...And Throw Away The Key

by: Timer

A/N: The information about the Museum holdings, building and location at the Academy is accurate. The Rogers Ship Model Collection is a jewel in the crown. Nothing about the security measures has any basis in reality. It is interesting to note that the current Director of the US Naval Academy Museum (as of 1/06) is a Dr. J. Scott Harmon. Tee hee. Who says life doesn’t imitate art?

While it’s not at all necessary to have read my previous story “TV or Not TV, That Is The Question” to understand this yarn, if you have there’ll be a few more jokes in here.

Once again, timeline is midseason 7, after JAG-A-Thon and before Head To Toe, but forgive me a few scrambles along the way.

All characters are fictional. The ones from JAG don’t belong to me, I just play with them occasionally. No money is changing hands as a result of this little story.

Finally, please don’t think I’m poking fun at developmentally challenged people. That character did exactly what he was asked to do, exactly as he was told to do it. Gotta make you wonder who were the ‘challenged’ ones here, eh? And isn’t that my point?


Chapter 1: Breaking and Entering

US Naval Academy Grounds
Annapolis, MD
2355 (local), Friday, Nov. 30, 2001

The black-clad team of six silently creeps in the shadows, slowly making its way around the perimeter of the open parade ground. Using only hand signals to communicate, the invaders make their way to a secluded spot near the US Naval Academy Museum. There they seemingly disappear into the ground, to patiently wait for the right moment to strike.


Mac’s apartment building hallway
Georgetown
2355 (local), Friday, Nov. 30, 2001

I’m tired and sorely in need of a shower, but instead of going to my loft I came here. Like a moth to a flame I smile ruefully. Can’t help myself. I’ve been gone on an investigation for a week. I have to see her.

But first I have to get past her damn door.
Ever since we started sleeping together almost every night we’re both in town, Mac’s insomnia has miraculously disappeared. My nightmares, too. I consider both to be signs from the cosmic powers that we should never sleep apart again. Who am I to argue with them?

So, given what she told me on the phone earlier today about her week, I’m thinking she might be asleep. Hence my anger at the door situation.

I set down my sea bag, briefcase and cover and produce my key. Right. I should say the key that sometimes works and sometimes leaves me standing out in the hallway jiggling it for what seems like forever.

I can’t believe one of her neighbors hasn’t called the cops yet, certain that I’m trying to break in. But then again, if they haven’t called them based on some of the noises we’ve made in the middle of the night over the last couple of months, maybe they’re all oblivious.

Or too embarrassed to lodge a complaint.

Who would’ve guessed Mac is a screamer?

Taking a deep breath, I petition the lock gods and insert the key. Damn. I can tell right away it’s gonna be one of those times. I can resign myself to jiggling the key for the next five minutes, praying for the tumblers to fall or I can go to my backup plan.

It’s late. I’m tired. Backup plan it is. But tomorrow, come hell or high water, I’m replacing this lock with one that works. I don’t care that Mac never has a problem with it. I’m getting one that opens reliably for both of us.

As I reach into my sea bag for my backup plan, I briefly wonder if Bugme put some sort of curse on the lock. He did live in the outback and I’ve heard tales about some strange things going on out there.


US Naval Academy grounds
Annapolis, MD
0130 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

The team leader signals his men. Moving forward they reach their first significant challenge (getting by the gate guards was way too easy...they call this a military installation?). Two stand watch, two reconnoiter the back of the building, two reach the doors and go to work. A mere 30 seconds later the door team signals thumbs up. The watch signals recon. Recon returns. The team silently verifies they’re all still synchronized.

With the watch staying in place, the recon and door teams enter the building.

Mac’s apartment hallway
Georgetown
0130 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

This is my ‘gonna be the quick way in’ backup plan? Damn. I should’ve stuck with jiggling the key. But now that I’ve been at this for half an hour my pride insists I do it this way.

I’m also convinced I need to talk to Mac about better security. Hell, I’ve been working at her front door with lock picks in a brightly lit hall for a half an hour and no one’s said boo.

On the other hand, I haven’t been able to get in her door for the last half hour even though I have been working at it with lock picks. OK, her security isn’t completely derelict.

I need to brush up my skills. I used to be good at picking locks. It’s just the last ten years or so I haven’t had much need to do it. Even took me a while to remember where I had my trusty picks stored.

Trusty? Who am I kidding? Any minute now I’m gonna give in and call her on my cell. Figure that’s a little less rude than pounding on the door.


US Naval Academy Museum
Interior
0132 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

The mission is going perfectly. They easily avoid what this Museum considers its security measures and quickly reach their prize: The Rogers Ship Model Collection in all it’s glory, occupying pride of place on the first floor.

Grinning at one another for a moment, the team focuses on its next, and most important, challenge. The one that, if they are successful, will secure their place in history.


Five minutes later

Mission complete, the team slithers out of the Museum, securing the door behind them. They disappear into the night, as if they had never been there.


Mac’s apartment hallway
0132(local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

Finally, I feel the tumblers fall. My back has long ago given up on me bending over, so I’m on my knees when I open the door.
*Click* The safety on a handgun has such a distinctive sound when it’s released.

You know, that’s just not the sound I wanted to hear right now.

“Mac, it’s me, Harm.” Silence is also not what I want to hear right now.

“Mac???” I’m on my knees, I’ve been trying to get in her door for the last half hour, I’m tired, I need a shower, I need to sleep with my arms around her and I know she’s gonna milk this for all she can.

OK. I’m ready.

“Harm.”

“Yes, Mac?” Well, at least I’m sure it’s her and she’s alright despite the lousy security in this place.

Whoops, I am the one on my knees and she is the one with the gun. Probably not in a position to throw stones about that right now.

“Don’t quit your day job.”

“Hey, so I haven’t kept up my quals on picking locks. I’ve been busy saving the free world, finding the truth, putting the bad guys away.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Harm. That’s what all the failed second story guys say.”

“Mac. Would you put the safety back on and can I get up now?”

“Sure Harm.”

“Thanks.”

She turns on a lamp as I stand up and haul my stuff inside. I close the door, giving the offending lock a swift slap.

“Mac, that lock goes. Tomorrow. I’m not risking getting arrested for home invasion.”

“OK Harm. But it never gives me any trouble and from what I can tell, the most they could charge you with is attempted home invasion.”

The words say sarcasm. The tone and body language say something else entirely. She’s put her gun back behind the armoire and has her arms wrapped around my neck. I get a brief whiff of gun oil mixed with her more familiar cinnamon and vanilla aroma. You know you’re in love with a Marine when gun oil smells erotic.
“Technically, Mac, I don’t think home invasion would be the proper charge.”

“Oh really, Commander? And what would you like to be ‘properly charged’ with?” She’s kissing my neck as I back her towards the bedroom.

“Well, I think I’ve done the ‘breaking’ part. I was wondering if you’d be an accomplice in the ‘entering’ phase?”

“Harm,” she whispers as we tumble onto her bed. “You make a life of crime sound so exciting.”


Chapter 2: The Game Is Afoot


Mac’s apartment
Georgetown
0730 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I vaguely hear an irritatingly creepy tune playing out on the fringes of my consciousness. Oh yeah, that’s the ring tone Bud installed for me back in July.

What if I just ignore it?

What if I ever want to make Captain?

I grope around for my pants, find them, find the phone and squint at the caller ID readout. Uh oh. Chegwidden, from his home at 0730 on the morning of the Army/Navy game? This must be really serious.

I hit the receive button as I clear my throat. “Admiral, good morning.”

You know I think I said that just to hear him harumph. He’s got such a great harumph.

