Monday, 12 March
“Why can’t we just haul her in and interrogate her here?” Ashley asked.
She was standing in front of Hancock’s desk, her hands defensively placed on her hips.
“I don’t know why we have to go so far as to plant me on that stupid softball team. What exactly do they expect to gain from this?” she asked. “It’s not like she’s a major drug dealer or something.”
Hancock sighed, becoming frustrated with her resistance. "Ash, she’s just one out of a bunch of athletes who play on an all-girl softball team. Do the math.”
“Oh, okay, I get it now. I’m supposed to charm this entire team of dykes with my non-existent athletic ability and feminine wiles and then get them all to confess to me their deepest, darkest dyke secrets in a matter of days. Am I on the right track?”
“By George, I think you’ve got it!” he exclaimed.
“You know, Hancock, I'm pretty sure that because I don't play softball, well, couldn't that little fact hamper the investigation? And don’t ya think this whole fiasco is a little much in this day and age? I just don't get it."
“First of all, all you have to do is try out. The coach has been ordered to keep you on the team until your investigation is complete. So don't worry about that. Secondly, I’m getting the idea you flunked the sex crimes block of instruction in CID school,” Hancock said sarcastically.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
“It’s not your job to get it. Homosexuality is against policy, end of story,” he explained in a low and deliberate tone. “Have you forgotten who you’re working for?”
Hancock couldn’t really blame her for not wanting the assignment, but he didn’t like that she was questioning his authority. He pointed to a chair. After a second of direct eye contact, Ashley finally sat down and took a deep, exaggerated breath before she spoke.
“I’m well aware it’s against policy. To tell you the truth, I’m just uncomfortable with this whole lesbian thing, that's all,” she admitted.
“And I don’t get why the army wants to waste valuable resources, particularly me, on other people’s private sex lives,” she added.
“Let me put it this way,” he told her. “Remember the time you investigated an infantry officer for adultery? Okay, imagine his poor dependent wife who's dragged to a foreign country by a guy who’s in the field eight months of the year. She has no family to support her because they’re a thousand miles away from home. Probably no friends, either. She just can’t hop in the car and go home to mama when she finds out he’s getting nookie elsewhere. Well, can she?”
Ashley shrugged her shoulders. “So. Where’s the correlation?”
“She’s stuck here, Ash. Yes, it’s their personal business. But adultery, according to the UCMJ, is our business. It’s the army’s job to keep this guy focused; a mean, lean fighting machine, with no problems or distractions.
"Is it a moral issue or a personal issue? I don't really care. All I care about is that we do our job of making sure his personal life doesn't effect the readiness of the unit, right? And if he’s cheating on his wife and she finds out about it, and all hell breaks lose, well, let’s just say he’s not going to be worth a shit to his buddies. Why? Because he’ll be too involved in divorce proceedings and child custody battles to worry about training for war. Policies were largely established to help prevent shit like that from happening in the first place.
“And as far as homosexuality goes,” he continued, “it affects the morale and welfare of the guys who have to share a foxhole with him, not to mention a fucking shower.
“Anyway,” he added as an afterthought, “everyone knows you give your rights away when you sign on the dotted line.”
“That’s true,” she said, hating that he was right. She sat silent, contemplating her mentor’s lecture. She looked at him, at the man she grew to respect immensely over the past year, and muttered: “Still…”
“Damn!” he blurted out in exasperation. “How else can I get it into your thick skull that wrong behavior requires corrective action? To put it bluntly, homosexuality isn’t permitted in the army, just like adultery isn’t, just like drugs aren’t. Pure and simple."
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re housekeepers,” she groaned. “I’ve heard it all before.”
“That’s right. What they do in their bedrooms is our business because it’s against policy. Do you think dealers smoke dope during formation? Hell no! They do it in their rooms, in their cars, wherever they can find a private place.”
“Good point.”
“And another thing,” he went on, “these women are out there recruiting other women into their lifestyle. They’re breeding like rabbits. That’s why it’s so important we continue these investigations.”
Ashley snickered at his description. “Like rabbits, Kirt? Don't you think that's a little overkill?”
“Whatever. Queers just, well, they’re just not acceptable.”
Ashley agreed with that, but the bottom line was that she was uncomfortable thinking, talking and reading about it, much less doing anything about it.
