, over? Since when does Opnav handle a murder investigation in one of the shipyards?

  You talked to the shipyard commander yet?”

  “Uh, no, sir, I haven’t.”

  “Well, you’re a regular Lone Ranger, aren’t you? I still don’t understand why you are here instead of the NIS.”