The General's Daughter

I entered the mobile home and left the door open as I checked to see that I was the only one there. I seemed to be alone, and the premises seemed to be the way I’d left them.

I walked to the back bedroom. This was the room I used for my office where my pistols were kept, along with my notes, reports, codebooks, and other tools of the trade. I had put a hasp and padlock on this bedroom door so no one, including the owner of the trailer park, could get into it, and I’d also put epoxy glue in the sliders of the only window. I unlocked the padlock and went inside.

The bedroom furniture came with the place, but I’d signed out a camp desk and chair from the post quartermaster, and on the desk I saw that the light on the telephone answering machine was blinking. I hit the message button, and a prerecorded male voice with a nasal problem announced, “You have one message.” Then another male voice said, “Mr. Brenner, this is Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant. General Campbell wishes to see you. Report to his home, ASAP. Good day.”

Rather curt. All I could deduce from that was that Colonel Kent had finally got around to informing the deceased’s next of kin and had volunteered the information that this Brenner guy from Falls Church was the investigating officer and had given Colonel Fowler my phone number. Thanks, Kent.

I had no time for General or Mrs. Campbell at the moment, so I erased the message from the tape and from my mind.

I went to the dresser and took my 9mm Glock automatic with holster, then exited the spare bedroom, closing the padlock behind me.

I entered the master bedroom, changed into a blue tropical wool suit, adjusted the holster, went into the kitchen, popped a cold beer, then exited the trailer. I left the pickup truck where it was and got into the Blazer. Thus transformed, I was outwardly prepared to deal with rape and murder, though somewhere along the line I had to log some cot time.

I took a few pulls on the beer as I drove. This state has a law about open alcoholic beverage containers which the locals say means, if you open it, you have to finish it before you throw it out the window.

I detoured into a depressing suburb of small ranch houses called Indian Springs. There were no Indians around, but there were plenty of cowboys, judging from the souped-up vehicles in the driveways. I pulled into the driveway of a modest home and hit the horn a few times. This is in lieu of getting out and ringing the bell, and is perfectly acceptable hereabouts. A wide woman came to the door, saw me, and waved, then disappeared. A few minutes later, Sergeant Dalbert Elkins ambled out of the house. One of the good things about pulling night duty is that you get the next day off, and Elkins was obviously enjoying the day, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, a beer in each hand. I said to him, “Get in. We got to see a guy on post.”

“Aw, sheet.”

“Come on. I’ll get you back here, ASAP.”

He yelled back into the house, “Gotta go!” Then he climbed into the passenger seat and handed me one of the beers.

I took it, backed out of the driveway, and drove off. Sergeant Elkins had four questions for me: Where’d you get this Blazer? Where’d you get that suit? How was the pussy? Who we gotta see?

I replied that the Blazer was borrowed, the suit came from Hong Kong, the other thing was A-one, and we had to see a guy in jail.

“In jail?”

“A good buddy. They got him locked in the provost office. I got to see him before they take him to the stockade.”

“Why? What for?”

“They got him for DWI. I got to drive his car out to his place. His old lady’s nine months pregnant and she needs the wheels. They live out by you. You follow me back in the Blazer.”

Sergeant Elkins nodded as if he’d done this before. He said, “Hey, tell me about the pussy.”

So, wanting him to be happy, I went into my good ol’ boy rap. “Well, I got me a little slopehead ’bout as tall as a pint of piss, and I just pick her up by the ears and stick her on my dick, then slap her upside the head and spin her ’round my cock like the block on a shithouse door.”

Elkins roared with laughter. Actually, that wasn’t bad. You’d never know I was from Boston. God, I’m good.

We made small talk and sipped beer. As we drove onto the post, we lowered the beer cans as we passed the MPs, then tucked them away under the seats. I pulled up to the provost marshal’s office and we got out and went inside.

The duty sergeant stood and I put my CID badge case up to his face and kept walking. Sergeant Elkins either didn’t notice or it happened too fast for him. We walked down a corridor to the holding cells. I found a nice empty one in the corner with an open door, and I nudged Sergeant Elkins inside. He seemed confused and a little anxious. He asked, “Where’s your buddy…?”

“You’re my buddy.” I closed the cell door and it locked. I spoke to my buddy through the bars. “You are under arrest.” I held up my badge case. “The charge is conspiracy to sell military property of the United States without proper authority, and frauds against the United States.” I added, “Plus, you weren’t wearing your seat belt.”