In fact, she found it hard to believe the rumor that a presidential candidate recently proclaimed he would remove the military gay ban if elected.
Hancock and the other agents bet Arkansas governor Bill Clinton wouldn’t get far enough to do anything at all. Ashley wished he was already in office so she wouldn’t have to go on this assignment, but the presidential election wasn't until November, and everyone knew that was one campaign promise he would not be able to keep.
Ashley had met plenty of gay soldiers over the years, but she never gave them the time of day, other than wondering why a woman would choose to look like a guy on purpose.
She also believed homosexuality was a sin, though she never had the interest to dwell on the topic. And she sure as hell didn’t want to know what they did in bed. But after reading the case report, she had a pretty good idea and it disgusted her.
Hancock opened a desk drawer and pulled out a softball glove. He smiled as he tossed it to her.
“And what’s this?” she asked, a bemused look on her face.
“Congratulations. You’ve made the team. You can borrow my glove, which I’ve had since high school, by the way, so I want it back.”
Hancock gestured for her to try it on. “Go ahead, see how it fits.”
“Are you shitting me? I was serious when I said I’ve never played sports in my damn life.” Ashley grew silent for a moment. “Except for one summer. When I was a little girl I played on a softball team. I sat the damn bench because I couldn't play,” she declared.
“So you throw like a girl. You’ll fit right in,” he teased.
Ashley felt panic-stricken as she stared at the glove.
A then it happened. A young girl's youthful face suddenly flashed in her mind. It was a long-forgotten memory. They were 10. Her best friend Jill smiled broadly as she threw her softball glove high up into the air, catching it every time it came back down.
“How long you gonna to do that?” Ashley asked her.
“Until I drop it.”
“Geez. I’m getting bored. Can’t we hop scotch or something?”
“Not until I drop it.”
She tossed it up again, and as the glove descended downward toward Jill’s small outstretched hands, she poked her tongue out at Ashley and let it fall to the ground. “Darn. I dropped it.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“No I didn’t,” Jill countered. She picked up the glove and handed it to Ashley, and together they walked down the sidewalk.
It was a memory Ashley had buried with all the others.
“Earth to Ashley.” Hancock snapped his fingers. “Well? Are you up to it?”
Ashley hesitantly picked up the flimsy glove and awkwardly pushed her left hand into it. She pounded the center of the glove with her right hand, like she had seen Jill do a million times. It was Jill's love for the sport that had kept her going to every practice and every game that lost summer, not hers.
“I suppose I have no choice but to accept this God-forsaken assignment,” she sighed.
“No choice,” he confirmed.
“Okay, then let’s play ball, as an old friend of mine used to say.”
Wednesday, 14 March
Ashley had no doubt this investigation would challenge her more than anything she had done before. Sex and women. No men allowed. The ultimate girls club.
She kept telling herself it was just a job with the same old clean-up philosophy. But it wasn't just a job because sex was now the core of her mission.
The cards were stacked against her. Despite the fact she had never even had a real conversation with a lesbian, she didn’t play softball, either. After Jill had died, she never had the urge to play again. These two facts alone, she reasoned, would make anyone feel very, very insecure.
The team coach was ordered to put her on the roster and keep his mouth shut about it. It was a directive she heard he didn't take too kindly. She could handle the coach. It was the players she was worried about. She expected them to avoid her like the plague, especially after they see her try to perform like a softball-playing dyke. She figured she might as well have CID tattooed on her forehead.
Doubts about her acquired sleuth abilities grew during her two-hour road trip to Nuremberg, and it was pissing her off. Drugs, rapes, thefts. All crimes she had tackled throughout her career. But this. This was another world. A nightmare, really. She feared the players would certainly make her an outcast the first time she attempted to catch, throw and hit a ball. How in the world was she going to gain their trust? It was a rotten plan.
Anxiety grew as she neared Katterbach Kasern, the small U.S. military post where she would be stationed during the investigation. She pulled up to the MP guard gate and handed the military policeman her ID.
“Excuse me, sergeant. Where’s Headquarters, 137th Aviation?” she asked as he studied her ID.
“Go to the four-way intersection, turn right, and it’s the second building on the right.”
“Thank you,” she said through a forced smile.
