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NCIS -Young Love Lost

Written by Jose J. Clavell

People sleep peaceably in their beds at night

only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

George Orwell

I rode to the crime scene in the early morning calm of Magdeburg's streets. It was not difficult to find. The area, surrounded by the flickering light of torches, oil storm lamps, and at least one up-time flashlight, was in one of the worst-looking parts of town, and in a city that has been subjected to sacking and burning, that says a lot. The flashlight—one of the very few still left with some battery power—was being used sparingly, but it gave me a good idea of my goal. That was very fortunate because this area was far from our usual security rounds haunts around the riverside navy yard. I dismounted and left the reins of my "horse pool" mount in the care of one of the Marine military policemen who formed the outer cordon of the scene.

Some members of the city watch leaned on their pikes nearby, observing us, talking and joking in low murmurs, apparently without a care in the world. Their common seventeenth-century finery looked—now, to me—too ornate, especially contrasted with the simple subdued style of the up-time uniforms, armbands and weapons of the MPs and navy masters-at-arms who were present. Their disrespectful attitude towards the dead also bothered me but showed clearly that whoever was inside the area was no longer their concern. That made it one less turf fight for me. The young military policeman, on the other hand, was having problems dealing with their care-free stance and his clenched jaw and stern face failed to hide his contempt. In situations like this one, relations between military personnel and civilians tend to fray rather quickly, which, apart from the late hour, explained the absence of curious bystanders.

I nodded to the MP and murmured my thanks, purposely ignoring the watchmen as I entered the cordoned-off area. I saw more MPs and masters-at-arms and sensed the air of contained fury that emanated from them. I braced myself for what was waiting. I could now see two bodies on the ground and, long before I got close enough to see them properly, I smelled the coppery odor of blood mixed with the pungent smell of feces and urine, the ultimate indignity of death. Finally, I came close enough to make out the full details. A woman in a modest civilian dress lay facedown across the body of a man; she looked vaguely familiar. I racked my brain trying to place her. The man was in the undress greens of an enlisted Marine, a Private First Class by the single red chevron on his sleeve, and a stranger to me. Both were barely in their twenties, just children really; a young couple out on an evening stroll, not unlike dozens of others, and who, now, would never grow old. The scene filled me with sadness at the unnecessary waste of young lives and anger at the unknown killers. The area around their bodies had been blocked off with staked cords. It had helped to keep it mostly undisturbed but it still didn't answer my first question of the night. What the hell were they doing out here, so far away from the yard?

The owner of the up-time flashlight joined me and stood quietly by my side as I pondered that and many other questions, taking in the scene. Brunhilde Spitzer is a few years younger than I am, a comrade and more, from our Committee of Correspondence days. Brunhilde was not really her given birth name either; once she had been a camp follower and prostitute before heeding the message of Gretchen Richter, changing her name and starting a new life. Like Gretchen, you don't stand in her way. Perhaps that explained why she adopted the name of one of the Valkyrie warriors of the old tales; I have never inquired. I knew first-hand the power of that message; it had also changed my life, although in my case I got to keep my old name. When Admiral Simpson asked me to join and later lead what would become the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, I, too, followed Gretchen Richter's message and, emboldened by the love of a good woman, accepted and embraced the opportunity for a fresh start away from the petty thievery of my old life.

"Special Agent Spitzer," I said finally.

"Director Schlosser, I am sorry that I had to call you all the way out here this early in the morning. But I want a second opinion. You did much better than me at the crime scene investigation classes and I could use your advice. The night watch commander told me that they are our people, so this is our mess, sir." She addressed me in a formal manner that still barely contained her anger. There were too many non-NCIS personnel within hearing range, so we could not speak candidly. It was for the best; our exact opinion of the city watch and their officers was not for outsiders. Besides, we needed to maintain the professionalism that Dan Frost had drilled into us, and set an example for the young MPs and MAAs present. So I simply nodded in understanding.

The crime scene belonged to us now; it was our first major murder case.