“Hardly, Commander. I tried your place earlier. I know your transport got in late last night. And you don’t sound like you’re out jogging. In fact, you sound like you’re barely awake.”

“Yes sir, I did get in late last night from my investigation.” Agree with what you can, ignore what you can. Words to live by.

Mac sleepily turns over. “Harm?” she mumbles. I clamp my free hand across her mouth, shaking the phone as her eyes shoot open. She gets it, nods, then proceeds to start nibbling on the fingers of what had been my free hand.

“Commander, I’m not going to ask you where you are. I’m not going to comment that the sleepy female voice I just heard sounded a lot like Colonel MacKenzie, because I know these damn cell phones have terrible transmission sometimes. But I am ordering you to meet me at my house ASAP for an urgent briefing, after which you will immediately head to Annapolis to begin an investigation.”

I hear him sigh. Never a good sign.

“Before you say it, yes, I do know that today is the Army/Navy game. I have no doubt that it figures into this....situation.”

Damn. Must be bad if he’s calling it a ‘situation’. That usually means heavy doses of politics and strangeness.

“Commander, do you have a presentable uniform with you?”

I glance at the wrinkled mess on the floor next to the bed. Then I remember Mac’s excellent steamer and my spare shirt.

“Yes sir. I’m good to go.”

“I’ll bet you are Commander, but nevertheless I need you at my house an hour ago.”

I hear him chuckling as he hangs up. I turn to Mac, who’s graduated from nibbling to sucking and is rolling toward me with unmistakable intent. “That was the Admiral. We are so busted and I’ve gotta go right now. Sorry. Can you steam my uniform while I run through the shower?”

It’s funny. I never thought of Mac as someone who would pout. Yet she has a world-class lower lip when denied certain delights. Then again, I think I pout about that too.

“It was?” I nod. “We are?” I nod again. “You do?” That makes three. “Yes.”

“Thanks, babe. You’re the best.” I jump out of bed and head for the showers. “Something’s happened at the Academy. I don’t know what, but I can tell you this: if it merits getting the Admiral involved on the morning of the Army/Navy game, it must be big.”


Admiral Chegwidden’s home
McLean, VA
0825 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I stand at attention as he opens the door.

“At ease, Commander. Come in. Coffee?”

“Yes sir, haven’t had time for any yet this morning.”

“What, Mac didn’t have a travel mug she could lend you?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” Answer what you can, avoid what you can. Remember those words.

“You take cream, right?”

“Yes sir.” Whatever went down at Annapolis it can’t be too terrible if AJ’s got time to make me uncomfortable about Mac and comfortable that he knows how I take my coffee in the same breath.

He comes back with two mugs, hands one to me and offers “have a seat, Commander. You’re gonna love this one.”

That’s right up there with the sound of a safety being released in the ‘things I don’t like to hear’ category.

He settles back, takes a sip of coffee and I get the impression he’s going to tell a shaggy dog tale.

“Last night, someone, or a team of someones, evaded perimeter security and got on the grounds at the Academy.”

My look says it all....not good anytime. Really bad in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. His use of the term ‘team’ is not lost on me.

He takes another sip, regarding my response to the information. “You’re familiar with the Academy Museum aren’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Apparently these someones broke into it last night, or early this morning.”

“Oh no, sir. What did they do?” My mind reels thinking of the irreplaceable Navy artifacts. Those bastards. Killing innocent civilians isn’t enough? They want to destroy our history as well?

AJ regards me even more carefully. “Rabb, don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Yes sir.”

He samples his coffee yet again. He’s deliberately dragging this out.

“Ever visit the Rogers Ship Model Collection at the Museum? The one in the priceless display cases on the first floor?”

Oh how can he be complacent about this?? Those incredible miniatures, over 100 of them. Exact replicas of sailing vessels of the British Navy, a few of early US Navy ships. Delicate artistry portraying the strength of the men who have taken to the sea since the 17th century. A horrible vision of smashed beauty forms in my head.
“Mr. Rabb, don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Yes sir.”

He must think that’s the best mug of coffee he’s ever had, given the way he’s nursing it. And I thought I had to get to Annapolis ASAP. Guess that’s the Chegwidden ASAP.

“This morning the three cases that house the US Navy models were found to have been, umhmm, tampered with.” Over the top of his mug he gives me a look.

“Tampered with, sir?”

“Yes Mr. Rabb. It seems someone took the trouble to break into the Museum, open three cases so carefully they were not damaged -- at least so far as we know -- and place Life Savers around the Navy models.” He sits back with a sound I’d normally call a chuckle. But under the circumstances, he can’t be laughing, can he?

“Life preservers, sir?”

“No Commander. Life Savers, the candy.”

He looks at me. I look at him.

“The Army/Navy game is today, sir.”

“Yes it is Mr. Rabb.”

“And nothing was damaged at the Museum, was it.”

“Correct again Mr. Rabb.”

“So it seems that Army pulled a prank that’s gonna go down in the books.”

“That’s the way I see it, Commander. But you are heading to Annapolis with an unbiased frame of mind, to conduct an official JAG man investigation of this,” he snorts, “heinous crime.”

“Sir, shouldn’t Academy security be investigating. Or NCIS?”

“Yes, yes, they should. And the NCIS crime scene team has already been there. You can check with them for their findings. But you were personally requested for this assignment.”

“Me? Personally? By who?” Not sure I want to know.

“The Academy Commandant, an Admiral Link, is related to the SecNav somehow. I don’t know, brother-in-law of a cousin or something like that. Link’s blowing a gasket about this, demanding ‘the best the Navy’s got to investigate this attack on our honor’. Link called the SecNav, the SecNav called me, I called you. The price of fame, Commander.”


Harm’s SUV
On the road to Annapolis
0850 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

“Hey sailor, got it solved yet?”

“Oh Mac,” I say into my cell phone. “I don’t think there’s any chance I’ll be back in time to watch the game with everybody. Give them all my deepest regrets.”

“Oooo, it’s *that* bad?”

“Mac, let’s just say while you’re rooting for Navy, root for me too.” I sigh. “On the bright side, I think I’m gonna get another chapter for my memoirs out of this.”

“Can’t wait to hear. Call if you have to stay over, OK?”

“I promise.”


US Naval Academy
Annapolis, MD
1030 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I turn in at the Maryland Gate to the Academy grounds. The guards inspect my credentials, call ahead to the Museum and stop just shy of looking down my throat.

Where were you guys last night, eh? If you’d done your job and caught the Army boys before they hit the Museum I’d still be in bed with Mac. Or in the shower. Either way, I’d still be with her rather than trying to figure out how I’m gonna keep a straight face investigating the felonious breaking in and leaving of hard candy.

Law school just doesn’t prepare you for some cases.

On my way to the Museum I call Commandant Link. Military protocol would normally have me reporting to him first. But I’m hoping he’s as eager as I am to get this investigation started and finished.

“Yes sir, thank you sir for your confidence. I’ll certainly give this investigation my best effort. Yes, sir, it is true I pushed a Tomcat by its tailhook. Yes, I did land that Korean jetliner. No sir. I don’t think this investigation is going to be nearly as dangerous as those, but yes I’ll keep my eyes open sir. Always good advice. Thank you, sir.”
Good god, I think as I hang up. This game has a two-star playing in left field.


Chapter 3: Unseen Of The Crime

Academy Museum
Director Mary Reilly’s office
1045 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

“Dwayne Miller was the security man last night. He says he didn’t see a thing out of place and he’s been with us for years.”

“So you’d rule him out as an accomplice in this prank?”

“Commander! Breaking into a guarded facility and putting a priceless collection at risk hardly qualifies as a ‘prank’.”

