What If – Special Relativity

Author: BCKempf65

PROMPT: What if Harm’s MOM had been the one to die/go missing?

A/N: The timeline on this story jumps around quite a bit, so it’s probably a good idea to pay attention to the timestamps on each scene. I couldn’t figure out a better way to highlight a flashback. The usual disclaimers apply: I don’t own any of these characters. In fact, even the majority of the “original” characters have some basis in folks we’ve seen on screen. I’m making zero money on this endeavor. Much to my checkbook’s dismay.

A/N2: The case worked by Harm and Webb in the first part of this story is based semi-loosely on an actual unsolved crime. The theories described herein were rampant at the time, and some successful novels have been based off the case – even though I can’t say I’ve read any, myself. No offense is intended to any readers.

Rating: T(Teen) for some mildly graphic descriptions of crime scenes and violence. Oh, and one scatological joke.

*****

12 April 1988
Between Yorktown and Williamsburg VA
2045 Local

“Webb, if you say one more word I’ll strangle you myself.”

Clayton Webb’s only clue that he had pushed the Virginia State Trooper beyond his patience threshold was the tightness around his lips as the threat was whispered. This would make their third week of evening stakeouts and the only thing that they had to show for their effort was that they hadn’t killed each other. The reluctant partners sat hunched in the dark waiting for some trace of “The Parkway Killer.” Webb’s information combined with the State Trooper’s uncanny track record for suspect identification and arrests had led them to a small rise in the roadway among the brush and mosquitoes.

The first killing had been in 1986, followed almost a year later by the second. In early March of 1988 another murder had taken place and the State Police formed a task force to catch the killer. Accusations had been made that an employee at Camp Peary Naval Reservation was behind the murders. Although they denied the charge, senior officers at the reservation had attached their newest agent to the task force as a show of goodwill.

Neither the trooper nor the agent had been pleased when their respective superiors had foisted them on each other in a partnership of political expediency. Webb prided himself on self-sufficiency in his operations. On the rare occasions when he used a partner, he used them in pretty much every sense of the word. In this situation, though, he was dependant upon his partner for more than performing the dirty work of espionage and the trooper knew it. It didn’t help that the police officer wasn’t the countrified hick that Webb had originally pegged him to be. He was articulate, intelligent and hyper-observant, if a bit anti-social, Webb thought to himself as he tugged unconsciously at his collar.

“I still think we’re wasting our time. He’s not coming back here; it wouldn’t fit the profile no matter what my informant said.”

“Shut up about your profile. It hasn’t gotten us anywhere up to this point and now there are two more kids missing.” The police officer and Webb had been the ones to discover the car, pushed down an embankment into a shallow creek, the previous day.

The pair crouched in the darkness on a small rise above the Colonial Parkway, a tourist corridor connecting the Jamestown and Yorktown historic areas. Hikers and residents of one of the many adjoining neighborhoods occasionally walked past their observation point. Traffic was light, with perhaps one car passing every five minutes. Webb and his colleague were clothed in black, the ball caps on their heads bearing the toned down logo of the Virginia State Police. Of course, it was only true for one of them.

“So what makes you think we’re going to catch him here, oh mighty detective?” A red sports car, exceeding the speed limit by at least fifteen miles per hour, zipped past them.

“If he is one of yours, then he’s out here watching the investigators run around like chickens with their heads cut off. He’s on his own special brand of training mission to avoid detection after completing his ‘assignment.’” The word assignment was voiced with utter disgust.

“If he’s one of ours,” Webb replied, emphasizing the first word, “then what makes you think he’s not already back on base?”

“Your agency may specialize in lies, but we’re on the same team. I think your bosses were sincere when they said that no one trained in either ‘86 or ‘87 is back at The Farm. If it were that easy you wouldn’t be out here as mosquito bait. He’s operating on his own.”

Webb punctuated the explanation with a slap on the back of his neck. The trooper grinned. Another walker strolled past the watchmen.

“Procedure would be to get out of the country as quickly as possible after the assignment,” Webb countered.

“This kind of work wouldn’t happen in a country where he could easily pass through borders. And I doubt that your employers would be so obvious as to charter a flight. No, he’s practicing lying low and in plain sight.”

“We don’t train assassins,” Webb responded hotly, but was cut off before he could say anything more.

“Quiet. This way.” The trooper pointed to his left and moved silently down the embankment. Moonlight reflected off the gold thread spelling out the trooper’s name. RABB.