***

When Admiral Simpson had put his group of civilian agents together, our primary mission had been to provide for up-time and naval personnel security as bodyguards—in naval parlance, force protection. In the beginning, Committee of Correspondence members had provided that service to the navy, by orders of Joachim Thierbach, the local committee chairman and who was assisted by Gunther Achterhof, my mentor. Even then, it was under my direction; a position that had first brought me to Simpson's attention. You could say that the good admiral had a personal interest in the subject, since French agents had tried to kill him shortly after his arrival in Magdeburg. In the maelstrom of the political scene of our newly formed nation, the United States of Europe, the navy could not afford to be associated too closely with one of the political factions. So the CoC was out and Simpson had approached me with a job offer. It had seemed simple enough: do the same thing for him that I had done for the committee, but now for pay. That was an offer that I could hardly refuse. Revolutionary fervor can go only so far in providing sustenance to the body or a roof over one's head, especially now that I had other responsibilities.

Our scope of responsibility continued to expand, in what I now knew to call mission creep. There was money to be made out of the business generated by the needs of a burgeoning navy and Marine Corps and the works of the shipyard, lots of it. Some parties were none too scrupulous in its acquisition. The local authorities were uncooperative at times and some were outright on the take. That was not news to me; I had similar experiences in my CoC days, but it caught Admiral Simpson by surprise, and he told me to take care of it. So, we found ourselves dealing with corruption, fraud, shoddy materials, and outright theft.

Naturally, a case could be made that putting me and mine in charge of those investigations had been akin to letting the fox guard the henhouse. After all, most of our agents had lived very interesting lives before joining, and not always on the right side of the law. I prefer to think that we possessed hard-won expertise on the subject matter that makes us very difficult to fool. Owing our loyalty to the navy that had given us a second chance; we could not be easily bought, either. It showed in the success of our efforts. I have to confess that there is some truth to the rumors that a visit from me or mine could ruin your whole day. The admiral had once commented that our idea of law enforcement would have given apoplexy to any up-time cop. I reminded him that he was no longer living there; besides, our growing notoriety meant that no one now dared to cut corners on materials or services bought by either the navy or the Corps.

Despite the best efforts of pastors, priests, and rabbis, the men and women who had suddenly found themselves as new citizens of the USE had not suddenly metamorphosed into angels, either. The naval services had gotten their fair share of bad apples. We were tasked with cleaning them out. By this time, recognizing that we were now far from the bodyguards that he had originally envisioned, and needing a permanent solution, Admiral Simpson had bowed to the inevitable and created NCIS with our original men at its core. I mean, recreated NCIS. His twentieth-century navy had a similar outfit, almost certainly for much the same reasons. Now officially the naval law enforcement organization, our mandate put us in charge of the entire navy- and Marine Corps-related criminal matters and, to prevent jurisdiction conflicts, also contained an imperial warrant from his majesty, Gustav Adolph II, that extended our reach through the whole USE and its territories.

The admiral had also taken steps to standardize and improve our training to keep us on par with the rest of the new technologically savvy naval service that he was busily building. He had hired the former chief of the Grantville Police, Dan Frost, to advise and orient us in the acquisition of those skills that the job now required. Chief Frost must have found it amusing to work with men that he would have once thrown into the slammer without a second thought. I know we did. He trained us and we then trained the military police and masters-at-arms, establishing the pecking order for naval law enforcement. It was during this period that "Brunhilde" joined us.

Of course, I was initially strongly opposed. Bodyguard work demanded big and muscled men. You either deter an attack with your sole presence or need to be able to fend it off on your principal's behalf. No women needed apply, I thought—sentiments that even my early exposure to Gretchen and her CoC ideals were unable to override. Once more, Simpson reminded me that we were no longer exclusively in that line of business, and then ordered me to hire her. She didn't remain our only female recruit for long. Since that time, I have very reluctantly come around to his point of view. Working for him and the navy, I was exposed to many women in non-traditional roles. Now, I know that they can be as capable, brave, dedicated, and, on several occasions with female miscreants, as malicious as any man. However, it was the internalization of Chief Frost's teachings that forced me to finally turn the corner on my beliefs. I learned that women could be invaluable on police investigative and undercover work, especially when the society in which they operated tended to make them invisible. That had also given me insight into how the up-timers see us. It was not a flattering portrait.