“Oh, Jesus… oh, Lord…”

The expression on a man’s face when you announce that he’s under arrest is very interesting and revealing, and you have to judge your next statement by his reaction. Elkins looked like he’d just seen St. Peter giving him a thumbs-down. I informed him, “I’m going to give you a break, Dalbert. You’re going to handwrite and sign a full confession, then you’re going to cooperate with the government in nailing the guys we’ve been talking to. You do that, and I’ll guarantee you no jail time. You get a dishonorable discharge and forfeiture of all rank, pay, allowances, and retirement benefits. Otherwise, it’s life in Leavenworth, good buddy. Deal?”

He started to cry. I know I’m getting soft because there was a time I wouldn’t have even offered such a great deal, and if a suspect started to cry, I’d slap him around until he shut up. But I’m trying to become more sensitive to the needs and wants of criminals, and I tried not to think of what those two hundred M-16s and grenade launchers could do to cops and innocent people. Not to mention the fact that Staff Sergeant Elkins had broken a sacred trust. I said to Elkins, “Deal?”

He nodded.

“Smart move, Dalbert.” I fished around in my pocket and found the rights card. “Here. Read this and sign it.” I handed him the card and a pen. He wiped his tears as he read his rights as an accused. I said, “Sign the damn thing, Dalbert.”

He signed and handed me the card and the pen. Karl was going to fly into a monumental fit when I told him I’d turned Elkins into a government witness. Karl’s philosophy is that everyone should go to jail, and no one should be able to cut a deal. Court-martial boards didn’t like to hear about deals. Okay, but I had to shortcut this case to get on to the case that had the potential to harm me. Karl said to finish it. It was finished.

An MP lieutenant approached and asked me to explain and identify myself. I showed him my CID identification and said to him, “Get this man some paper and pen for a confession, then take him to the post CID and turn him over to them for further interrogation.”

Staff Sergeant Elkins was sitting on the cot now, looking very forlorn in his shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. I’ve seen too many men like that through steel bars. I wonder how I look to them from the other side of the bars.

I left the holding cells and found my assigned office. I flipped through Ann Campbell’s address book, which held about a hundred names, mine not included. She used no stars or hearts or anything like that to denote a romantic interest or a rating system, but as I said, there was probably another list of names and phone numbers somewhere, possibly in her basement rec room, or perhaps buried in her personal computer.

I scribbled out a rather perfunctory and annoyingly terse report for Karl—not the one I’d made up in my mind, but one that neither the judge advocate general nor the attorney for the defense could criticize later. There wasn’t a document in the country that was safe anymore, and the Confidential classification might as well say, “Widest Possible Distribution.”

The report completed, I hit the intercom button on the telephone and said, “Have a clerk report to me.”

Army clerks are sort of like civilian secretaries, except that many of them are men, though I’m seeing more female clerks these days. In either case, like their civilian counterparts, they can make or break a boss or an office. The one who reported to me was a female, dressed in the green B uniform, which is basically a green skirt and blouse, suitable for hot offices. She reported well enough, with a crisp salute and a good voice. “Specialist Baker, sir.”

I stood, though this is not required of me, and extended my hand. “I am Warrant Officer Brenner, CID. I am working on the Campbell case. Do you know all of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

I regarded Specialist Baker a moment. She was about twenty-one, looked alert enough, not beautiful, but sort of bright-eyed and perky. Maybe cute. I asked her, “Do you want to be detailed to this case?”

“I work for Captain Redding in Traffic Enforcement.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. You will report only to me and to Ms. Sunhill, who is also on this case, and you will speak to no one else. Everything you see and hear is highly confidential.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Type this report, photocopy this address book, send the copies to this fax number in Falls Church, and leave the originals on my desk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put a sign on this door that says, ‘Private, authorized personnel only.’ You, me, and Ms. Sunhill are the only authorized personnel.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the military, where honesty, honor, and obedience are still held in high regard, you theoretically don’t need locks on doors, but I’m seeing more locks these days. Nevertheless, being from the old school, I didn’t order one. However, I did tell Specialist Baker, “You will empty the wastebaskets every evening and put the contents through a shredder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“Who will speak to Captain Redding?”