12 May 1984
Boston, Massachusetts
1400 Local

Harm stared at the white cap his visitor held. Something about it mocked him and he didn’t understand why.

“You didn’t have to show up, Jennifer. I’m not even staying for commencement.” Harm turned away from his auburn haired guest and continued to pack. Four years worth of books and notes, dirty clothes and office supplies lay waiting to be boxed and shipped to his new apartment in Richmond.

If she were surprised by the greeting Jennifer didn’t show it. She set the cap down beside her, next to a stack of opened mail. “Of course I did. We’re all proud of your achievements, Harmon. Your grandmother sends her love, and your dad couldn’t get away but we all agreed it was important that I be here.”

Harm snorted, a cross between disgust and resignation coloring his expression. “He’s still upset that I didn’t take the contract, isn’t he? That’s why he’s not with you.”

“Believe it or not he did try and come, although I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t disappointed in your decision. For some reason he had this idea of you following in his footsteps. I guess he didn’t see how much you’d changed your goals. He’ll get over it.” Sitting down on the room’s small bed, Jennifer shook her head. Sometimes the men in her life could be inordinately stubborn. “What matters is that you’re satisfied with your choice. Are you?”

“I want to make a difference in people’s lives, Jennifer. I can’t do that the way I want to and be what he wants me to be. Why can’t he see it? I had to let go of that dream …” He stopped abruptly, realizing that he was not answering the question and that he was getting too close to a subject they avoided by mutual, unstated agreement. His fists tightened at his sides as he glared at the NROTC cadet hat where it lay next to the acceptance letter from the State Police Academy of the Commonwealth of Virginia.


12 April 1988
Between Yorktown and Williamsburg VA
2115 Local

It had taken the better part of half an hour for Harm and Webb to circle around from their post by the side of the road to the easternmost end of a nearby traffic tunnel. They moved with deliberate caution, keeping out of the glare of cars’ headlamps and any light posts by the side of the road.

“What tipped you off to this guy?” asked Webb. He still wasn’t convinced this was their man.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Uh-uh. There’s something about this one specifically that caught your interest. Dozens of people walked past us tonight. Why him?”

Harm judged their quarry to be about 400 yards off on the western side of the tunnel, still too far away to effectively stop him if he ran. Harm didn’t think he’d run. “We’ve been here five weeks and it’s been an unusually warm spring. Have you seen him out walking before?”

Webb shook his head. “We weren’t looking for walkers. We were looking for someone impersonating a police officer.”

“You might have been. It’s just as possible that our killer could be a hitch-hiker, or be posing as a local looking for a ride home. Don’t limit the suspects to what showed up in your pre-mission briefing.”

“You must be fun at parties. Do you look for evil lurking in everyone around you?”

Harm ignored him. Their suspect was entering the tunnel. It was illuminated by intermittent sodium lights designed to resemble Colonial lanterns, so the man’s face was shrouded by shadows. He was about Harm’s height and build, dressed in light khaki slacks and an un-tucked short sleeve button up shirt. “He’s come by here every day for the last week. Sometimes it’s been twice a day.”

“Yes, I’m positive you’ve seen him before. You live in this town; you probably know half of the people here.” Webb’s mocking tone conveyed utter disbelief.

“He’s disguised himself on a number of occasions. Once he was a vagrant, another time he was hitch-hiking. Now that I think about it he may have even the student that spoke to you when we found the car on Monday.”

“Sure. I’ll bet he wore the same shoes – that’s how you know.”

“Close. Actually it’s his stride. Gait analysis. Individuals can be identified by their walk alone with accuracy that is significantly better than random chance.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” Webb’s sarcasm was gone, but his natural skepticism remained. “You can’t hold him on a hunch. And if it is our man, cornering him now will just make him run.”

“True. That’s why we’re going to follow him.” Harm turned a hard stare on Webb. “I don’t like unsolved mysteries.”


24 December 1969
USS Ticonderoga
Gulf of Tonkin

“Dammit, CAG! Put me back on the roster!” Lieutenants Boone and Gibson strained to hold their fellow officer back from committing several violations of the UCMJ. They each held an arm of Harmon Rabb, Sr., who was just as determined to throw them off. On the flight deck above them, Bob Hope’s USO performers and guest celebrities were beginning their show. Raucous laughter and applause filtered down into the ship.