The MP smiled back, then playfully held onto her ID card, refusing to let go of it.
“Excuse me, sergeant. I’m one tired CID agent who’s not in a very good mood, so I don’t think you want to play with me today,” she warned as she glimpsed at the name tag on his BDUs.
“O’Donnell, is it?”
The sergeant frowned and let go of the card.
“And you didn’t see me here today, got it?”
“No, ma’am. Have a nice day. Move on,” he said.
Ashley thought she heard him call her a bitch as she drove off, but she was too distracted to do anything about it.
She pulled into the company parking lot and sat in her car for a long time, wishing she was anywhere but here. She wore Specialist Four rank on her BDU collar and the fake last name of Marks on the name tag. She felt relieved that her no mercy attitude began to return.
Let the game begin, she thought. She got out of her car and headed toward the entrance to the barracks.
The hallway was deserted. She glanced around for signs of life but only heard a slight echo of a radio down the hall. She followed a row of hanging hand-painted signs, which eventually led to the commander’s office. She gently knocked.
“May I help you?”
Ashley turned to face a young, handsome private smiling at her.
“Sure. I’m Specialist Ashley Marks. I’m looking for the commander. Will he be back soon?”
“He’s probably in the morning staff meeting. He should be back in about 30 minutes or so,” he said.
Ashley estimated he was about 19. She sighed, thinking how young he looked, and how old she suddenly felt.
Ashley glancing at her watch.
“My name’s PFC Josh Brady, at your service. But you can call me Josh. I’ll be a specialist in a few months,” he told her.
Ashley smiled. “You’re mother will be proud.”
"Yeah, sure. You new here?” he asked.
“I just pulled in. Temporary duty.”
“Good. We need new blood around this joint. I work in the supply room. Want a soda or something?”
“That sounds great,” she said. “Where’s the machine?”
“It’s in the dayroom. It’s kinda cool,” he exclaimed. “It has two pool tables and a TV with a VCR. Follow me.”
He led Ashley down into the basement. A large open room was split in half by a worn five-sectional piece couch. One half of the room was stocked with free weights, an exercise bike, two sit-up benches, and a large, carpeted area that Ashley presumed was probably used for aerobics.
The other half was the entertainment area, which included the vending machines. She reached into her uniform pocket and pulled out a handful of change.
Josh reached over and pushed her hand away. “No way am I letting you pay for your first drink in this company. It’ll be my pleasure,” he said as he dropped two quarters into the slot.
“Wow! This place is really loaded, compared to some of the other dayrooms I’ve seen,” she said as she looked around in admiration. “It's great.”
“It’s our little haven,” he said.
“I bet. Nice art."
“The wall murals were painted by a sergeant assigned here a few years ago. She was a helicopter mechanic, but she was also an artist. She definitely left her mark here,” Josh explained.
The paintings, which covered three entire walls, had the obvious theme of flying. They evoked feelings of motion and weightlessness. Even the ceiling was painted a light, sky blue with puffy white clouds.
Josh was casually leaning against a pool table, his hands in his pockets. “So, where were you stationed?” he asked.
Ashley hesitated. It was the question that usually opened the lid of an agent’s canned lies. She lived much of her life with fake names, but it was one of the safeguards to her real identity.
“Oh, some miserable little post on the Czech border,” she said.
She could tell he wanted to barrage her with a million questions, so she immediately put his curiosity on hold.
“I hate to break it to you, Josh, but it wasn’t very exciting. Just a small, boring compound. No PX or anything. It really sucked!”
“Sounds like it. Well, then, you’ll think you’re in heaven here,” he assured her.
“I bet I will. It’s a lot better than the hell hole I just came from,” she said.
“Should we check to see if the commander’s back yet?” she asked.
Josh pushed himself from the pool table and signaled for her to follow. “Should be. I’ll introduce you. He’s a decent commander, as far as COs go.”
They approached a group of men who were talking and laughing in the middle of the hall.
“See the short guy? That’s Captain Springs, our commander,” Josh pointed out.
Ashley found it almost comical that the commander was at least a head shorter than the other men. He was looking up at one of the non-commissioned officers when he let out a robust laugh. Ashley smiled, wondering if laughter made up for his small stature. She could tell immediately that what he lacked in shoe size he probably made up for in charisma.