Should have counted on righteous indignation from the museum types. Oh well, I guess I can sort of see their point. But then again, haven’t they ever heard of the ‘no harm, no foul’ rule?

“The security cameras back him up. They cover every inch of the gallery and nobody was in there other than Dwayne from closing ‘til we discovered...them.”

“Them? I didn’t think anyone was caught.”

“The Life Savers, Commander.”

Oh, *them*. “You’re sure Miller couldn’t have been part of this? It’s got the earmarks of an inside job.”

“I’m absolutely confident Dwayne had nothing to do with this. He’s always had a, uhmm, special affection for the boat collection. I swear he’d guard it with his life.”

Hold up a minute here. I’m an art lover too, and a student of US Naval history but even I wouldn’t give my life for a miniature boat. Methinks there is more to Dwayne’s story.

“Really?” Sometimes when said with the right inflection, one word can elicit so much information.

Director Reilly turns toward me with an expression that blends honesty, compassion and the sincere desire to gossip. “Dwayne came to the Museum almost 20 years ago, way before my time. I understand he was originally placed as part of a community outreach program for young adults with...”

I see the polite hesitation and expect a politically correct description of whatever put Dwayne in this program.

“Developmental challenges,” the Director finishes.

Yep, got exactly what I expected.

“I see. He must have worked out great to still be here 20 years later. I mean, being a civilian in a Naval institution, charged with guarding a priceless museum collection.” She’s kidding me, right? Who handles oversight on this little backwater of the Navy?

“Oh yes, Commander. Dwayne’s very good at his job. Always on time, never misses a shift, as dependable as clockwork. He follows his security checklist religiously. Never deviates more than a minute from his scheduled rounds.”

She says this proudly??? Yeah, that’s exactly what you want in modern security: precisely predictable intervals when security is not around.

“I’ll need to interview Dwayne; can you help arrange that for me as soon as possible?”

“Certainly, Commander. I’ll give him a call and see how soon he can come in. But remember, he works nights. We should let him get his sleep so he’ll be fresh for his shift tonight.”

Of course.

“I’m sure you’ll want to talk to the collection curator. He was the one who discovered the invasion this morning.”

‘Invasion’? The grandiosity here is choking me. “Yes, ma’am,” I say as she smoothly leads me out of her office.


Academy Museum
Curator Steven Brewer’s office
1100 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

“Well, here we are. Steven Brewer is the curator for the collection. This is his office; he’s expecting you.”

She knocks and we hear a somewhat testy “come in”. She opens the door and we’re greeted with the quintessential scholar’s office: packed to the max with all manner of books, tools, mementos and whatnots yet able to exhibit a distinct tone of fastidiousness despite the apparent chaos.

I take one look at the dweeb sitting behind his desk sporting a confrontational condescending attitude and think ‘this guy sleeps in tweed pajamas’.
He stands up, I guess. Boy, he’s really short, too. I have a feeling this interview is gonna be less than pleasant.

Director Reilly introduces us.

Brewer pointedly ignores my offer of a handshake, crosses his arms across his chest and petulantly demands “How long is it going to take for you to apprehend the criminals responsible for this dastardly attack on the collection?”

OK, I’m amending my opinion. He sleeps in tweed pjs in his mother’s house.

“Mr. Brewer, I’m here to conduct a JAGman investigation into the break-in. Hopefully that will uncover the responsible parties, but I don’t have arrest powers.”

He snorts derisively. “In that case, what good are you?”

“Well sir, I’m good enough that the Secretary of the Navy; Admiral Link, the Commandant of the Academy; and Admiral Chegwidden, the Judge Advocate General of the Navy all specifically ordered me to personally handle this investigation. Perhaps you’d like to call them and explain why they were mistaken to do so?”

Take that you sniveling snotty-nosed scholar! (Sometimes my rebellious youth still peeks out.)

“Well, I think I’ll let you two get on with your interview in private,” the Director makes a strategic retreat. Ah yes, the sure mark of a politician. When the going gets tough, get going in the opposite direction.

As the door shuts a strained silence falls. Brewer glares at me. I gaze impassively at him. Hey, I know who the alpha male is in this room.

Stepping forward toward the chair facing his desk, and thereby emphasizing my impressive height advantage over him, I sweep my arm slowly around his crowded office. “Would you like to start here or is there someplace more accommodating we could go?”

Sputtering, Brewer hotly defends his cubbyhole. “I think this will accommodate us just fine.”

Nodding my head with a quirked eyebrow that screams ‘if you say so, little man’ I take a seat and pull out my notebook.

“Tell me all you can recall about the events of last night and this morning.”

I see him puff up with self-importance. Boy, this is gonna be downright painful.

“There was nothing unusual about Friday. Well, we did have a higher number of visitors than normal due to that silly football game.”
He works at the Naval Academy Museum and is calling the Army/Navy game ‘silly’? Either he’s a closet black-belt or he never talks to the people he works for.

“I noticed your workroom,” that description earns me a withering scowl. “Laboratory.” His scowl deepens. “Whatever you call it. The room where you clean and repair the boats.”

“Are you referring to the *workshop* where I meticulously maintain the ongoing process of model conservation?”

Workroom, workshop, what’s the difference? Don’t know but it must be big enough in museum circles that I yanked his chain pretty hard calling it that. Good.

“Yes, sir. The one with the big window into the gallery so you can see the visitors.”

“Commander, there may be a window between the workshop and the gallery, but I assure you it is for the visitors to watch me, not the other way around.”

Oh yeah, I’m sure people up and down the eastern seaboard schedule their vacations around when they can watch this guy dust a model boat.

“I see. So does that mean you don’t remember anything unusual about any of the visitors yesterday or Thursday?”

“My work requires my complete attention. I hardly know the world outside of the shop exists when I’m in there.”

He says it with pride. Just like the Director was proud of the rigid security schedule. Jeez, I sure am glad I didn’t go into academia.

“If that’s the case, how do you know that visitor traffic was higher than normal?”

“I check traffic counts daily. We have a little friendly competition going among the curators to see whose collection gets the most traffic.” He leans forward a bit, “and it’s not just for bragging rights.”

Oh please. Cutthroat competition and high stakes wagers no doubt.

“So, was the collection traffic unusually high Thursday or Friday?”

“Why yes, Commander. I think the public is finally responding to the brilliant changes I have made over the last couple of years.”

It’s all I can do to not silently shake my head in disgust or loudly shake some sense into him.
“Or perhaps people were casing the museum, and the boat gallery in particular, in preparation for last night’s break-in.”

I can’t believe it. He actually looks stunned.

“You mean you think it’s not because of the new labeling system?”

Nearly 20 years of military training lets me keep a straight face.

“Well Mr. Brewer, that’s the kind of thing I investigate.”

He looks so deflated I almost feel sorry for him.

“But you don’t know for sure, do you? It *might* be the new labeling system.”

Nope, don’t feel sorry for him at all.

“Mr. Brewer, how ‘bout we go out to the gallery and you describe what you found this morning.”

I let him take the lead, cutting my usual stride in half to avoid plowing over him. Much as I’d like to.

“It is my practice to inspect the collection first thing every morning.”

Yes, those are peacock feathers sprouting from his six.

“Imagine my horror when I discovered such wanton destruction. Such senseless vandalism. Whoever did this were philistines. Brutes.”

“Mr. Brewer, it is my understanding that the collection wasn’t harmed.”

He spins toward me so fast I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself. “Not harmed!?! Their cases were violated. Their surroundings were sullied. The very air around them was compromised!”

Woah. And Director Reilly thinks Dwayne has an unusual attachment to the collection?