“I will speak to Colonel Kent about that. Any further questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

She took the address book and my handwritten report, saluted, turned, and left.

It’s not easy being a traveling pain-in-the-ass. Anyone can be a pain-in-the-ass on the home court, but it takes a unique individual to come into an environment whose pecking order, nuances, and personalities have already been shaped and fit into place. Yet, if you don’t get the upper hand on the first day, you’ll never get it, and they’ll mess you around until you become worse than useless.

Power, I’ve learned, is derived in many legitimate ways. But if the institution has not fully empowered you, but has given you a job that is very important and really sucks, then you have to take the power you need to get it done. I think the Army expects that, expects you to demonstrate initiative, as they constantly tell you. But you have to be careful, because this only works if you’re getting the job done. If you’re not getting the job done, then they get you. Worse, when the job is successfully completed, they pat you on the head like an exhausted sled dog, then eat you, which is why I never stay around for cocktails when a case is completed. Karl says I hide under his desk for a week, which is not true, but I have been known to take a few weeks in Switzerland.

It was 1400 hours and Warrant Officer Sunhill had not made an appearance yet, so I left the provost building to get my vehicle and discovered my partner parked at the front door, sleeping behind the wheel, the Grateful Dead on the CD player, which may have been appropriate.

I got in and slammed the door, waking her up. “Sleeping?” I asked.

“No, resting my eyes.”

She always used to say that, and we exchanged quick smiles of recognition. I said, “Rifle range six, please.”

CHAPTER

TEN

Cynthia shifted into high gear as we cleared the main post and broke out into the wooded reservation. She said, “Nice suit.”

“Thank you.” The Grateful Dead was singing “A Touch of Grey.” I shut off the CD player.

“Did you have lunch?” she inquired.

“No.”

“Did you do anything useful?” she asked.

“Probably not.”

“Are you annoyed about something?”

“Yes.”

“Karl can be annoying.”

“If you call him again regarding this case, I’ll have you up on charges.”

“Yes, sir.”

We drove in silence awhile, then she said, “I need your phone number and address.”

I gave them to her and she said, “I’m staying in the visiting officers’ quarters.” She added, “Why don’t you move in? I mean, into the VOQ. It’s more convenient.”

“I like Whispering Pines Trailer Park.”

“Trailer parks in the woods are spooky.”

“Not for real men.”

“Oh, do you have one living with you?” She thought this was funny and laughed at her own joke, then covered her mouth in a theatrical gesture and said, “Oops, sorry, I should be trying to get on your good side.”

“Don’t waste your time.”

Cynthia is not a manipulator, but she has been known to manipulate. A fine distinction, but an important one. She’s basically ingenuous and honest, and if she likes the way a man looks or acts, she tells him. I’ve told her to be a little less sincere, that some men take this as a come-on. But she doesn’t get it, and this is a woman who handles rape cases.

I said to her, “We have a clerk-typist, a Specialist Baker.”

“Male or female?”

“I don’t notice these things. And by the way, what religion are you?”

She smiled and pulled her dog tags out of her shirt, and read them as she drove. “Let’s see… AB… American Baptist? No, that’s my blood type… Here it is. Presbyterian.”

“I’m not amused.”

“I’m sorry about that. Karl knew it was a joke.”

“Karl can’t identify a joke unless people around him are laughing.”

“Come on, Paul. You don’t take any of this sensitivity stuff seriously anyway. If I may give you a suggestion—be careful. You don’t have to talk newspeak or confess to your prejudices, but don’t make fun of the new stuff, either. There’s no upside to that, professionally speaking.”

“Are you a commissar?”

“No, I’m your partner.” She poked my arm. “Don’t get old on me.”

“Okay.” Obviously, Cynthia was in a somewhat less confrontational mode. Either something good had happened to her in her two-hour absence, or she had rethought or remembered things about Paul Brenner that weren’t all bad. To get back to business, I inquired, “Did you look up ‘sexual asphyxia’?”

“Of course. It’s totally weird.”

“Sex is weird if you think about it.”

“Maybe for you.”

“Tell me about sexual asphyxia.”

“All right… it’s basically having a tightened cord around your neck during sexual arousal. Usually men do it to themselves while masturbating. Autoerotic. But women have been known to practice autoerotic asphyxia, too. Sometimes heterosexual and homosexual partners do it to each other during sex. It’s usually consensual, but not always, and sometimes it leads to a fatality, either accidental or on purpose. That’s when it becomes a police matter.”