The CAG was having none of it. “Snap to, Lieutenant! I know you’re upset. Hell, I’m upset for you. But the last thing I’m going to do is put you in the air. As of now, you’re on emergency leave. Get your gear packed; you’re heading back home as soon as I can get the orders cut.”

Boone and Gibson escorted their comrade back to his cabin. The shock hadn’t worn off yet but at least he had stopped yelling at and fighting with them. Only once had he looked at his friends, the emptiness in his eyes reflecting the state of his soul. “Jesus, Tom. Why?” Boone didn’t have any answers to give. He didn’t know any of the details; neither did Harm, really. All they knew was what the Red Cross had told the skipper.

Patricia Reed Rabb had been found dead in her home on the evening of 22 December 1969, the victim of an apparent home invasion, robbery and assault.

What the lieutenant would not discover until his arrival in San Diego the following day was that it had been Little Harm who found his mother’s body.

*****

The local police never made an arrest in the case. Although they searched the house, swept for fingerprints, interviewed the neighbors and canvassed the neighborhood, nothing lead to a person of interest. Oceanside wasn’t a hotbed of criminal activity; there were no usual suspects to round up. None of the stolen items ever turned up in pawn shops. Eventually even Harm, Sr. agreed that the culprit was unlikely to be found or a motive known.

*****

12 April 1988
Between Yorktown and Williamsburg VA
2115 Local

Harm and Clay had been investigating the Parkway murders for almost two weeks when the most recent couple had disappeared. In each previous murder the victims either had been dating or engaged – never married – causing some to hypothesize that the killer was acting out revenge fantasies resulting from an unhappy romance. The bodies that had been discovered so far showed no signs of having put up a struggle before death, but they had all died a few days after their initial disappearance. That gave Harm some hope that they could still effect a rescue instead of a recovery in this case.

“Would you slow down?” Webb was having trouble keeping quiet and keeping up with the taller man.

“No.” They had moved off the road and were following their suspect through the pine and oak woods that bordered an adjacent neighborhood. The houses had been custom built in the late 1960’s and sat on large wooded lots, some of which ran down to the nearby James River. Finally the pair watched as their quarry stepped out of the trees, across the road and into a well-lit Federal Revival home.

“Okay,” said Webb. “Let’s sit back and think about this. We’re following someone who may or may not have been sauntering past us and two other teams for the last week, who we have no reason to suspect is part of this case, and who appears to live in a nice house which – circumstantially – is within walking distance of three murders.”

“That’s about it.” Harm stretched and walked confidently forward. “Why don’t you have a look around the house; see if there’s anything unusual. Maybe a shed or freestanding garage that’s locked and covered.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to introduce myself to the man of the house.”


24 November 1975
Pacific Beach, California
1530 Local

A racing green MG convertible sputtered to a halt in the parking lot of Mission Bay Middle School. The vehicle’s occupant jumped out and silently strode towards the building, a marked contrast to the still creaking and cooling car engine. After the death of his wife, Lieutenant Rabb had transferred to the newly formed Fighter Weapons School at Miramar as an instructor in order to stay close to his son. Little Harm dealt with the vivid memories and nightmares associated with his mother’s death and the duty station ashore, along with sympathetic superiors, allowed the lieutenant to be part of his son’s therapy sessions. They hadn’t stayed in California for all the intervening years, and during his father’s deployments Little Harm had stayed with his grandmother in Pennsylvania. Now a Lieutenant Commander, Harmon Rabb, Sr. had rotated back to Miramar as the station’s chief tactical instructor.

On days like today he wished he had stayed at sea. This precocious son would be the death of him.

Commander Rabb breezed into the school office, flashing a smile at the secretary behind the desk. The secretary did not exhibit any outward sign that the smile impressed her. Maybe she was married to a Marine, or perhaps a drill instructor. She pressed a button on her phone. “Harmon Rabb’s father is here to see you, Mister Conklin.”

The door to the principal’s office opened and the Commander strode inside, taking in the sight of Principal Conklin, his thirteen year-old son, and Harm’s guidance counselor. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Commander Rabb. I hope we can resolve today’s situation without unnecessary unpleasantness.”

“What happened, Mr. Conklin?” Harm, Jr. sat very still, his eyes focused on the opposite wall. His expression was so still and so chiseled it could have been carved from granite.

“Your son made a bomb and put it in another student’s locker.”