“Could you describe in detail exactly what was done?” This guy is waaay too high strung. It’s probably a good thing he still lives at home with his mother (a supposition that I’ve just moved into the ‘fact’ category).

“The vandals broke into the cases...”

Philistines, brutes and vandals. What’s next, visigoths? OK, he does have a bit of a point.

I know these cases are every bit as valuable as the boats. Most were built in the 17th Century specifically to display the original collection. They’re fantastic examples of the William and Mary and Queen Anne periods of cabinetry. In fact it’s the combination of the cases and the models that make this so collection so priceless (take that scholar-boy, I know a bit about your precious collection).

“Which cases?”

He leads me over to the three cases in question. “They only attacked the models of US Navy ships. Thankfully, they left the British ones alone.”

Yes, I was right earlier. He never talks to anyone even remotely connected to the US Navy.

Although beautiful cases in their own right, I can tell at a glance these three are not among the original cabinets. I bend down to examine around the locks. “NCIS dusted for prints, didn’t they?”

“Yes, they spread that horrible stuff all around. I got it cleaned up just before you arrived.”

“Mr. Brewer, did the crime scene team mention if they detected any damage to the cases?” I sure can’t see any.

“One of them mentioned that whoever did this is a master lock-pick.”

“Because there was no damage...?”

“Sure there was damage! The collection was violated!”

And I bet it’ll have nightmares about it. Maybe Brewer can get a group rate on a good shrink and sit in on the sessions.

“Any physical damage to the cases?”

Sheepishly he admits, “well, none that we’ve found so far.”

If NCIS hasn’t found any, and this guy hasn’t found any, my money’s on the line saying there isn’t any.

“OK. What about inside the cases, around the boats. Exactly how were the Life Savers deployed?” I couldn’t help myself. I just had to say it.

“They were scattered along the boat’s edge closest to the front of the case.”

The boats had been removed earlier, prior to dusting for fingerprints (no nasty fingerprint powder allowed on their hulls!), their location marked on the bottom liner of each display shelf in the three cases. Next to each boat model’s location are little circles denoting the placement of the Life Savers.
It’s a miniature crime scene, complete with chalk outlines. But instead of bodies it’s hard candy. Why me?

“Mr. Brewer, from these markings, it would appear that the closest Life Saver was at least 2 inches away from the boats. No candy ever touched a model. And, given that they were all placed toward the front of the display cases, it’s doubtful that the boats themselves were moved.” Until of course he probably grabbed them and ran toward his workshop hugging them close to his chest.

“Your point being?”

“The physical evidence indicates whoever did this took care to not damage the collection; merely to poke fun at the Navy.”

“What about the damage to the shelf liners?” Brewer has started whining. It’s bad enough when I do it; it really gets on my nerves when someone else does.

“Yes, it does look like those will need to be replaced. Are they historically significant, or a display item that gets routinely replaced, sorta like the labels?” I know this isn’t the most attractive trait of mine, my tendency to politely twist the knife when I reach maximum exasperation at stupidity. But I’ve learned to live with it.

Brewer is aghast at my blatant insult to his ‘brilliant’ labeling system.

I just wait for his answer.

“They’re replaced annually.”

Aha. “And they were next due to be replaced?”

“The end of the month.”

Damn. Those Army boys had great intel. You gotta admire a well-done prank. And this is ranking very high in my book. Well, not as good as any of the one’s Keeter and I pulled, but still it gets points for audaciousness and flawless execution.

I wonder if they knew how this would affect Brewer and Link? One beside himself that his collection has been ‘violated’, despite the complete lack of damage. The other hitting new record readings with his blood pressure because the Army has insinuated the Navy is a bunch of candy-asses who abandon ship.

I steal a look at my watch. No chance now I’m gonna get to watch the whole game. Boy, sure hope Navy wins, ‘cause though I don’t know what the middies may have pulled on Army, I doubt it’ll top this one.
I turn my attention back to Brewer, who is starring into the empty cases looking close to tears.

“Mr. Brewer, I’ll have the surveillance tapes examined by our best experts. We may yet be able to bring whoever did this to...” I can’t say ‘justice’, “task.”

He shakes his head dejectedly. My god, he seems a beaten man. Woah, maybe I *should* recommend counseling.

“But look on the bright side. The collection wasn’t damaged and a need for improving security has been revealed.”

He brightens a bit at that. OK, I’m getting out of this while the getting's good.

“Thank you for your time, sir. I’ll see myself back to Director Reilly so I can get those tapes. I’m sure she’ll keep you apprised of our investigation’s results.”

He bobs his head silently. Fine. I’m outtahere!


US Naval Academy Museum
Director Reilly’s office
1140 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I’m ushered into her office to find a clearly nervous 40-something man in a security uniform waiting for me. Let me guess. Could this be Dwayne?

Power down, Rabb, I tell myself. He can’t possibly be as unctuous as Brewer or as pompous as Admiral Link.

“Commander Rabb, this is Dwayne Miller. Dwayne, this is the Commander I told you about.”

With that I see Reilly considers her participation complete. “I have some matters to attend to, so feel free to use my office for your interview.” And out the door she goes.

Poor Dwayne. He’s literally wringing his hands.

“Nice to meet you Dwayne. Why don’t we sit down?” I adopt a tone of voice that is friendly, gentle and -- I hope -- not patronizing.

“I understand you’ve worked here at the Museum for a long time.”

“Yes sir. Almost 20 years.”

“Gee Dwayne, that means you and I started at the Academy about the same time. I was here almost 20 years ago as a middy. Came to the Museum a couple of times.”
I see Dwayne screw up his face like he’s trying to remember me. Or figure out if he should remember me.

“But I never did anything that would attract security’s attention,” I hasten to add. Quickly I review my mental ‘Academy pranks’ file. Yes, that was a true statement. Whew.

“So tell me, Dwayne. What can you remember about your shift last night?”

He launches into recounting a security routine most burglars only dream about. Printed schedules on clipboards at the security desk. Conveniently hung on the wall within reach or digital camera shot of anyone standing at the desk. Rigid adherence to the schedule timetable. In other words, a blueprint for exactly when and how long a skilled team would have to get in and get out undetected.

“Dwayne, were all the security cameras working last night?” I’m not sure how I want this question answered. I’m beginning to not just admire the Army boys who pulled this off; I’m beginning to think this Museum deserved it. And hey, no harm, no foul, right?

“Yes, sir. I have them right here for you.” Dwayne pats a stack of VHS tapes sitting on the Director’s desk.

“Thank you, Dwayne. I think that’s all for now. Let’s go find Director Reilly.”



Harm’s SUV
Academy Museum parking lot
1225 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I punch the redial button on my cell phone with one finger while the others are crossed for good luck.

“Commandant Link’s office, Midshipman Getty speaking.”

“Midshipman, this is Commander Rabb calling for the Commandant.”

“Oh, yes sir. He said to put you right through.”

“Link.”

“Commandant, I’ve interviewed the Director, the primary curator and the security personnel in charge last night.” I wonder if I should cross my toes at the ‘in charge’ stretch. Nahh. Barreling on, “I’ve taken custody of the security camera tapes and feel I should get them to our experts ASAP.”

“Well of course you should, Commander.” Great, he’s using that ‘what are you, an idiot?’ tone. He just played into my hand.

“Well sir, I’ve yet to make an appearance at your office. Military protocol would dictate....”

“Screw military protocol man! Don’t you realize there’s a more important issue at stake here? The Army called us candy-asses!”

“Yes, sir. When you put it like that, sir.” I’m already out of the parking lot. “I’ll stay right on this.”

“Good man.”