“Correct. Have you ever seen it in practice?”

“No. Have you?”

“Have you ever done it?”

“No, Paul. Have you?”

“No, but I have seen it once. A guy rigged up something to hang himself while he masturbated, looking at a porno video. He didn’t mean to die, but the stool he was standing on slipped away and he hanged himself for real. An autoerotic fatality. The MPs thought it was suicide, of course. But when the victim is naked, and there is erotic paraphernalia around, then you can be pretty sure it was an accident. Try explaining that to the family.”

“I can imagine.” She shook her head and said, “I’m not sure how that’s fun. Didn’t say in the manual.”

“Well, it’s in other manuals. Here’s how it’s fun: When you get a disruption of blood supply and oxygen to the brain, certain sensations are heightened, partly as a result of diminished ego controls. A temporary lack of oxygen causes giddiness, lightheadedness, and even exhilaration. It’s a high without drugs or alcohol. In this state, many people experience a more intense sexual arousal and feeling.” I added, “I’ve heard that when you come, you really come, but if you misjudge, then you’ve come and gone. You’re history.”

“That’s not fun.”

“No. Also, only part of the kick is physiological. The other thing is the ritualistic behavior that accompanies most acts of sexual asphyxia—the nakedness or the wearing of unusual clothes, the sexual paraphernalia and erotic materials, the fantasy, the setting, and ultimately the danger.”

“Who invented this one?”

“Undoubtedly, it was discovered accidentally. Maybe there’re pictures of it in Egyptian pyramids. Human beings are ceaselessly ingenious when it comes to self-gratification.”

She stayed silent while she drove, then glanced at me, and finally asked, “And you think something like this happened to Ann Campbell?”

“Well… the panties around her neck were put there so as not to leave a telltale rope mark. That’s very specific for sexual asphyxia when it is not meant to lead to death.” I added, “That is one way to interpret the scene that presented itself to us, but let’s examine the forensic evidence.”

“Where were her clothes?”

“She may have dropped them off somewhere.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of the danger and the fantasy. As you mentioned earlier, we have no way of knowing what was sexually significant to her, or what elaborate constructs she had developed in her mind. Think, if you will, of your own secret garden of delights, and try to imagine how those scenarios would be viewed by another person.” To fill the awkward silence, I added, “This type of personality is ultimately only satisfied with his or her own elaborate fantasies, with or without a partner. I’m beginning to think that what we saw on rifle range six was produced, directed, and scripted by Ann Campbell, not by her partner or assailant.”

Cynthia said nothing, so I continued, “Most likely, it was a consensual act that included sexual asphyxia in which her partner strangled her to death by accident, or on purpose, in a moment of anger. An assailant, a stranger, who was bent on rape and murder would not have put the panties around her neck to minimize tissue damage.”

“No, but as we discussed, consider that perhaps the partner did not kill her in a moment of anger. Consider that the partner intended to kill her, and she thought it was a game.”

“That’s another possibility.”

Cynthia said, “I keep thinking about that room in the basement. There may have been men who wanted her dead out of jealousy or revenge, or she may have been blackmailing someone.”

“Right. She was a homicide victim waiting to happen. But we need more information. You’ll write all of that in your case book. Okay?”

Again she nodded but said nothing. Clearly, Cynthia, who dealt with garden-variety rapes that did not lead to murder, was somewhat overwhelmed by these new facets of human depravity and sexual diversity. Yet, I was sure she had seen women brutalized by men, but she must have compartmentalized those crimes or categorized them in some fashion that she could deal with. She didn’t seem to hate all men—in fact, she liked men—but I could see how she could, or would, one day begin to hate. I asked Cynthia, “The Neely case. Who was the guy?”

“Oh… some young trainee at the Infantry School. He fell in love with this nurse and followed her out to her car one night as she left the hospital. He made a full confession and will make a full apology, then plead guilty and take five to ten.”

I nodded. It was not Army policy, but it was becoming more common to have the convicted or confessed criminal apologize to the victim or the family, and also to his or her own commanding officer. This sounded more Japanese than English common law to me, but I suppose it’s okay. Ironically, General Campbell had instituted this policy here at Fort Hadley. I said, “Good God, I wouldn’t want to be the guy who had to apologize to the general for raping and murdering his daughter.”