Commander Rabb’s eyes widened and he turned to look at his son. “You put a bomb in someone else’s locker, Harm? Why in God’s name would you do that?”

“It was a balloon,” his son replied, as if that answered the question. At his father’s hard stare, he continued. “Some of the eighth graders were picking on one of my friends. You know, Karin? Well, one girl in particular likes to steal Karin’s lunch ….”

“Why didn’t Karin report this?” Conklin interjected.

“She told the lunch monitor, Sir. Several times. But nothing was done and the older kids just messed with her more.” He looked directly at the principal. “No one ever stops the rich kids when they pick on someone. They might as well be untouchable.”

Harm, Sr. shook his head. “Fast forward to the part about the balloon, son.”

“Well, I knew that this other girl usually just pushes Karin out of the way when she’s at her locker getting lunch. So I rigged a balloon to explode when she opened the door.” Harm’s expression didn’t change, but his father thought he could see a twinkle in his son’s eye. “I filled a balloon, secured it to the back of the locker, and rigged a paper clip with a rubber band to fire at the balloon when the door opened fully.”

Harm, Sr. turned to the principal. “So this is all about a balloon popping and scaring some child who had no business doing what she was doing? Where does the bomb come in?”

The guidance counselor disguised a laugh as a series of coughs and Mr. Conklin turned an expectant eye on Harm, Jr. “Well, I kind of filled the balloon with something. It was supposed to be a lesson, after all.”

“What did you do, son?”

“It’s not like it got in her eyes.”

“Harmon!”

“Dog poop, Sir.”

Commander Harmon Rabb, Sr. sat, stunned, as he listened to his son describe in detail the set up and entrapment of Karin Vanderveldt’s persecutor. And he could tell from the smile now creasing his son’s face that whatever punishment the school deigned to hand down would not blunt his satisfaction at having done right by his friend.


12 April 1988
Between Yorktown and Williamsburg VA
2120 Local

Cal Marple had casually opened the door and invited Harm in once the trooper had finished introducing himself. Harm closed the storm door but left the main door wide. “I just returned from a walk after work, so I was going to fix a snack. Can I offer you anything?”

“No thanks. I’m on duty, anyway.” So far Marple didn’t act like a man with something to hide. He was nearly as tall as Harm, dark haired and lean with sharp eyes and quick movements. Harm was certain that Marple knew he had been followed home.

“Are you by any chance a hunter, Mister Rabb?” Harm shook his head at the question that had seemingly come out of nowhere and Cal shrugged. “Not one of those that finds the thrill of a chase and a kill distasteful, are you?”

“No. My dad was into hunting when he grew up in Pennsylvania. I’ve never given it much thought one way or the other though.”

“What a pity. You’d likely make an excellent tracker even if you weren’t interested in pulling the trigger yourself. But then that’s the point of a hunt, isn’t it? I’m a bow hunter myself. Firearms lack artistry. I prefer the primitive ways, the cunning and skill required to set up the shot and hit just the right spot for a clean kill.” Cal smiled to himself, a simple curve of the lips that showed no teeth.

“I didn’t see any trophies on the wall when I came in. Do you keep any?” Harm moved a bit closer to the kitchen. From his new vantage he could keep both Marple and the main entry way in sight.

“No. The memories are all I keep. But,” Cal opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, “I do eat what I kill. Have you eaten venison?”

“I’m more of a salmon fan myself,” Harm replied. A quick glance at the doorway confirmed that Webb hadn’t made it back around to the front of the house yet.

“Wild game can be quite tasty, if you know how to prepare it. The trick is to keep your prey relaxed at all times. If you startle the animal, the endorphin and hormone release changes the texture and flavor of the meat. Either a quick, clean kill or a slow, painless death due to blood loss is what you’re after. That keeps the taste of your dinner from becoming … overpowering.”

Steering the conversation away from this somewhat gruesome topic Harm stated, “I guess that explains why you aren’t uncomfortable walking by yourself, what with the recent killings.”

“I’m not in the habit of parking on the side of the road and making out like a horny teenager,” Marple replied. “That’s the kind of victim the killer is going for if the papers are right. Do you think the guesses are right, that the murderer is working out family issues?”


23 May 1986
Rabb Farm
Belleville, PA
11:30 AM Local

“I want you to be my Best Man, son.”

The words hung in the air between them, intangible but somehow chilling. Like a ghost pricking the small hairs on the back of both their necks.