Link clicks off. Whee! With a little bit of traffic-luck, I might make the second half of the game at the Roberts’ house.


Roberts House
Rosalyn, VA
1400 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

Harriet opens the door for me. “Commander! The Colonel said you weren’t gonna make it.”

“Men can move mountains when properly motivated, Harriet.” I find Mac with my eyes and make sure she heard that.

“The Army/Navy game is always a great motivator, sir,” Harriet agrees. Or at least she thinks she has.

I find a place on the floor in front of the chair Mac just happens to be sitting in. “Among other things, Harriet. How’s the game going anyway?”


On the road to Mac’s apartment
Georgetown
1815 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I’m tailing Mac after we finally escaped the football party. Don’t get me wrong. I love football parties. Bud and Harriet are like family to me. But I need to get my Marine alone for some special maneuvers.

I’ve read that it’s dangerous to talk on a cell phone while driving. It’s even more dangerous to not report in to your CO.

“Chegwidden.”

“Admiral, Commander Rabb reporting.”
“Yes Rabb, I see you’re still on your cell phone.”

Man, what’s next? He’s gonna implant a tracking device under my skin?

I see a road sign and realize I can say this with complete honesty: “Just driving back into town sir.” Tell ‘em what you can.

“If its any consolation, you didn’t miss much of a game. We lost 26 to 17.”

“Sir, I don’t think the game is the only thing we lost today.”

“What do have for me Rabb?”

“I agree with your initial assessment, sir. It appears that Army pulled one for the books. Nothing was damaged. Nothing. Even the display case shelf liners that were marked by NCIS’ crime scene unit were scheduled to be replaced this month. They had excellent intel and carried their mission out impeccably. If I may speak freely, sir...”

“Yes.”

“They pulled off one hell of a prank. The Commandant’s about to burst a blood vessel, the Museum curator in charge of the collection is a momma’s boy who I’d imagine right about now is curled up with his teddy bear, and the Museum Director is a political animal so clueless she thinks rigid timetables for security checks are a good thing. Frankly, I think Army did us a favor to disclose gargantuan security lapses without hurting us. Well, other than that ‘candy-ass has to abandon ship’ part.”

“No doubt, Commander. No doubt. I’ve had the opportunity to watch Commandant Klink in action. His ship is seriously listing.”

“That’s ‘Link’ sir.”

“Are you sure?” I love hearing the Admiral chuckle. He tries so hard to hide it that when it does break through it’s sheer joy.

“I have the security tapes, sir. I’ll review them tonight...”

“Mr. Rabb, I think those tapes can wait ‘til tomorrow. As I recall you left someone rather abruptly this morning. Maybe you should get back to that person. Make amends, you know.”

Fortunately I was at a red light or I might have driven off the road. Did the Admiral just suggest I ‘make amends’ for leaving Mac alone in bed this morning? Holy shit!

“Commander?”
“Yes sir. Good suggestion sir. Will I be able to reach you tomorrow afternoon after I’ve viewed the tapes?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir.” I hear his phone disconnect.


Mac’s apartment hallway
Georgetown
1845 (local), Saturday, Dec. 1, 2001

I’m pounding on the door and I don’t care. “Maaac, open up. My key isn’t working again.”

I hear her quiet voice on the other side of the door. “Is this the big bad wolf come to blow my house down?”

Red Riding Hood? This is a new one on me. OK, I’m game.

I drop my volume significantly. I know the neighbors haven’t ratted us out yet, but you never know when they might reach their limit.

“Yes Little Red Riding Hood, I’m here to huff and puff and blow your house down. Then I’m gonna...”

“Harm! The wolf didn’t huff and puff for Red Riding Hood. It was the Three Little Pigs!”

How is it that whenever we have these bizarre conversations through her door I’m always the one standing out in the hallway?

“You want to be a little pig???”

“Oh, Harm.”

Clearly I’m missing something again. I’ve been reading the copy of Grimms Fairy Tales Mac gave me, but frankly they give me the willies. Good lord. People actually read those grisly stories to little kids then wonder why they have nightmares and phobias?

“What do you want, Mac?”

“I want you to build me a brick house so I’ll be safe from the wolf.”

Oh yes, that’s exactly what I want to do, too. “Let me in Mac. We can build one together.”


Chapter 4: I Want Candy

Mac’s apartment
Georgetown
1030 (local), Sunday, Dec. 2, 2001

We’re snuggled on her couch, coffee mugs in hand, fresh from a most invigorating shower-bath-shower combination. I’d worry about getting dry skin if it wasn’t so much fun putting moisturizer on each other.

You know what they say: cleanliness is next to godliness. We’re in line for sainthood.

As much as I’d rather be watching anything else, we’ve got the Academy Museum security tapes playing.

We have found a new cure for insomnia.


Six hours later

“No Harm. This is where I draw the line. I will not watch another inch of those tapes. There’s nothing to see but a bunch of visitors milling around a gallery for hours, then it gets dark, then that squirrely guy comes in and goes ape when he sees the Life Savers. What, he’s never seen candy before?”

I’ve gotta agree with her on most of that. Except it made me kinda sad to watch Brewer’s reaction. He was truly devastated. You’d think it was his only child who had been, in his words, ‘violated’. Maybe that was how he felt about it. Sure hope his mom takes good care of him this weekend.

“OK babe. Thanks for watching all you did with me. You’re the best.” I kiss her first on the forehead, then on the lips, just long enough for her to know there’s more than gratitude behind it.

“So you say.”

“Only ‘cause it’s true.” I give her a little eyebrow waggle. “Gotta call the Admiral.”

“Yes Commander. I see you’re still using your cell phone. Have you sublet your loft yet?”

“Yes sir, no sir. Colonel MacKenzie was kind enough to pitch in watching the surveillance tapes. Her equipment is better than mine.”

Oh good god. Please let him let that go.
“Yes Commander. I’d have to agree with you on that.”

He leaves it hanging there.

“Her video equipment, sir.”

“And she had nothing better to do on a Sunday in December than watch security surveillance tapes?”

“I think she’s as concerned about the breech at the Academy as we are, sir. After all, it was Marines manning the gates Friday night, patrolling the grounds.”

“So the Colonel offered to spend the afternoon together with you on the couch in her apartment out of some sense of corps solidarity?”

“Something like that, sir.” When will he let this go? Whoops, do I recognize my own not-so-admirable trait of twisting the knife?

I decide to shift the direction of the conversation.

“Sir, who is our new contact at Langley?”

“You mean since Webb got shipped back to Tierra del Fuego in the wake of convincing the DCI and the President that special emergency funding was needed so that a team of this country’s best cyptologists and video analyists could eat pizzas and watch Leave It To Beaver?”

“Well, sir, I did try to warn him.”

“Yes you did. And he got what he deserved.” The Admiral’s tone says ‘case closed’. “Anyway, what do you need from our friends in the CIA?”

“I’d like the video goddesses to look at the tapes in the Academy matter.”

“I’ll call Director Kirshaw and let you know.”

“Aye, aye, thank you sir.”

Disconnecting I turn to Mac with my best wolfish grin. “You know, while you were still sleeping this morning, I reviewed the case of Little Red Riding Hood vs. the Big Bad Wolf. I’m not sure what the complainant’s issue was.”

Oh, she loves our little games.

“Harm, the Big Bad Wolf was gonna eat her.”
How she deliver those lines with such sincerity is beyond me.

“Precisely my point, my dear. Have I ever told you what big eyes you have?”


Harm’s Office
JAG Ops
0700 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

Normally I’d never be in this early. But Mac has this habit of being in this early. Seems like her habits and my habits are becoming our habits. Not a bad thing. In fact, I think it’s a very good thing. For example, this getting into the office early. I’m getting more done.