“It would be hard to find just the right words,” Cynthia agreed. She added, “Are we back to rape and murder?”

“Perhaps. But it could have been murder and rape. Do you want to discuss necrophilia?”

“No. Enough.”

“Amen.” Up ahead, I could see the outline of a huge green open-sided tent, like a pavilion that you see at lawn parties. The forensic people pitch these over an outdoor crime scene to protect the evidence from the elements.

Cynthia said, “I appreciate the confidence in me that you’ve expressed to Karl.”

I didn’t recall that conversation with Karl, so I let that pass and said, “Karl wants us to reconstruct the crime. Complete with tent pegs, ropes, and so forth. You’re Ann Campbell.”

She thought about this a moment, then said, “All right… I’ve done that before…”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

We had arrived at the scene, and Cynthia pulled over behind a forensic unit van. She said, “Are we going to see the body again?”

“No.” By now the body was bloating, and there would be a faint odor about it, and, as irrational and unprofessional as this sounds, I wanted to remember Ann Campbell as she was.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

There were about a dozen vans and cars on the narrow road, belonging to the CID forensic lab and the local MPs.

Cynthia and I walked on a trail of green tarpaulin toward the open pavilion.

It was a typically hot Georgia afternoon, with an occasional soft breeze that carried the resinous scent of pines through the humid air.

Death does not cause a halt in military activities, and the rifle ranges to our left and right were being used despite the problem at rifle range six. I could hear the far-off fusillades of M-16s, sharp, staccato bursts of fire, and, as always, that sound stirred unpleasant memories. But those memories did put things into perspective. I mean, this case was unpleasant, but jungle combat was way down there on the list of unpleasant activities. Things could be worse. I was alive, and a young woman, fifty meters away, wasn’t.

In and around the pavilion were at least thirty men and women, all engaged in the business of forensic work.

Forensic science is based largely on the theory of transfer and exchange. It is an article of faith with forensic people that the perpetrator will take away traces of the scene and of the victim, and will leave traces of himself at the scene or on the victim. This is especially true with sexual assault, which by its nature puts the perpetrator and victim in close juxtaposition.

There are, however, cases where the perpetrator is extremely bright and savvy, and has no intention of giving the forensic lab so much as a pubic hair or a drop of semen or saliva, or even a whiff of after-shave lotion. Based on what I’d seen earlier, this seemed like it could be one of those cases. And if it turned out that it was, then I had to rely solely on old-fashioned interrogation, intuition, and legwork. But even if I found the perpetrator, a conviction without a shred of forensic evidence was unlikely.

I stopped before I got to the pavilion, and a short, bald man separated himself from the crowd around the body and came toward us. I recognized Chief Warrant Officer Cal Seiver, who was probably the OIC—the officer in charge—of the entire team. Seiver is basically a good guy, a professional with an uncanny sense of what piece of thread or what speck of dust is important. But, like many technical types, he lives and breathes minutiae and can’t see the forest for the trees. This is good, though, because the forest is my job, and the trees are his. I don’t like forensic types who play detective.

Cal was looking a bit pale as he always does when he sees a body. We shook hands and I introduced him to Cynthia, but they knew each other. He said, “The entire fucking world walked around this body, Paul.”

We go through this every time. I replied, “Nobody knows how to levitate yet.”

“Yeah, well, you people stomped on everything.”

“Any nonmilitary footwear?”

“Yeah. Running shoes.” He looked at Cynthia’s shoes. “Did you—”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll give you my footprints. Any other footprints aside from boots?”

“Yeah. I picked up a partial bare footprint, probably the deceased’s, but everything else is boots, boots, boots. Some soles make different marks, you know, uneven wear, cuts in the leather, different brands of heels—”

“I think you told me that once,” I reminded him.

“Yeah. We’ve got to take disqualifying sole prints from everybody, but I have to tell you, the area probably had dozens of prints already, and this range is covered with scrub brush and grass.”

“I see that.”

“I hate outdoor crime scenes.” He pulled out a handkerchief, took off his BDU cap, and mopped his sweaty pate.

I informed him, “New memo from the Pentagon, Cal. You are not short and bald—you are a vertically challenged man of scalp.”

He looked at Cynthia. “You got to work with this guy?”