“I don’t know, Dad. I like Jennifer and all, but it would be a little strange. What about Tom?”

“Boone is a good man, son. But he’s not going to be on leave for the wedding and I think he may be upset that I’m re-marrying anyway.” Harm, Sr. didn’t mention the exchange the older men had shared when he had announced his intention to marry the woman he’d been seeing off and on for more than a decade. Tom Boone had always carried something of a torch for Trisha Rabb and saw his friend’s ongoing relationship as dishonoring her memory. Their call had not ended pleasantly. Better to find out now if his son felt the same way.

“Do you not approve of this?”

Harm was quiet for a moment. “Dad, I can’t decide if this is long overdue or a train wreck waiting to happen. You deserve the support of someone who can say, unconditionally, that you’re doing the right thing. I mean, you and Jennifer aren’t giving up your careers. Raising kids that way was tough on you both, but you managed and they turned out reasonably well so far. I’m worried about what throwing marriage into the mix might do.”

“So this isn’t about your mom?”

Harm shook his head. “No, Dad. I know Tom’s feelings on that score and I don’t share them. It’s not just like Mom vanished without a trace. I might feel differently if there was a chance she were still out there, waiting for us. But she’s not.” His voice caught on the last sentence.

“Your grandmother never remarried after my dad went down.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to live the same way.” That he hadn’t lived that way was unstated. Harm, Sr. had been a good father and a decent role model for his son. Maybe that was most of what mattered.

“HARM!” The high-pitched squeal of delight and subsequent impact of a twelve year-old wrapping herself around his legs brought forth an answering laugh as he playfully fell to the ground. His half-sister, Jade, was nothing if not enthusiastic.

“Hey, Kiddo.” He playfully mussed her auburn hair.

“Mom wants me to be her maid of honor at the wedding. Isn’t that great?” Jade looked at him, all smiles and giggles.

Harm glanced up at his father. He wondered if his father and soon-to-be step-mother could be good role models as husband and wife for Jade. This was what was on the line if they couldn’t make their marriage work. “Sure is, Kiddo. It sure is.”


12 April 1988
Between Yorktown and Williamsburg VA
2120 Local

Cal Marple stared expectantly at Harm. “Do you think the guesses are right, that the murderer is working out family issues?”

“Actually, no,” said Harm, “I don’t. I don’t think it’s personal at all. In fact I think it’s more like the hunt you described. The victims were all bled out when they died. They didn’t put up a fight. There was no robbery, no missing cars or valuables. The victims weren’t mutilated in any way to suggest that there was a specific reason they had been targeted.”

“I think they are the acts of a sociopath who is doing a good job of building a false trail.”

Marple’s expression closed as Harm talked, becoming almost unreadable by the time he finished his analysis. A shadow passed behind his eyes darkening them to the point where they were almost completely black, like the dilated pupils of a shark sensing blood in the water. Then he smiled that toothless smile again. “Your friend is at the door.”

Harm turned to see Webb, sidearm in hand, entering the house. “There’s a boathouse down by the river, Rabb, just at the edge of the property. Go have a look. I’ll keep our friend company for a few minutes until you get back.”

He didn’t wait to be told twice. Harm was out the door and racing to the boathouse before Webb finished his sentence.


27 November 1998
I-270 South
2345 Local

Somewhere in the middle of his drive south towards Quantico, Virginia, Harmon Rabb, Jr. decided that it had been a nice Thanksgiving. There were none of the arguments, stilted conversations, or thinly veiled insults disguised as compliments that had characterized some holiday gatherings in the past. His grandmother hadn’t had to take anyone outside for a talking-to. The only tears his step-mom shed were happy ones. Yes, all in all everyone had played nicely and genuinely enjoyed their visit. The universe compensated for it with the pulsed vibration of his pager.

Ten years earlier he and his CIA “partner” had rescued a couple from becoming the latest victims in a series of serial killings. They had been mildly intoxicated, dehydrated and shackled to a support pillar when Harm opened the doors to the boathouse but were otherwise unharmed. They could never tie Cal Marple to the other murders directly and the only charge that the Commonwealth’s attorney could put forward was that of kidnapping. Marple went to jail for 20 years.

Webb found himself with a nice promotion to field agent status. Harm went on to head a security detail in 1989 during the port visit of three Soviet warships to Norfolk, Virginia. He found that his early interest in the Navy hadn’t waned and applied for a spot with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. He’d been a Special Agent nearly ten years now.