Although I don’t know how I ever get anything done anymore. It used to be the phone and meetings. Now it’s the phone, meetings and incredible avalanches of e-mail. It’s gotten so I flinch when I hear that little beep signaling incoming. ‘Incoming’ is right! Unfortunately, I haven’t found a foxhole big enough to hide from it.

Sighing, I open up my electronic mailbox and scan down the ‘unread’ list. Hhmm, don’t recognize this sender. VGs. Subject: “we hear you’re tall and need our help”. Am I gonna get some awful virus if I open this?

I vacillate between curiosity and caution. But it’s not like my JAG e-mail address is all that well known. VGs. Wait, wait! Could this be.... I open it. YES! It’s them, the Video Goddesses themselves. They wrote me! I feel like a fan whose favorite movie star called him.

I read the e-mail with interest. “Hear you have some tape you’d like us to examine. What’s it this time? Citizen Kane? Gone With The Wind? Wizard of Oz? Sure would be nice to round out the collection you gave us with some classic movies. Send it to our lab immediately and come by this morning at 0930. Directions below.”

Wow. I’m actually gonna get to meet them!


The Video Goddesses Lab
Secure location, DC area
0930 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

I straighten my jacket and I stride into their lab all full of confidence. After all, I’m the ace from JAG they asked for, right? And they know I was the one who cracked the Addams’ case. Well, not really. Not just me. Mac helped, a lot. And then there was them. And Bud. Don’t think we’d ever have made the case without Bud.

Gee, come to think of it, I didn’t have a whole lot to do with cracking that case, did I? On the other hand, I certainly did end up with the best part of the deal.
Still smiling at my newfound relationship with Mac, I turn into a sort of reception area.

“Commander Harmon Rabb, JAG, here to see,” I stumble a bit here. What do I call them? I only know their code names.

The woman at the desk looks me up and down. Twice. Slowly. “Yes sir, they’re waiting for you,” finally replies the receptionist (gatekeeper?) and motions me toward a door.

I get about two feet past the doorway and a very determined woman in a white lab coat stops me.

“Who are are you and where do you think you’re going?”

Somehow that sounded like my fourth grade teacher on the playground.

“Commander Harmon Rabb, JAG, ma’am. Here to see ...” There I am at a loss for words again.

She inspects my uniform, she surveys my ribbons, she scrutinizes my eyes.

“OK, you can see them.”

Well, good to see that I pass muster.

Walking into yet another office I see two lab-coated women with their backs to me. OK, I’ve had just about enough of this. I need to get to ‘Hope’ and ‘Barbie’ as quickly as possible.

They turn as one.

“Hello, I’m Commander Harmon Rabb, JAG and I’m here to see...” getting kinda tired of saying this line.

“Us.” They talk as one, too?

I take an enthusiastic step closer to the video goddesses and extend my hand. “I sure am pleased to meet you. You two worked wonders with those DVDs and tapes last July. We all owe you a big debt.”

Gee, although they each shake my hand, frankly I’m used to getting a more lively response when I turn on the charm.

“You got the evidence in my latest case?” They nod. “Where is it?”

“It’s in there,” the one with ‘Hope’ embroidered on her lab coat gestures to a room behind her. I scan through a window in the door. Three women in white coveralls peer back. Looks like a lab to me.
“Great, well, let’s see what we’ve got.” I move toward the door and they close ranks between me and it.

“That’s a ‘clean room’ Commander.” Taking a wild guess, I’m betting that one’s Barbie.

I think I’m somewhat insulted. “Hey, I took a shower this morning.”

Barbie’s eyes roll over to Hope. They exchange what is easily translated as a ‘This guy is a total doofus’ glance.

I’m not used to being a doofus. I don’t think I like being a doofus. How have these two women, nice ladies that they are but not like the blond bimbos that used to bring me to my knees, rendered me speechless?

“We’re not questioning your personal hygiene, Commander,” Hope says with all sincerity. “But we simply can’t have your fibers and cells in our room.”

Fibers? Cells? What, they think I’m just giving them out?

“Ms.....” I realize I only know their code names. They stand white-coat-clad shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed over their chests. It’s a display that would make even the Admiral take a step back.

“Hope, Barbie, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I really need to see that evidence.” Flash the ‘little boy’ grin.

Wow. Talk about a total flame out.

“Not gonna happen, Commander,” Barbie states emphatically.

“Do you have any idea how much you’re shedding right now?” Hope demands.

Shedding? Like I’m some dog?

“Ladies,” I draw myself up to my maximum height, which gives me close to a foot on them. I don’t often use this tactic, but when pressed, well....and here I am using it twice in 24 hours? Gotta get done with this case.

“I showered this morning and I assure you I am not in a ‘molting’ season.” I say it with such conviction that I have even convinced myself.

But apparently not Hope and Barbie.

“Commander, you don’t have to be in ‘molting season’,” Barbie explains to me like I’m a 2 year old. “You are ‘in season’ all year long.”

Woah. Wait a minute. This nice woman is telling me I’m ‘in season’? Good god. What has Webb done to these ladies?

Or, is it possible that it’s true? I sure have felt pretty, umhummm, ‘frisky’ lately. Ever since Mac decided Gomez and Morticia were great role models. And we’ve been hitting the replay button on that act with delightful frequency. Maybe she’s right; I am ‘in season’.

My thoughts must have danced over my face, ‘cause an amused voice brings me back to the present.

“No, Commander. That’s not what Barbie meant. But, if you’re having a dry spell, maybe we could talk about it.”

My eyes explode open as my jaw drops. Did she really say that? I’m dying as Hope and Barbie share their private moment at my expense.

“Oh god, did you see his eyes?” “Good heavens, his mouth!”

OK, OK. Enough. Jeez.

Gathering herself together, Hope clears her throat. “Commander,” she can’t help herself, she’s laughing a little. “You, along with every other human on this planet, ‘shed’ skin cells all the time. It doesn’t matter how often you shower. And because of that, unless you want to go through the procedures for us to allow you to get into our clean room, you aren’t getting in. End of discussion.”

I pierce her with my patented ‘Rabb’ glare. Doesn’t faze her.

I try cocking my head to one side and looking wistful. Not a chance.

In desperation I grab my lower lip with my upper teeth and furrow my brow. Snowballs in hell.

“Commander,” Barbie’s voice is a tad less combative than Hope’s had been. Maybe I have a chance here?

“Just let us do our job. You do yours. It'll be better that way. Don’t you think?”

She has her hand on my forearm. In a sweet way. It’s almost like she’s telling me to go play in the yard while the grownups talk. But, on the other hand, she does have such a kind face. Stunningly intelligent eyes in a very kind face.

“Hope and I saved the country millions....millions in misdirected appropriations. We got the Spider Webb sent back where he belongs. And, we never revealed that the initial DVD was smuggled out under very close personal quarters.”

Her eyebrows have lifted. Mine have hit the top. How could she know that?

“We’re analysts, Commander. When a DVD comes in to us, we analyze all there it to know about it. Including who might have been ‘shedding’ on it.”

I run several times a week. I lift weights. I play basketball. Surely this rush of blood to my face is not gonna make me stroke out.

Good god. Did that pleasant woman just nicely tell me that they figured out that Mac smuggled the DVD out in her bikini bottoms? Even worse, do they think it was me???

Now Hope has flanked me on the other side. I feel like a Rabb sandwich as Hope links her arm with mine. They start walking me toward the door. Most bouncers at biker bars aren’t this good.

“Commander, we really appreciate your stopping by to thank us in person,” Barbie says.