“He’s trying to bug me, not you. I just gave him a lecture on sensitivity.”

“Yeah? Don’t waste your time.”

“Precisely,” agreed Cynthia. “Did you get the stuff I sent you on the Neely case?”

“Yeah. We did a DNA match on the semen we had from her vagina, and the stuff you sent over yesterday from the confessed rapist. Same stuff, so you got a true confession. Congratulations.”

I added my congratulations and inquired of Cal, “Any traces of semen on this victim?”

“I ran an ultraviolet light over her, and there’re no traces of semen. We took vaginal, oral, and anal swabs, and we’ll know about that in a half hour or so.” He added, “The latent-prints people have already done the body, the humvee, her handbag, the tent pegs, and ropes. The photographers are nearly done, and I have the serology people in the vans now with the blood, saliva, and orifice samples. The chemistry people are vacuuming trace evidence from the body, but I have to tell you, I don’t even see a stray hair on the body, and what lint there is probably came from her own underwear and clothes. I also brought along a team from the tool marks lab, and they’re examining the tent pegs and rope, but it’s standard-issue stuff and the pegs are old and used, and so is the rope. So, to answer all your questions, we don’t have a physical clue for you yet.”

Cal tends to be negative. Then later, be tells you that after hours of hard and brilliant lab work, he’s got something. The secret to becoming a legend is to make the job look harder than it is. I do that once in a while myself. Cynthia doesn’t get it yet. I asked Cal, “Have you removed the tent pegs?”

“Just the one near the left ankle to get at an anal sample, and to determine if there’s any dirt on the peg that’s different from the dirt it’s stuck in now. But it seems like all red Georgia clay.”

“I want you to determine if either of the tent pegs near the wrists could have been pulled out by the victim if she were free to do so. Also, see if either of the knots on the wrists is a slipknot. Also, I would like you to tell me if you think she had or could have had either end of the ligature in her hands.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

Cal turned and walked away.

Cynthia said to me, “If none of those things are true or possible, then we can rule out an autoerotic fatality. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Then we look for a perpetrator.”

“A perpetrator or an accomplice. It still looks like it started out as fun.” I added, “That is not for public dissemination.”

“Obviously.” She said, “I don’t mind seeing the body again. I know what we’re looking for.” She followed the tarpaulin trail to the pavilion and disappeared into the crowd as she knelt beside the body. I turned and walked back to the road and stood beside the humvee. I looked up the road toward the guard post where PFC Robbins had stood, but I could not see the ammo shed from a kilometer away. I turned and looked down the road toward the direction we had come from and saw that the road made a right-hand bend, so that if a vehicle stopped about a hundred meters away, at rifle range five, its headlights might not be seen from where Robbins had been standing. There was something about the times of the headlights that bugged me, and I had to consider the possibility that the first headlights that Robbins saw were not necessarily those of Ann Campbell’s humvee—because if they were, what was Ann Campbell doing between the time she left Post Headquarters at 0100 hours and the time Robbins saw the first headlights at 0217 hours?

Cynthia and Cal approached, and Cal informed me, “The tent pegs are solid in the clay. A guy with surgical gloves almost got a hernia pulling them out. The knots have been classified as granny knots, and you can barely untie them even using a mechanical aid. As for the ligature, the ends do reach her hands, but if you’re asking for my opinion, I don’t think she could have pulled them herself. You looking for an autoerotic accident?”

“Just a thought. Between us.”

“Yeah. But it looks like she had company last night, though we haven’t found any traces of her company yet.”

“Where was the bare footprint?”

“About halfway between the road and the body. About there.” He pointed to where one of his people was taking a casting of a print.

I nodded. “How was the rope cut?”

Cal replied, “Compression cut. Like an ax or cleaver, maybe on a wooden surface. Probably not done here—the tool mark guys checked the bleacher seats for cuts. Most likely, the lengths were precut and brought here.” He added, “Like a rape kit,” but resisted the temptation to say words like “premeditated” or “organized rapist.” I like people who stick to their area of expertise. In fact, what looked like part of a rape kit was more likely bondage paraphernalia from the victim’s own storehouse of equipment. But it was best if everyone kept thinking rape.

Cal said to me, “You wanted to know about the black smudge on her right foot.”

“Yes.”

“Ninety-nine percent sure it’s blacktop. Know for sure in about an hour. I’ll match the smudge to the road here, but it won’t be conclusive.”

