Breakpoint Page 18

  “It’s a part of naval history,” she said. “Which always gives me shivers.”

  As he took a long stride over the star, although he still bled Air Force ultramarine and gold, Dallas couldn’t help but concur.

  31

  Captain Chester Ramsey’s quarters, unlike the barge space assigned to the suicidal lieutenant commander, included a dining room and living area adjacent to his office, were definitely not from DoD procurement. The sofas were covered in royal blue; the steel walls had been paneled and covered with framed photographs and a handful of framed oil portraits of former naval heroes. Blue-striped drapes framed what had to be the only portholes on the carrier.

  That the furniture was a bit shabby suggested they were actual antiques. From the captain’s own home? Julianne wondered.

  The captain, a lean, fit man in his early fifties, greeted them far more warmly than she had expected.

  “So, you managed to find your way here,” he said with a welcoming smile.

  “It’s one humongous ship you’re commanding,” Dallas said.

  “It is, indeed.” His deep voice vibrated with understandable pride. Being a CV skipper was a big deal. And it was more than obvious that he knew it.

  “What you’re seeing is what one of those fun-cruise ships looks like before it gets all decked out with carpet and paneling and murals.”

  After a moment’s small talk about their trip to the mainland and the flight from Oahu, he led them into his office, which reverberated with the disruptive blasts from the busy flight deck above. Again, rather than the metal and fake wood Julianne was accustomed to, the desk was definitely an antique, gleaming with what looked like centuries of oil rubbed into its surface.

  “My wife stumbled across this during a recent antiqu ing trip to France,” Ramsey said when he saw her appraising it. “It was supposedly used by John Paul Jones while he was in Paris negotiating prize money claims after the Revolutionary War.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. Though a bit froufrou, with its elegantly carved legs and gilt trim, for a carrier captain. Then again, Commodore Jones hadn’t exactly been a girly man.

  “I might not be Navy, but even I’ve heard of him,” Dallas said. “I’ll bet that cost a pretty penny.”

  “My wife’s tastes can be costly,” the older man agreed with a flash of straight white teeth. “But excellent.” He ran his hand over the gleaming surface the way another man might stroke a woman’s thigh. Then he narrowed his eyes as he studied Julianne’s partner more intently.

  “O’Halloran,” he repeated. “Would you happen to be—”

  “I’ve no idea if I’m related,” Dallas broke in. Although his tone was casual, she suspected he was as impatient as she herself was.

  The captain’s gaze then moved to the largest of the framed oil paintings. “That’s Captain O’Halloran,” he announced on a tone that had Julianne expecting a flare of trumpets.

  Dallas and Julianne both dutifully studied the romanticized painting that depicted a naval officer—clad in a navy blue jacket with gold fringed epulets, tight blue trousers, and black tricorn hat adorned with a cocky red feather—gallantly standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of a raging battle. The front of his white shirt was stained crimson with blood while behind him, Old Glory patriotically waved in the smoke-filled air.

  “I don’t see any resemblance,” Dallas said.

  “Nor did I, when you first walked in,” the captain replied. “But there’s something in the eyes. A certain steely glint you both share. And those heavy upper lids.”

  Bedroom eyes, Julianne had heard them called. And in his case, it fit. In spades.

  “I’m adopted,” Dallas said. “So it would be impossible for me to be related.”

  “Well, it’s still an intriguing coincidence,” Ramsey said. “I don’t suppose, then, you know anything about the captain?”

  “No, sir,” Dallas said. His tone remained mild, but she could feel the shared need to just get on with it vibrating from every male pore.

  “Captain O’Halloran commanded a frigate during the Battle of Lake Erie in the War of 1812. Although being gravely wounded by cannonade fire, the captain remained in command, sinking a British brig-rigged corvette, which many consider a turning point in that battle. Although each side took more than a hundred casualties, the United States victory ensured American control of the lake for the remainder of the war. It was after that battle that Master Commandant Oliver Hazard Perry penned the now famous words, ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours.’ ”

  “That’s all very admirable,” Julianne said. “And as much as I’ve always loved naval history—”

  “You’ve certainly grown up with a lot of it,” the captain injected.