Josh excitedly approached the platoon sergeants and the commander. He was anxious to introduce the new hot chick in the company.
“Excuse me, sir. This is Specialist Marks. She’s been looking for you. She’s here on temporary duty. Would you like me to take her to the orderly room and get her started on her in-processing?”
Springs recognized the name immediately, and his smile faded. He had dreaded her arrival. He didn't appreciate a CID agent snooping around his barracks.
“No, no. That’s okay, Private Brady. I’ll take it from here. You’re excused.”
The other three sergeants were eyeing Ashley with interest.
“Well, men, don’t you have work to do?” Springs asked them.
The NCOs slowly dispersed down the hall.
Ashley followed him into his office. He closed the door and offered her a seat in front of his desk.
“So. How was your trip?” he asked.
“It was okay, sir. At least it’s not snowing.”
“That’s for sure. Gets our pilots awfully restless when it snows. Keeps our mechanics busy, though.”
Ashley appreciated the light banter. Most commanders were uncomfortable letting CID agents hide out in their barracks, so they acted like big dicks when their territory was invaded, especially by an agent with tits.
“So, this investigation, it’s at another base? Is that right?” he asked. She could tell Springs was forcing his congeniality, that he was actually very nervous.
Then, in a major revelation, Ashley figured out why a female first sergeant she had dealt with recently was uneasy, secretive and cautious around her. Ashley had resided in an all-female barracks during a theft investigation six months ago. She couldn't figure out why the first sergeant was extremely elusive. Ashley was suspicious of her behavior, but she let it go because she wasn't the primary target. It hadn't occurred to Ashley then that the sergeant was probably a lesbian who thought she was under investigation.
“We have your bedding, meal card and room ready for you,” he informed her. “You’ll be staying on the second floor, with the other women, but you’ll be in an NCO’s room, by yourself.”
He paused. “As far as the occupants in this company know, you're in transit, and you only answer to me. They still might ask a few questions, out of curiosity, of course, you know, since you’re a specialist living in a sergeant’s room. But I don’t suspect you’ll be making lots of friends here, anyway.”
“That’s for sure,” Ashley agreed. “But I’m used to it, sir. Comes with the job. I’ll be gone most of the time, but I appreciate your hospitality. You won’t hardly know I’m here.”
“No problem,” he said. “Anything you need. If you want anything else, please let me know. See Specialist Guild in the orderly room for your room key. She’ll also issue you the meal card. Private Brady will take care of your bedding. Anything else?”
“I think you’ve got it covered. Thank you again, sir.”
She stood up and shook his outstretched hand.
Thirty minutes later she stood in front of her room struggling with the key in the door, but the lock refused to budge.
“Shit,” she cursed under her breath.
Josh, who had been watching her from around the corner, didn't waste time in offering his help.
“Here, let me show you a trick. Some of these doors are bitches. I mean hard to open.” Josh reached for her key and carefully slid it into the lock. “Put it in slowly, then turn it clockwise until you here a click, then jerk it around a little.”
He opened the door and handed her the key. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Need anything else?”
“Nope. I have everything I need. Well, I’ll see you later. Thanks for the pop.”
She kicked her duffel bag into the room and closed the door in his face.
Ashley threw a sheet over the dingy bunk mattress and collapsed. She was hungry, tired and feeling very grumpy, though there really was no time for rest. In just a few days she would be meeting her suspect on a softball field. She had plenty of work to do.
She glanced around the spacious room. It was furnished with one twin bunk, one metal desk, two metal lockers, and a small sink. Another door led to a full bathroom, shared by occupants in the room next door.
She frowned at several dust balls that swirled freely around her boots as she moved around the room. She added cleaning to her list, but not tonight. She had too much reading to do.
As she pulled out her briefcase, she remembered that Jason had jokingly dubbed the investigation The Case of the Mysterious Lesbos. She couldn’t help but smile. He was trying to help her lighten up yesterday. It worked then, and it worked now, when she most needed to feel better. Jason was so funny sometimes, she thought. She missed him for the first time all day.
But the happy image of her boyfriend quickly faded as she begrudgingly sat at her desk and started to read the files once again.
It was past midnight when she finally turned off the light and crawled into bed.