Brunhilde had taken to this line of work with an ability that was frightening in its single-mindedness. I suspect that her prior occupation and her life experiences had prepared her well for it. Regardless of my feelings, and despite our pre-existing relationship, she progressed quickly through the ranks through sheer competence. In Frost's seminar on crime scene investigation, she had come in a very close second in class standing. I was first. Like me, she had discovered within herself an unexpected ability to solve criminal riddles and I was proud of her. She had been the senior agent of the criminal division on watch when she sent for me tonight, getting me out of my lonely but warm bed.

***

I stooped to get a different view of the bodies. Apart from the senselessness of it all, death did not bother me. I had seen too much of it already, and even inflicted it on others.

The girl's face once more caught my attention with its familiarity. I felt Brunhilde beside me, opening her always-present notepad, and waited for the mystery of her identity to be solved. "Herr Director, the female is Seaman Apprentice Wilhelmina Bischel. She was . . . assigned to the health clinic."

I heard the sudden grief stricken catch in her voice as it hit me like a punch in the belly. We both knew her as Willie, a friendly girl with a sunny disposition and constant smile that allowed her to deal with all sorts of difficult people, like an embarrassed and suffering NCIS Director, whose worried wife had forced him to seek care for a recurring ailment. I closed my eyes and muttered a short prayer for her soul. I felt ashamed for not recognizing her. The last time I had seen her, she had been full of life and happiness; her friends at the clinic had been teasing her mercilessly about her new beau. It had sounded serious and I had been happy for her.

"The male is Private First Class Wilhelm Hafner. He was a rifleman with Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Battalion."

I nodded and assumed that he was the beau in question. I stood and walked around them before stooping again. This investigation had suddenly become very personal to me.

Chief Frost had started his seminar by giving us a lecture on all the technology that was no longer available to him and that now waited to be rediscovered again. It had been sobering. He had concluded by declaring that, despite these losses, the most important pieces of equipment had come through without any problem and were easily available to each of us: the brain, ears, and eyes of a trained investigator. The rest of the course had concentrated on helping us hone those innate abilities. Still, at moments like this, I would give my hoped-for first-born to have photographic equipment available. I had heard of some research in that direction, but I was not holding my breath. Maybe I could try to hire a sketch artist like they had done in Grantville. I have to look into that. I stood up again, deep in thought, and looked at Brunhilde. I knew that she had already formed an opinion, but appreciated the way she was letting me make up my own mind. "Who put the cord around them? It seems that someone was paying attention when we gave the class to the MPs and MAAs about preserving scenes."

Brunhilde usually has a well-developed sense of humor that I enjoy deeply but tonight she was all business. "Petty Officer Leiss and his partner, Private First Class Schuhmacher, were first on the scene, sir." She indicated the two individuals who held their horses in the shadows.

I walked towards them and Brunhilde followed. Leiss was in his late thirties, a riverboat man by the look of him. He was composed but wary. His partner, Schuhmacher, seemed younger than the deceased. Her face, even in the darkness, looked extremely pale although it also had a mixture of anger and grief. I pegged her for a farm girl with little experience with violent human death until tonight, and having chosen military law enforcement as her career, obviously made of sterner stuff than her appearance indicated. I gave her credit for that. Sadly as both a Marine and an MP, this would not be her last confrontation with the aftermath of violence. "Leiss, Special Agent Spitzer tells me that you and your partner were the first on the scene. I appreciate the care that you took with it. Can you tell me anything else?"

"Not much, Herr Director. Me and Schuhmacher were returning back to our rounds, after we made a stop at my home. My wife is expecting our third child and I like to check on her during my shift. It had been cleared with my tour commander. When we heard the whistles of the city watch, we responded with the intention of providing back-up. But when we arrived, the watchmen immediately handed primary control of the scene to us and backed off. It surprised the hell out of me, sir. That is, until I saw his uniform and Schuhmacher identified the young woman as navy personnel. We cordoned off the area and sent out for backup and NCIS support."

"You did very well, Leiss. I'll see to it that you two are commended for your ...