“Morning, all.” The three sat in a semicircle facing Jackson, their chairs pulled up to ring his desk like megalithic standing stones hauled into place for some dark ancient rite. Scott Angler, JAG Corps. Indira Desai, from Intelligence. And Lew Stevens, the ship psychologist. No introductions were needed; they all knew one another. None of them yet knew why they were there.
They made small talk for a minute or two, mostly about reactions to the news that Malaysia was canceled and to the Line Crossing ceremony rites that were about to get under way. Consensus around the ship: on a scale of 1 to 10, positive anticipation about the ceremonies was about a 3, negative reactions to the port call cancellation an easy 11.
“All right,” said Jackson.
Let the rites begin.
“What I’m about to tell you is confidential. If, after I’ve explained myself, you decide not to participate, you have my word that there will be no judgment, no further discussion, and we’ll pretend the conversation never happened.”
The other three sat, waiting to hear more.
“All I ask,” he continued, “is that you keep this all to yourselves. Are we clear on this?”
Lew gave a puzzled frown but said, “Fine by me.”
Indy nodded cautiously. “All right,” she said.
Jackson looked at Angler. “Scottie?”
The JAG officer gave a sharp shrug. “Sure, fine. We listen. Then we decide. So what’s it about?”
Jackson looked at them each once more. Then nodded and read them in on the situation. The two suicides, the two notes, the unidentified hypodermic cap.
“We’re looking at the possibility that these suicides may, well, may not exactly be suicides.” He paused. Merde alors. Since when was he squeamish about speaking his mind? “That they may have been homicides.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Indy. Lew’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
Scott’s expression didn’t change at all; he already knew this much. “Have we liaised with NCIS?” he asked.
“No,” Jackson replied evenly. “At this point, there’s no official inquiry. This isn’t a working theory, only a hypothetical.” He paused again.
“Hang on,” said Indy. “You think these two are connected? The same perpetrator?”
“We’re looking at that possibility.”
“Two connected homicides?” Indy said. “Master Chief, you think we’ve got a serial killer on board?”
Serial killer.
He hadn’t yet allowed himself to use that term. Somehow it made the whole proposition seem ludicrously far-fetched.
“No, honestly, I don’t think that. I think Lieutenant Schofield had personal problems he couldn’t live with anymore. I think Lieutenant Shiflin cracked under the stress of a bad night in the barrel, on top of whatever personal issues she was dealing with. And the dropped hypo cap is someone’s careless contribution to topside foreign object debris. I’m saying, we’re just looking at the possibility. I brought you three here to ask if you’d be willing to work with me on an unofficial investigation.”
There was a brief silence. Lew glanced at Indy, who looked over at Scott.
“Unofficial?” said Scott softly.
“Yes,” said Jackson. Then he added, “When I say, ‘We’re looking at the possibility,’ what I mean is, I’m looking.”
There was another moment’s silence as the implications sunk in. The captain was not on board with this.
Jackson was flying solo.
Lew gave a low whistle. “Well, that’s…different.”
“Sure as sweet fuck-all is, pardon my French,” murmured Scott.
Jackson held up one hand. “Before you say anything, let me outline my thoughts. How we do this thing. If we do this thing. Indy would work the data side. Sifting through incoming and outgoing emails, web traffic, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Personnel files…”
“Cross-checking all ship’s schedules in the past ten days,” Indy said.
“Exactly,” Jackson continued. “See who in theory could have been free to commit both crimes, who would be ruled out based on their documented work schedules, that sort of thing. And any other intel aspect you come up with.”
He turned to Stevens. “Lew, I’m hoping you’d be able to pull together whatever evidence and data we have and use it to work up a psychological profile of our perpetrator. If there is, in fact, a perpetrator.”
“So,” Lew said mildly, “you want me to profile a serial killer who may or may not exist, with no bodies, crime scenes, murder methods, weapons, or hard evidence, for homicides we’re not even sure actually happened. Did I miss anything?”
Scott spoke up. “Just the part about no orders or official sanction.” He glanced at Jackson. “Or permission.”
The master chief gave a rueful nod. “That about sums it up. Which brings me to you, Scottie. I’m hoping you’ll conduct whatever interviews and inquiries we might need. Which we’d have to do with tremendous delicacy—”
“Seeing as how this inquiry doesn’t actually exist,” put in Indy.
Jackson looked over at her. “Correct.” Not to put too fine a point on it. “I’d also suggest,” looking back at Scott now, “that you serve as the group’s tactical coordinator and keep a close watch on everything we do, make sure we don’t cross any legal lines in our investigation.”
“You mean,” said Scott, “other than the fact that the entire effort could be construed as somewhat extralegal?”
They were silent for a moment, all with the same thought.
If not flat-out mutinous.
“Right,” said Jackson after a moment. “Other than that.”
He reached into the bottom side drawer—the one that locked—and pulled out a sheet of paper. Placed it on the desk. “Which is why I’ve drafted this.” He turned it around so they could all read it.
The other three crowded close, reading as he summarized.
“It states that I take full responsibility for what we are about to undertake; that it is exclusively and solely by my initiative; and that you three are acting at my request and direction. If this all blows up in our faces, the hope is, this document will offer the three of you at least some measure of protection.”
One by one they finished reading, sat back, and looked at him.
“And, full disclosure,” he added, “I can’t guarantee even that much. Although I do think it should carry some weight in that contingency. Scottie?”
Scott nodded slowly. Reluctantly. “I’d say the same. Should. No guarantee.”
“Well.” The master chief pulled a pen from the pocket of his blouse and placed it on top of the letter. “This is your opportunity to back out. As I said, no repercussions, no further discussion. No harm, no foul.”
One by one, they all signed their names.
Jackson took the executed document, placed it back in the secure drawer, and locked it. Then looked up at his co-conspirators.
“All right, then. Shall we hit the flight deck and spread some good cheer?”