Tired and relieved it was the end of a long day, Ashley didn’t give anyone a another thought. She shut her eyes and went right to sleep.
Thursday, 15 March
The familiar sounds of shuffling tennis shoes and muffled military cadence were really getting on Ashley’s nerves. She tried to ignore the noise and go back to sleep, but she was jarred awake each time a platoon double-timed past the barracks.
It was still pitch black out. 0520 hours. She craved silence and a cup of coffee. Since neither was an option, she decided to work. She made a chart of all the major players in the shakedown by linking the dots to whom turned in whom. All the cases were related by connecting names, like a fast spreading disease that claimed more and more victims along the way. The morbid details of sex, secrecy and treason would make for a real bad soap opera, she thought.
The Case of the Mysterious Lesbos began more than a year ago because of a single accusation. A disgruntled civilian gay man getting even with a cheating boyfriend started the whole domino effect. He anonymously tipped off the commander of his cheating lover, who ended up giving the CID investigator four other names in exchange for the opportunity to quietly resign. It mushroomed from there. Men turned in women. Enlisted turned in officers. Officers turned in other officers. There was little allegiance when it came to protecting one’s own career. Ashley was responsible for gathering more names to add to the pile.
She knew how the interrogation process worked. The suspects were often unaware of the real reason they were called into the CID office. Once they were brought in behind closed doors, they were read their Miranda Rights and ultimately given their marching orders. They were lame ducks, really. The accused always denied the charges, at first, but agents were skilled enough to convince them that it was in their best interest to confess.
Ashley noticed an obvious trend: accusation, denial, threats, then names. Sometimes lots of name. Sometimes only one. Rarely were there none. Fright does strange things to one's trustworthiness.
Ashley was glad she was only a mole in this game. All she had to do was collect information and then disappear. She couldn’t imagine forcing women to divulge their most private, intimate sexual moments during interrogations, especially since she believed that witch hunts were unnecessary. She was confident her main suspect, army journalist Sgt. Mindy Sterling, would implicate her teammates all on her own, without the charade. Why waste valuable resources doing undercover work?
They breed like rabbits. Hancock’s flippant comment kept coming back to haunt her. She doubted that anyone, unless they were Catherine Deneuve, could have the raw power to lure straight women into their bedrooms. Maybe if they were drunk. That was the only explanation she could come up with. How else could these people recruit straight women into having sex with them?
Streaks of sunshine now penetrated into her hot and stuffy room, and it was finally silent. Even the loud, cranky heat register that had rattled and banged all night was quiet. She hated that damn thing.
Ashley glanced in the bathroom mirror, appalled that it reflected red, puffy eyes. Time to wake up beautiful, she muttered. She turned on the cold water and splashed her face until she felt her body temperature begin to cool down. She tied her long, black hair into a bun on top of her head before turning on the shower and defiantly stepping into a weak stream of luke-warm water. This mission couldn't be over soon enough, she thought.
Finding something to wear was a chore in itself. She wanted to fit in, but she had no clue as to what lesbians wore, and what she guessed they wore, she didn’t own and would never wear. She knew what male suspects liked. She had a closet full of tight jeans, low-cut shirts and pumps. Apparel she wore only on assignments. What did lesbians wear, and what did they like to see on other women?
Ashley decided on worn Levis and a short-sleeved yellow sweater. She normally wore little makeup, and since she guessed lesbians didn’t wear any either, neither would she, except for the special makeup that camouflaged the scar on her cheek.
Finally satisfied, she grabbed her purse and walked out the door.
“Good morning, Specialist Marks. Did you have a good night?” Josh asked as he swept the hallway floor. “Got the day off?”
“Actually, the commander suggested I acquaint myself with the area today, so I'm going to check things out,” she said.
Josh acted casual as he leaned his chin on the broom handle. “Going without me? I know the town pretty well. I could be your tour guide."
“Maybe next time,” she said as she brushed past him.
Her first stop was a feminist bookstore in downtown Nuremberg. Since she knew nothing about the gay culture, Ashley planned to purchase a few books that might help educate her about a lifestyle she would temporarily call her own.
The 40-minute drive to Nuremberg was a relaxing distraction. It was still in the upper 30s. It was too cold to crack a window. She was tired of cold weather, she thought, as she began to daydream about sipping marguerites by a New Orleans pool.