“Okay.”

He asked me, “How’d you pull this case?”

“I begged for it.”

He laughed, then said, “I wouldn’t want to be in your boots.”

“Me neither, if you found my bootprints in the humvee.”

He smiled, and it seemed he was enjoying my company, so I reminded him, “If you botch anything, you should think about where you can live on half pay. A lot of guys go to Mexico.”

“Hey, if I botch anything, I can cover my ass. If you botch anything, your ass is grass, and Colonel Hellmann is the lawn mower.”

Which was an unpleasant truth. I informed him, “The victim’s office, household goods, and personal effects are in a hangar at Jordan Field, so when you’re through here, go there.”

“I know. We’ll be done here by dark, then we’ll do an allnighter at the hangar.”

“Was Colonel Kent here?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“What did he want?”

“Same as you, without the wisecracks.” He added, “Wants you to see the general. Did you get that message?”

“No. All right, Cal, I’m at the provost marshal’s office. All reports and inquiries go to me or Cynthia directly, sealed and marked ‘Confidential.’ Or you can call or drop by. My clerk is Specialist Baker. Don’t discuss this case with anyone, not even the post provost marshal. If he asks you anything, refer him to me or Cynthia. And instruct your people to do the same. Okay?”

Cal nodded, then asked, “Not even Colonel Kent?”

“Not even the general.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“Let’s go look at the latrines, then your people can process the premises.”

“Okay.”

As we walked, Cynthia asked Cal, “When can you release the body to the coroner for autopsy?”

Cal scratched his bald head. “Well… I guess in about three hours.”

She said, “Why don’t you call the post hospital and get the coroner out here so he can examine the body in place? Then tell him we would appreciate an autopsy ASAP, even if he has to work late, and we’d like a preliminary coroner’s report sometime tonight. Tell him the general would appreciate it, too, and that the general and Mrs. Campbell would like to get on with the funeral arrangements.”

Cal nodded. “Okay.”

Cynthia seemed to be getting the hang of it. Obviously, I was teaching by example.

The three of us made our way past the bleachers, over an open stretch of thick grass that left no footprints, and into the tree line where two latrine sheds stood. Kent had cordoned off the area, and we stepped over the yellow crime scene tape. The older shed was marked “Male Personnel,” and the newer one “Female Personnel.” The word “personnel” may seem superfluous, but Army regulations prohibit brevity and common sense. We entered the latrine shed for male personnel, and I turned on the lights using my handkerchief.

The floor was concrete, the walls wooden, and there were screens where the wall met the ceiling. There were three sinks, three stalls, and three urinals, all fairly clean. I assumed that if a unit had fired the previous day, they would have finished no later than 1700 hours, and they would have assigned a latrine clean-up detail. In fact, the wastebaskets were empty and there was nothing floating in the commodes, and all the seats were in the upright position.

Cynthia drew my attention to one of the sinks. There were water spots and a small hair in the basin. I said to Cal, “Here’s something.”

He walked over and bent over the bowl. “Human, Caucasian, head.” He looked closer. “Fell out, maybe cut, but not pulled out. No root. Not much of a sample, but I may be able to get you a blood type, maybe the sex, but without the root I can’t get you a genetic marker.”

“How about the owner’s name?”

Cal was not amused. He surveyed the latrine and said, “I’ll give this next priority after we finish out there.”

“Open the sink traps, too.”

“Do I need to be told that?”

“I guess not.”

We went into the female latrine, which was as clean as its male counterpart. There were six stalls, and here, also, the toilet seats were all up, which was an Army regulation, despite the fact that women had to put them down. I said to Cal, “I want you to tell me if Captain Campbell used this latrine.”

He replied, “If nothing else, we may be able to find a trace of perspiration or body oil on the toilet seat, or skin cells in the sink trap. I’ll do my best.”

“And don’t forget fingerprints on and around the light switch.”

“Do you forget to breathe?”

“Once in a while.”

“I don’t forget anything.”

“Good.” We looked around, but there was no visible evidence that could be connected to the victim, to the crime scene, or to a perpetrator. But if you believe in the theory of transference and exchange, the place could be crawling with evidence.

We went out into the sunlight and walked back toward the road. I said to Cal, “Don’t get insulted, but I have to remind you to establish a proper chain of custody with the evidence, and label and document everything as if you were going to be cross-examined by a savage defense attorney who was only getting paid for a not-guilty verdict. Okay?”