28 November 1998
Marine Corps Base Quantico
Quantico, Virginia
0235 Local

Harm held up his badge in his left hand and extended his right to the officer in charge of the scene. “Special Agent Harmon Rabb, NCIS.”

“Captain John Jackson. You took your time getting here.” The last was said with a slight grin; the captain knew a drive from rural Pennsylvania to Quantico should have taken at least an hour longer.

“Traffic is pretty light this time of day.” Harm paused, surveying the area. “What do you have for me, captain?”

Jackson gestured ahead. “One dead civilian, one wounded Marine Colonel and one Marine perp as near as I can tell. Looks like the three had some history, my guess is a lovers spat that turned really ugly really quickly.”

“Did either of the Marines confirm that?”

“No, they haven’t said much of anything. We transported the colonel to the infirmary; turns out the wound wasn’t much more than superficial tissue damage but he lost a lot of blood and had a head injury so we didn’t want to take chances. The civilian was dead on the scene when my SP’s arrived.” Captain Jackson slowed as the two men approached the visitor’s quarters. “The civilian checked in at the gate as a guest of the suspect, and the two went to see the colonel. No one saw or heard anything until the shots were fired.”

Harm nodded, ducked the caution tape and stepped into the crime scene. The room was small and the furniture sparse: a bed, desk and dresser with a table top lamp were the only fixtures. The bed that might once have been part of a metal frame bunk set was set against one wall. The wool blanket and top sheet were pulled back and disheveled, and blood stains were clearly visible on them. More blood had spattered on the linoleum floor and the white cinderblock wall. Some scattered books, notes, pens and pencils littered the floor and the desktop. The smell of expended ammunition mixed with blood in the close space.

A man’s body lay in a puddle at the foot of the bed. He was tall, maybe six feet, and well built. His button-down shirt was partially open from the middle down, and his jeans were partially opened, as if he had tried to see the fatal wounds for himself. Dark hair and about two days worth of stubble covered his features. Women probably considered him attractive in a ‘bad boy’ kind of way when he was alive.

“Where’s the weapon?”

Jackson stepped inside. “Secured, but the SP’s marked the location on the floor where it was found.”

Harm nodded. “Did it belong to either Marine?”

Jackson shook his head. “It wasn’t issued on base, if that’s what you mean. Not to say they couldn’t carry a personal weapon.”

“The civilian have a name yet?”

“No, we figured we’d leave the pocket diving to your guys.”

“Swell.” Harm took a last look around the room. “When my people get here tell them to sketch and shoot, bag and tag. I’ll be interviewing the witnesses.”

Jackson leaned across the cordon and waved a young marine over. “I’m assigning Private Edwards to assist you while you’re on the base. He can take you to the infirmary and then show you to the brig. Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “I’ve already advised JAG. They’ll probably have someone here sooner rather than later.”

Harm cocked his head to the side. “You think a lawyer’s going to get out of bed early for this?”

Jackson’s expression hardened. “They will when the shooter is one of their own.”

*****

“Sir, you’re going the wrong way.” Private Edwards jogged to keep up with the long legged NCIS investigator.

“I know where the brig is, Private.”

“But the captain said –.” Edwards stopped suddenly as six plus feet of irritated special agent turned on his heel and planted himself firmly in the private’s path.

“The captain doesn’t make my itinerary. I’ll be happy to relieve you of your obligation to follow me around if my changing the captain’s plans will get you in trouble.” Harm spoke quietly, deliberately, punctuating each “you” with special emphasis. Once he was certain Edwards was properly subdued, he turned and continued on to the brig. Harm was enough of an investigator to know that when lawyers arrived his job would be that much more difficult. Especially if they were protecting a co-worker.

Identifying himself at the desk, Harm politely but firmly told the marine behind the desk that he wanted interview time and space with the suspect.

The desk guard sputtered. “Special Agent … Rabb? The suspect is already being interviewed.”

Harm’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, Sergeant. Please take me back there now.”

“I can’t do that ….” Whatever else the sergeant was going to say cut off abruptly as the tall investigator abruptly invaded his personal space.

“I will ask once more. Do not make me repeat myself. Please take me to see your prisoner. Now.”