It was about 0830 hours. The traffic on the two-lane road to the mecca center of Bavaria was thinning out, allowing her to zip along at 90 kilometers. She had been to Nuremberg several times before, so she was pretty familiar with the territory. Everywhere she wanted to go today was close to the main Bahnhof in the heart of the city, so she followed the sign to the train station.
She parked her car a few blocks from the bookstore. She had never noticed the Blue Moon bookstore before, but why would she have? She preferred classic, male-dominated mysteries by John Gresham and Steven King.
The bookstore didn’t open until 1000 so she strolled through the train station, then ventured past the abundant souvenir and coffee shops. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists and shoppers, men in suits on their way to work, mothers pushing baby strollers, and punks loitering on the market square.
She noticed two young women holding hands. Only in Europe, she mused, where it was acceptable for straight women to hold hands in public. She couldn’t imagine walking that way with a friend. She was too Americanized. Of all the times she had seen two women in Europe display their friendship this way, it had never occurred to her that they could be lesbians, until now.
She wandered close to the infamous city wall, the home of the legal Red Light District. Figuring she had wandered far enough, she headed back to McDonald’s. She sipped black coffee until the store opened.
A large lavender woman’s symbol was painted on the glass window of the bookstore. Ashley felt apprehensive as she stood on the sidewalk, taking in the decor of this foreign place.
About a dozen English and foreign books were propped up on plastic easels inside the store’s front window. The Well of Loneliness. Screaming Out Loud! Battered and Worn, Women Fight Back.
No wonder men make fun of women, she thought. We have so many damn issues.
But it was The Joy of Lesbian Sex, prominent in the display, that prompted her to look around her as if she was doing something wrong. She dreaded going in there.
Door bells jingled softly when she opened the door and entered. A plump woman supported on a sturdy stool behind the counter looked up from her magazine and nodded. Ashley nodded back, then quickly broke eye contact.
The only other woman in the store was sitting on the wooden plank floor with a short stack of paperbacks by her side. She was scanning the back cover of each book, apparently contemplating which ones would make the cut. Ashley was relieved she never looked up.
Classical music flowed from somewhere in the ceiling, and it had a calming effect. Ashley began to relax as she browsed the long aisles of books and magazines.
The store was clean and orderly. It was long and narrow, with two round tables and a worn, ugly orange couch placed in the back of the room. Both of the side walls were covered with wooden shelves from top to bottom. In the front of the store, opposite the front counter, was a large, wooden rack that housed dozens of magazines, ranging from periodicals to hard-core feminist rags. Bumper stickers and political buttons filled boxes on a stand next to the rack.
Ashley lingered in front of the non-fiction gay section. As she scanned the countless titles, she could hardly believe there were so many books on gay history. She didn’t even know they had a history. She estimated there were dozens of books on the Stonewall riots alone. There were books on famous homosexuals, the gay Holocaust, the legislation of hate crimes, gay parenting, and even, God forbid, lesbian nuns.
After some deliberation, she pulled out The Making of Modern Gay History. As she perused the first few pages, she decided this would make for an interesting read. When she finally looked up, at about page 15, she noticed there were now three women in the store, all equally engrossed in their own choice of literature.
Ashley suddenly felt foolish for being so close-minded and judgmental. Yes, she had been trained to believe that being gay was an act against nature, and outlawed in the military. For the first time since she was assigned to this case, she kind of looked forward to learning about the gay culture. What if it wasn't a choice? How do gay people deal with the brutal teasing and the hate? These were questions she hoped would be answered in this book.
Ashley selected the history book and randomly chose a paperback from the lesbian fiction section. She hoped one book on history and one on lesbian romance would help arm her with enough background ammo to at least attempt to pass as one of them.
“All set?” asked the clerk.
“Yes. Thank you.” Ashley pulled out a 20 German mark bill from her purse and handed it to woman.
“Out of the Closet and Into My Arms. Oh, you’ll like this one,” she exclaimed in a thick German accent as she stuffed the book into a paper bag. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Ashley faked a smile and, without a word, grabbed the paper bag and left the store.
The clerk chuckled as she watched Ashley disappear down the street.
"You’re welcome," the clerk said to herself. "Maybe I’ll see you out sometime."