  “Absolutely. But I’d appreciate discussing our reason for being here today.”

  “Of course.”A flicker of annoyance flashed in Ramsey’s gunmetal gray eyes. But it came and went so quickly, if she hadn’t been watching him so carefully, Julianne wouldn’t have noticed. “My point was merely to explain what an honor it is for me to be captain of a ship with such an illustrious namesake.”

  “I’d certainly be jazzed,” Dallas agreed with his trademark grin.

  He’d obviously slipped into charm mode, which hopefully would get things moving a little faster than they had thus far.

  “So,” Dallas continued, “when did you first learn about your missing LSO?”

  Ramsey’s face revealed surprise. “I was told that you were here to discuss Lieutenant Dana Murphy.”

  “We are, sir,” Julianne said. “However, given that she was last seen arguing with that very LSO who appears to have gone overboard, that could suggest the cases are related.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He rubbed a smoothly shaven jaw nearly as broad as O’Halloran’s. “But of course you’re right.” Frown lines furrowed his tanned brow. “Yet as tough as Manning was, he was fair. What you’re suggesting is that he may have jumped overboard because he was feeling guilty about the pilot’s suicide.”

  “No, sir,” Julianne corrected with a proper amount of military respect. “What I’m suggesting is that we have two possibly related incidents that may or may not be homicide.”

  “Yet wouldn’t that be NCIS’s jurisdiction?”

  “I can’t speak for NCIS. However, I can state that the president chose THOR, whose officials, in turn, selected us to investigate. Which is why we’re here. And why we’d like to speak to the doctor who examined the pilot’s body.”

  “Of course.” He stood up, shoulders squared, jaw thrust forward, eyes steely. Julianne could tell Captain Ramsey wasn’t real pleased with their appearance on his carrier. Tough. He pressed a button on his desk. The door to the office immediately opened.

  “Please take Agents Decatur and O’Halloran to the clinic,” he instructed the ensign who’d answered the silent, at least on this end, button. “I’ll notify Dr. Roberts that you’re on your way,” he told Julianne.

  “Thank you, sir.” A salute snapped in her brisk voice.

  “We appreciate your assistance, Captain,” Dallas drawled in the oil-patch twang he could pull out on occasion. Right now it was suggesting that he and the commanding officer were two good old boys forced to put up with bossy females in this new politically correct military. “And the story about O’Halloran was especially cool. I’ll have to ask my dad if there’s any connection.”

  “You do that. If he’s at all interested, I have a great many books I could recommend on the subject.” Julianne watched in amazement as the stiff military bearing softened up enough to allow the captain to actually put his hand on the former CCT’s back as he escorted them out of the room. “I imagine you’ll want to speak again after you talk with the doctor.”

  “Yessir,” Julianne said. “And, sir, as much as we appreciate the escort, we will need to speak to the witnesses alone.”

  “Of course. The ensign is meant to be a help, not a hindrance. I’ve no p
roblem with him waiting outside quarters while you do your investigation.

  “Meanwhile, I have to check on how our search is going for the missing LSO. And although normally we invite our civilians to eat in the distinguished visitors’ lounge, I hope you both will join myself and Admiral Miller for dinner tonight in the admiral’s wardroom.”

  “Admiral Miller’s on board?” Julianne asked, surprised by that revelation.

  “He is, indeed. And he’s definitely looking forward to seeing you again,” the captain said with a warm smile that belied his earlier irritation.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing him, as well.”

  Though, she considered, wouldn’t it be more difficult to actually discuss the case if she were sitting across the table from her father’s best friend?

  And even if she did bring it up, how much credibility would she have with a man who’d actually known her since she was in diapers?

  “So,” Dallas murmured, as they headed back through the labyrinth of narrow hallways. “Who’s Admiral Miller?”