“We’ll call you as soon as we’re done testing your new evidence,” Hope continues as she opens the door. A little push on my back from Barbie and suddenly I’m standing in the hallway.

As the door closes I hear Barbie say, “Boy, he really is tall.”

Hope’s rejoinder makes me feel about two feet shorter. “Yeah, but the bigger they are, the easier they are to handle, don’t you think?”

With muffled laughter following me down the hall I realize that everyone in this lab is female. I get the strange feeling that I was the morning’s entertainment.


Mac’s office
JAG Ops
1130 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

I knock on Mac’s door frame.

“Hey, Harm. Come on in. Have a seat.” She waves me in as she turns back to her filing cabinet.

“Mac, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. You’re actually filing a file in a filing cabinet? Like putting it in a drawer that shuts? I didn’t think you knew how to do that.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Commander. But until recently there were a number of things you didn’t know I could do, and that’s turned out pretty well, hasn’t it?”

Yikes. Good thing I’ve stopped at her office before I dropped off my briefcase and cover. I place them strategically across my lap.

“Maaac.” All I get for that is the sly pixie look, complete with one eyebrow raised. “I met the Video Goddesses this morning. At their secret lab.”

“Really Harm. Did they give you a decoder ring as a souvenir of your visit?”

Wow, where’s that coming from?

“And are they really ‘goddesses’?”

OK, I think I might know where this is coming from. ‘Video Goddesses’ is a bit too close to ‘Video Princess’ for Mac.

“Well, yeah, I guess so. They sure worked wonders on that Addams thing and they are women. In fact, everyone in their lab is a woman. I think I was the only man in the building.”

She rolls her eyes. Never realized how often women did that ‘til this morning, or is it just the morning I’m having?

“Bet you loved that.”

“Well, no actually. They asked me to come by, but they weren’t ready to show me anything. I ended up feeling kinda stupid. It was almost like they just wanted to see me. Like I was the morning’s entertainment.”

Mac is very still for a moment. Then she presses her lips together, puts her hand in front of her mouth and turns her back to me. I can see her shoulders starting to shake. She’s crying??? Why would that make her cry?

I get up and move behind her as close as military decorum allows. “Mac, honey, don’t cry.”

She makes this choked snorting sound and gasps for air. “Harm, I’m not crying.” Turning towards me I see her wiping tears from her eyes, eyes that are alight with merriment.

“A lab full of woman, who just wanted to see you and you have any doubt that you were the morning entertainment? Harm, you were the morning hot buns!”


Chapter 5: It’s Elementary My Dear

Harm’s Office
JAG Ops
1145 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001
I don’t have to take this. I’m a Commander in the US Navy. A decorated Naval Aviator. A respected JAG attorney. I refuse to be reduced to beefcake.

Well, if I’m truthful with myself (don’t I always say the truth is everything?) I guess I already have been. Damn. No wonder women hate it when it happens to them.

And those Video Goddesses. I know they know their stuff better than I ever could, but do they have to rub it in? Jeez. I was born just before the computer revolution, I shouldn’t be expected to understand technology like a 30 year old.

Woah. What a bogus allegation and even more bogus excuse. The Goddesses didn’t ‘rub it in’, they just pointed it out. And about that age thing, I think the Goddesses might be older than me. Kinda blows that excuse.

Damn.

I’m fretting at my desk when Bud knocks.

“Sir?”

“Bud, come in.” Can he hear how relieved I am to have someone to talk to?

“Sir, is something wrong?”

Yes, I guess he can.

“Come in Bud. Close the hatch. Have a seat.”


Harm’s Office
JAG Ops
1230 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

“Wow sir.” I’ve given Bud a complete briefing on the case. Somehow I know that, just like with that weird Addams thing, he’s gonna give me the key to solve it.

I’ve seen Bud excited. I’ve seen Bud scared silly. I’ve seen Bud flustered beyond description.

But I’ve never seen Bud look like this. This puts all his previous obsessions to shame.

“What you’ve described, sir, is a ‘locked room mystery’.” He’s nearly levitating and I have no idea what he’s talking about. “All exits and entrances secure yet somehow the crime was committed.”

My look must say ‘clueless’.
“Sir, a ‘locked room mystery’ is a classic murder mystery genre. From Edgar Allan Poe through Ellery Queen to Agatha Christie, it’s a set piece.”

As I have many times in the past, I merely look at Bud with wonder. How does he find the time to have so many obsessions?

“The typical locked room mystery has someone dying, no one could have gotten in to them, suicide is ruled out so you’re left with the unanswered questions: who committed the murder and how did they do it?”

I don’t know whether to bow in the face of this superior knowledge or run from a crazy subordinate.

“There are classic answers to the ‘locked door’ murder. Poison snakes slithering down bell pulls. Daggers made of ice. Arrows on tethers that can implant a poison dart, then be withdrawn to the room across the courtyard in that big 17th century castle.”

I shudder to think how many ways Bud could kill me. And I thought I only had to worry about Mac when she got mad. Bud would be far more methodical. Efficient. Just like he is in his work.

Good god! Am I thinking for a moment that Bud Roberts, the father of my godchildren, the husband of my ‘younger sister’, the man I’ve mentored for six years might want to kill me?

NO.

Does he know how to kill me?

Maybe.

Does he know how to work on a ‘locked room mystery’?

No question.

“Hey Bud, how full is your plate right now?”


Harm’s office
JAG Ops
1500 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

“Sir, are you sure you and Colonel MacKenzie didn’t see anything unusual on those surveillance tapes.”

“Positive, Bud.”
“Well, sir, with all due respect, you’re saying you watched nearly six hours of crushingly boring surveillance tapes. Is it possible that your attention wandered for a moment or two at some time?”

Gotta give it to him. He’s putting this as diplomatically as possible.

I’m rubbing my forehead as I say, “that’s one of the reasons Mac was helping me. So we had two sets of eyes.”

I look up to see Bud squirm. “Sir, is it possible that at some point both sets of your eyes were looking elsewhere?”

Great. Now Bud’s in the Admiral’s ‘I’m gonna ‘out’ Harm and Mac camp.’ Can’t fault him (he is, of course, right). Can’t be mad at him (he and Harriet think we’re meant for each other and we are). Do I want to squash him? Absolutely.

“Bud.”

It bears repeating that the right word, said in the right tone, can achieve significant results.

“Sorry sir.”

I see him falling back and I won’t let him do that. More importantly, I won’t let myself do that to him. No more pushing him to take the fall when it’s really me that needs the hit upside the head.

“It’s possible. I tried really hard. But the Colonel, well, she’s a pretty compelling presence to sit next to for six hours.”

I watch Bud process. I watch Bud consider the alternatives (career, duty station, resigning a commission). I never realized that others had considered this as carefully as we had.

“I’m happy for you, sir.”

Wow. The man who usually bubbles too many words nails it with five. I don’t even care he’s gonna tell Harriet and it’ll be all over the office in hours, maybe minutes.

He’s right to be happy for us. We are.


Mac’s office
JAG Ops
1515 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

I knock on her door frame knowing that this knock will never be repeated. For better or worse (an interesting choice of words), our lives will never be the same after she answers this knock. I have to let her know our secret isn’t a secret anymore.
“Mac?”

She’s on the phone, typing on her computer at the same time. She motions me in.

Maybe this isn’t the best time for this conversation?

“Look, your client is guilty. I have solid evidence against him. I’m giving you a good offer. Take it to your client. Remember, you are required to do that. Let me know what he says.”

She slams down the phone with one hand while continuing to type with the other.

“Yeah Harm. You wanted something?”