The guard grabbed a set of keys off the desk and, without another word, proceeded to the holding area. Harm followed, irritated but not surprised by the lack of cooperation from the marine. NCIS had a reputation for not really caring about the culture of the service personnel they investigated.

As the pair approached the holding area, Harm heard a single, male voice rising in volume.

“Why did you shoot him? The whole operation’s blown now and there’s nothing I can do to bail you out of it.” Harm knew that voice.

A soft voice returned something unintelligible as Harm rounded the corner. A well dressed man stalked in a counter clockwise circle around the suspect seated behind the small white table. The suspect’s hands were cuffed and bloodstained, but beyond that Harm wasn’t paying attention. Webb. And Harm was certain the man wasn’t there in any official capacity. Choosing to interrupt before he witnessed anything that would result in a suspect going free on a technicality, Harm tapped a nearby steam pipe with his class ring.

“Pardon me, Mister Amateur. Unless you’ve read my suspect here some UCMJ warnings I’d appreciate it if you shut up and stop tainting my investigation.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” sputtered the slightly shorter man in the expensive suit. Turning a hard look on the guard he continued. “I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“Too bad,” Harm interrupted. “You can stay and issue orders like that when I get an NCIS, DIA or local police identification out of you. Otherwise, I’m going to ask my friend Sergeant Stafford here to escort you off the base.”

The man glared at Harm for a few seconds longer, turned a pointed look to the person at the table, and stalked out of the holding area. Harm watched him until he was out of sight then took a seat opposite the suspect. Her blouse was torn at the collar and blood stained its front. A bruise was beginning to form on her left cheek, just under her eye. Her face was tired and drawn, but there was a hint of defiance in her bearing reminding him she was a marine. Neither she nor Harm spoke for a moment, each studying the other and taking their measure. In spite of the blatant evidence of her crime, Harm willed himself to keep from forming opinions. As he opened his notepad and thumbed the cap off a pen, the marine spoke first.

“I’m afraid I’m not up for another long interrogation tonight, so let me save you the trouble of coming up
with a clever questioning strategy. I shot them both.”

Harm raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Any particular reason why?”

The woman across from him shrugged a shoulder. She tried for casual, but the NCIS agent noted the slight tremble.

“Captain Jackson seemed to think you were into something kinky that got out of hand.”

She closed her eyes briefly then offered him an expression he mentally classified as resignation. “You can use that if you want. It’s more reasonable than the truth anyway. The prosecution ought to have an easy time proving it.”

The conflict in the young woman’s responses piqued Harm’s curiosity. He definitely hadn’t expected an actual confession with motive, but he also didn’t expect such detachment in the face of the likely charges. Murder was, after all, a capital crime under the UCMJ. Coming to a decision, Harm closed the notebook and set his pen on top of it. Without looking away from the female marine, he called out, “Private?”

Edwards, who had been shadowing Harm the whole time, approached. “Yes, Sir?”

“Go meet my forensics team. When they get here I want a camera, a set of clean BDU’s and three evidence bags. You can bring them back yourself. Oh, send Sergeant Stafford back with the handcuff keys when you pass him, please.” The private didn’t move. “What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, she’s a prisoner,” the Marine blustered.

Harm made a great show of looking around the three of them. “Just where do you think she’s going, Private? We’re in a cinderblock building with no windows. Is she going to chew her way out?”

“Sir, my orders are to stay with you. We’re supposed to be interviewing at the infirmary anyway.” The private braced for a fight.

“Actually, Edwards, the captain’s exact words were that you were assigned to assist me while I’m on the base. So please follow orders and go assist.” The mild retort must have registered as a valid extension of Jackson’s order, and the private hurried to carry out his newly issued duties.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harm watched the young marine scamper up the corridor. When he was satisfied that he was out of earshot, Harm turned back to the woman. “For what it’s worth, I heard the colonel is going to be all right. Presumably that will be a relief.”

“Why? Because one murder is less likely than two to send me to a lethal injection?”

“No. I figured your pupil dilation and slight inhale when Edwards mentioned the infirmary indicated you have some attachment to the person there. It’s apparent from the amount of blood on your shirt that you know who didn’t survive this evening. I inferred from your reaction you hadn’t been given information as to the condition of the man that did.”

During Harm’s explanation, the marine’s eyes widened. Finally she asked, “So who are you? Sherlock Holmes or Batman?”

“Harmon Rabb, NCIS.”

“Sarah MacKenzie, JAG Corps.”


The beginning ….