  “Admiral Jackson Miller. My godfather.”

  He blew out a whistle. “Yet more proof that this is, indeed, a small world.” He was silent for a moment. “So, do you think dinner’s a ploy? To keep the conversation more personal than professional?”

  She paused and looked up at him, hands on her hips. “You’re a suspicious guy, O’Halloran.” Then, despite the seriousness of their reason for being aboard, she flashed him a smile. “I like that about you.”

  32

  There were thirteen decks on the carrier, and Dallas didn’t need to be a brainiac to notice that everywhere they needed to be appeared to be up four decks and over five sections, or down five decks and over three. As he followed their escort up and down the ladders, he was glad he’d kept up with his daily PT after leaving the Air Force.

  When they finally reached the hospital and medical compartments, they turned out to be as impressive as the rest of the carrier. Were it not for the steel floors, walls, and ceilings, Dallas would’ve thought he was in St. Camillus, back in Somersett.

  “Some snazzy digs you’ve got here, Doc,” he said to the thirty-something dark-haired man wearing a white medical jacket open over officer’s khakis.

  “I’m not complaining.” The medical officer, Captain Nash Roberts, glanced around with the same pride that the O’Halloran’s skipper had demonstrated. “I have to admit I had a few qualms about carrier duty. My wife, who’d planned a tidy life in some upscale gated suburban enclave, definitely wasn’t thrilled when I joined the military after 9/11, but I’ve actually gotten so I feel more at home here than on shore.”

  “I’d guess so, from that SWO you’re wearing,” Julianne observed. “Surface warfare officer’s pin,” she decoded for Dallas, since that had, thus far, been her first omission from the detailed list. “It’s one of the highest honors, given only to those who’ve shown knowledge about everything on the ship, from combat systems, to weapons, to navigation, engineering, even deck seamanship.”

  Roberts smiled as he absently touched the gold pin he was wearing on the collar of the white jacket. “I never guessed during my intern days that I’d someday be able to diagram a carrier’s engineering plant, or know how to steer a ship this size. But life’s filled with surprising twists and turns.”

  “I’m not about to argue that,” Dallas agreed, thinking of the many his own had taken.

  The doctor rocked back on his heels. “O’Halloran,” he murmured.

  “It’s a coincidence.” Dallas wondered how many times he’d be forced to repeat that statement.

  “Well, whatever, the O’Halloran’s hospital would be the envy of many stateside. In fact, advanced technology allows us to communicate with land-based specialists.”

  He pointed toward two X-rays hanging on a light board while a medic was typing into a computer. “Those X-rays are being digitized and transmitted in real time back to a radiologist who helps the onboard doctors with diagnoses.

  “In the same way, we can televise our surgical procedures via satellite so land-based doctors and surgeons can assist during a procedure, as if they’re really on board. I suspect the next step will be the ability to use robots to remotely perform surgery.

  “Which is when many of us medical guys could find ourselves out on the technological junk heap along with eight-track tapes and slide projectors.”

  “I know a guy who’s got an experimental artificial leg that runs on brainpower.”

  “I’d really like to hear more about that, but I suspect that’s not what you’re here to discuss,” Roberts said.

  “No, sir,” Julianne said. “We’d like to talk to you about Lieutenant Murphy.”

  “A terrible thing.” The medical officer shook his head. “I have to admit, I never thought I’d see it.”

  “Military suicides are tragic,” Dallas said. “But unfortunately not terribly unusual. Though probably less likely aboard a ship like this than in a war zone.”

  “There can be some depression due to monotony,” Roberts said. “Or personal problems, like a Dear John or Dear Jane letter. And”—he glanced up at the metal ceiling—“as you can imagine, the constant noise, twelve-hour shifts, and long deployments can affect people. But, yes, although I haven’t studied the issue, I suspect we’re usually lower on the charts than some.”

  His frown deepened. “Although I’m not a coroner, and I was instructed not to discuss the case with anyone until you arrived, which prevented me from getting an outside opinion, I don’t believe Lieutenant Murphy’s death was suicidal.”