“Is the world getting you down, Mac?” Jeez, what can I say? Some sleeze bag isn’t taking a deal to his client, she’s so overwhelmed she’s talking and typing at the same time (wish I could do that), and now I’m gonna pile on by telling her that Harriet’s probably already sent a press release to the Navy Times?

Might not be a good time for this.

“It’s swinging; I’m punching back. Not sure who’s landed more.”

She gives me her game face, but I know she’s tired, angry and near the end of her rope.

“I’ll make you dinner tonight. Give you a back rub. Make sure you have a good night’s sleep.” It seems such a paltry offer.

Her face takes on an almost beatific appearance.

“That would be wonderful Harm.”

We’re standing in her office, just kinda gazing at each other like two teenagers when Bud barges in.

“Sir, ma’am, sorry to interrupt, but sir. It’s them. They’re on the phone. Right now. I actually talked to them. They’re on hold.”

Reluctantly pulling myself out of the Mac Vortex I’d been happily spinning in I tell her, “I gotta take this.”

She nods, I run.


Harm’s office
JAG Ops1520 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

“So Commander, you were too busy to answer your phone?”

God, just what I need. Another person to bust my chops.

“No, well, yes. Sorry, uhumm am I speaking with Barbie or Hope?”

“Both,” comes the chorused reply.

Why am I not surprised?

“So ladies, or should I call you goddesses?” I know it’s cheap, they know it’s cheap but we tacitly agree to let it work.

“I think that would be appropriate,” replies a female voice. Damn. I’m gonna need to learn to tell the difference between the two, aren’t I?

“So what have the goddesses found?” Ya know, when I say it out loud it doesn’t sound strange at all. When I think about saying it out loud, I freak out.

“You had some pretty sophisticated intruders. Also some very respectful ones. These guys could’ve done a lot of damage. Not just to the collections, but to the security systems, the physical plant, you name it. The Museum was laying open on a table for them. They just put a hard candy on its naked belly and walked away. You ought to thank them.”

Bud and I exchange glances. This is what I’d thought, and feared, all along. How do I let a bunch of Army boys who infiltrated the Academy and broke into the Museum off? Just can’t do it.

“I understand. I agree with your emotional assessment. The legal situation may be a little more difficult.”

I wince as I say that. Bud winces as I say that. We both wince when we hear the snort coming from the speaker phone.

“So, are we to assume you value arcane dictates over modern commonsense, Commander?”

“Not so, your goddesses.” I look to Bud. How the hell do I address these women?

“Then are we to assume that you will attend to our information? You will abide by our analysis? That you will PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT YOUR ELDERS TELL YOU?”

Bud and I both jump back from the desk. Wow. Those goddesses can really pack a wallop.

“Yes ma’am,” is all I can say. Come on, what would *you* say to a goddess?

15 Minutes Later

“So you have all that Bud?” They’ve been speaking in a language I don’t understand. Computereze. Good thing I brought Bud in on this.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You seem like a nice young man. Do you spend a lot of time on the computer?”

“Well, yes ma’am, I do.”

“That’s good. Keep doing that.”

“Excuse me, goddess Hope, or is it Barbie? But this is Commander Rabb and I’d really like to know the results of your analysis of the surveillance tapes. If you don’t mind. Could you tell me in English?”

Pregnant pause as Bud and I exchange nervous glances. “Commander, those tapes have nothing on them that reveal the identity of the intruders because the intruders edited out the part with them. There’s nothing to recover because they spliced the tape. Like we said before, they were very good at what they did. So, tell the Commandant to fix his woefully inadequate security and get over the fact that some Army boys got away with calling him a candy-ass.”

“Commander, I think you owe us a nice dinner for this. Those tapes weren’t nearly as much fun as your last evidence.”

Woah, this is spookier than dealing with Webb. How’d they know I *thought* about buying them a nice dinner?

“Because any gentleman worthy of the title would buy a nice dinner for two women who had helped him in his cause.”

“Yes, of course, I was ready to ask you. When are you two available?”

Before they even begin to answer I know they know my whole schedule, Mac’s schedule, maybe even the Admiral’s schedule. Webb was small potatoes. The Video Goddesses are the mother lode.


Chapter 6: All’s Well That Ends Well

San Cristobal Restaurante
Georgetown
1900 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001
I usher the two women into the restaurant then politely walk around them to the maitre d’ station.

The Admiral, after a panicked call from me, assured me that he would be able to get ‘priority seating’ at this place. I sure hope so. I don’t know how long I can hold out against this intellectual onslaught. Damn these women are smart. I’m beinning to feel like a grade-schooler who’s wandered into a Mensa meeting.

I give my best plea, and bribe, to the maitre d’.

He gives me his best snotty pseudo-French snob look. Until Hope appears at my elbow.

Now he’s all solicitous, scraping and bowing even.

Yep, that’s my Video Goddesses. Lesser men tremble before them.

“Pierre, Barbie and I are really in a bit of a hurry tonight. Do you think we could get a table right away?”

As soon as she finishes this question we’re walking to our table.

OK. I think I have resigned myself, somewhat happily, to being in their reflected light.

I pull a chair out for each of them, waving Pierre

Finis, thanks for reading.

I pull a chair out for each of them, waving Pierre away. I sit down and give them my most earnest look.

At least this part of the Chegwidden prearranged meal happens. Immediately a waiter appears with a bottle of champagne.

“To celebrate another closed case,” I affirm.

“Ladies,” I make sincere eye contact with each of them. “I thank you for helping me, again.”

My body relaxes a bit when they each take a champagne flute, toast each other then toast me.

A little while later, I figure I might as well broach the subject. “Does this mean you’d be willing to examine my evidence again some time?”

Hope and Barbie nearly choke.

“Sure.” “Happy to.” Said behind napkins as they look wide-eyed at each other.

I don’t get it. Must be a woman thing.
“Harm, now that we’ve solved a mystery for you, perhaps you’ll solve one for us,” Hope says, setting her coffee cup down.

“If I can.”

“Well,” Barbie picks up the thread. Jeez, these two are as bad as Mac and me when it comes to finishing each other’s thought. “We’ve worked with you on two cases now. The first was suspected smuggling of military secrets with national security implications. Turned out that wasn’t quite the case.”

Like she has to remind me?

“Now this one,” back to Hope in the Video Goddess tag team event, “was from the outset a glorified college prank.”

Can’t dispute that assessment. I don’t think I like where this is going.

“So what we were wondering, Harm,” Hope hands it off to Barbie. “Are you JAG’s heavy hitter or the guy they stick with all the weird cases?”

There’s only one way to answer that honestly. “Yes.”

They look at each other and nod.

“Dessert, ladies?” Chocolate sweets always buys me time when Mac backs me into a corner, maybe it’ll work with them too.

“You bet,” they echo each other.



Mac’s apartment hallway
Georgetown
2145 (local), Monday, Dec. 3, 2001

I’m exhausted. If this door gives me any trouble I swear I’m gonna kick it in.

I put the key in.

It’s gonna be another one of those nights.

No. Not tonight. I’m gonna give in right now and call Mac. I pull out my cell phone and hit speed dial 1.
I can hear her phone ringing.

“Colonel MacKenzie.”

“Oh, sorry, must have the wrong number. I was looking for a lady Marine who thinks a life of crime might be exciting.”

“Well....” Mac’s so good at this. But I think I’m ready to go one better on her.

“On the other hand, if she’s not there, how ‘bout L’il Bo Peep? I heard she lost her sheep and I’m baaaaaaaaad.”

The door opens a crack.

“Really?”

“Very baaaaddd.”

She opens the door all the way.

Some keys always work.



Finis, thanks for reading.