  In sync yet again, Julianne blew out a quick breath while, at the same time, Dallas felt an inner click. He hadn’t believed that since he’d discovered that bug in their room. The missing LSO had only been icing on the murder cake.

  “We’d like to see the lieutenant’s body,” she said, “and have you point out why you feel that way.”

  “Of course.”

  Dallas was not surprised when the huge walk-in cooler storing the lieutenant’s body was not immediately next door. But at least it was on the same level. What was really weird was that it was also where they seemed to be storing frozen meat bound for the mess halls.

  Which, on some level, made sense, he decided. After all, how many deaths would a ship, even one with a population like this, incur? Given that he hadn’t seen any spare space, it didn’t make much sense to set aside an official morgue for the occasional body. Especially with the CODs—which could return any bodies stateside—flying back and forth.

  “Like I said, I’m not really up on autopsy matters,” the physician said as he snapped on a pair of purple gloves, “but when I heard you were coming, I went online and studied a few papers. Although accidental hanging is rare, homicidal hanging is even rarer.”

  “Yet you believe this was one of those rarer cases?” Julianne said.

  “From what I could read, most people—and only thirteen percent of female suicides are by hanging—jump off a chair.”

  “A chair was found lying on its side beneath the body,” Dallas remembered from the files.

  “True. But hanging yourself is a lot more difficult than you’d imagine. Because you need a drop of at least six feet, preferably more, most people actually end up slowly choking to death. Except in judicial hangings—when a state executes a prisoner—the neck is rarely broken.”

  “And Lieutenant Murphy’s was?” Julianne asked.

  “Snapped like a twig. Also hanging, whether done with a rope, an electrical cord, or a belt, which is what she supposedly used, invariably leaves an inverted-V bruise.”

  Dallas leaned forward, studying the marks on the dead pilot’s neck more closely. “That’s a straight line.”

  “Exactly.” The doctor nodded. “Ligature strangulation leaves a straight-line bruise.”

  “Which would indicate homicide,” Julianne said.

  “It does to me. The lieutenant was not a weak woman. She worked out as if it were h
er second religion. And from what I’ve heard, not a soul who knew her would ever call her timid. She would have fought her killer, fought hard, which also explains the additional bruising.

  “But, once again stating for the record that I’m not a certified coroner, if you look here”—he pointed a gloved hand at the base of the dead pilot’s neck again—“this U-shaped bone is the hyoid, which is not usually fractured in a suicidal hanging. Also, I found macroscopic bleeding of the laryngeal muscles, which seldom occurs in suicide.”

  “You said she was found hanging with a belt around her neck?” Dallas asked.

  “That’s right. Although they loosened the belt while cutting her down, it was still there when I arrived on the scene.”

  “How wide are uniform belts?”

  “One and one-quarter inch for males. One inch for females. As an officer, her belt had a gold clip worn to the right.”

  “Could the metal clip have broken that bone?” Julianne asked.

  “I suppose anything is possible. Obviously you’d know more if you had an actual autopsy.”

  “Which we’ll arrange for once the ship arrives back in San Diego,” Julianne decided.

  “While I’ve no idea the extent of your authority—though, given that you work directly for the president, I assume it’s close to unlimited,” the doctor said, not seeming at all as irked by the idea as everyone else they’d talked with thus far. “I will warn you that her husband, who’ll be receiving her body when the ship arrives home in San Diego, stated unequivocally that he’s not signing off on any autopsy.”

  “Interesting,” Julianne murmured. “You’d think he’d want to know exactly how his wife died.”

  “He’s accepting that it was a suicide. Says the last few times she’s e-mailed him, she sounded depressed. And apparently his religion doesn’t allow autopsies. He also says it’s against his moral principles.”

  “That’s not his decision to make, if it’s ruled a suspicious death,” Julianne pointed out.

  “If a regulation belt is an inch wide, then why is that bruise so narrow?” Dallas asked.