“Don’t worry about it. Meantime, you get a suspect, and we’ll scrape his skin, and take his blood, and pull his hair, and get him to pop off inside a rubber like Cynthia here did with this guy the other day.”

“I hope there’s something here to compare to a suspect.”

“There’s always something. Where are her clothes, by the way?”

“Gone. She was wearing BDUs.”

“So’s everybody else. If I find BDU fibers, it means nothing.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Forensic’s not easy when everybody’s wearing the same clothes and boots.”

“True enough. Did you get disqualifying footprints from all the MPs on the scene?”

“Yeah.”

“Including Colonel Kent?”

“Yup.”

We got back to the road and stopped. Cynthia said, “Remember, Cal, the only pressure on you is from us. Nobody else counts.”

“I hear you.” He glanced back toward the body and offered, “She was very pretty. We have one of those recruiting posters of her in the lab.” He looked at Cynthia and me, and said, “Hey, good luck.”

Cynthia replied, “You, too.”

Cal Seiver turned and ambled off toward the body.

Cynthia and I got in her car and she asked, “Where to?”

“Jordan Field.”

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Speed, speed, speed. The older the case,the colder the trail. The colder the trail, theharder the case.

Transference and exchange. Officially, this relates to forensic evidence, bits and pieces of physical matter. But for the homicide investigator, it can relate to something almost metaphysical. By using offender profiles and analyses of violent crimes, you begin to know the murderer without having met him. By using victimology analysis and psychological autopsy, you begin to know more about the victim than what people are telling you. Eventually, you may guess at the relationship between the victim and the murderer and deduce that they knew each other, as is most often the case. Going on the theory that there was an emotional and psychological transfer and exchange between the deceased and the murderer, you can start narrowing the suspect list. On the other hand, I’d welcome a DNA marker and a fingerprint from Cal Seiver.

We headed north in the direction of the main post, but turned left at a sign that said, “Jordan Field.” I informed Cynthia, “Based on Cal’s findings with the tent pegs and rope, I don’t think you have to be staked out.”

She replied, “Karl is the typical armchair detective.”

“True.” Among Karl’s other annoying traits was his bad habit of coming up with bright ideas. He’d sit there in Falls Church and read lab reports, witnesses’ statements, and look at photos, then formulate theories and avenues of investigation. The men and women in the field love this. Karl fancies himself as some sort of European savant, and the fact that he’s batting zero doesn’t seem to bother him.

But Karl is a good commander. He runs a tight operation, kisses no ass, and stands up for his people. In this particular case, Colonel Karl Gustav Hellmann would undoubtedly be called to the Pentagon to report. Standing, perhaps, in the chief of staff’s office before the secretary of the Army, the head of the FBI, the judge advocate general, and other assorted brass and steely-eyed presidential flunkies, he would announce, “My best man, Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner, is on the case, and he tells me he needs no outside assistance, and he assures me he can successfully conclude this case within a matter of days. An arrest is imminent.” Right, Karl. Probably mine.

Cynthia glanced toward me. “You look a little pale.”

“Just tired.”

We approached Jordan Field, an Army installation that is part of Fort Hadley. Most of Hadley is an open post, and people come and go as they please, but Jordan Field is a security area, and we were stopped at the gate by an MP. The MP looked at Cynthia’s ID and asked, “Are you working on the murder case, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she replied. “This is my father.”

The MP smiled. “Hangar three, ma’am.”

Cynthia put the car in gear and we proceeded toward hangar three. Jordan Field was originally built by the now-defunct Army Air Corps in the 1930s and looks like a set for a World War II movie. It was too small to be taken over by the new Air Force after the war, but it is much bigger than the Army needs for its limited air arm, and, as a troop staging area, it is redundant and superfluous. In fact, if this whole military complex, including Hadley and Jordan, belonged to General Motors, half of it would be moved to Mexico and the other half closed. But the Army issues no P&L statements, and the end product, national defense, is somewhat of an abstract, like peace of mind, and therefore priceless. In reality, however, Hadley and Jordan are no more than government work projects for the local economy. What the war booms created, the peace dividend would maintain.

Sitting on the tarmac were two Huey helicopters and three Army artillery spotter planes. We proceeded to hangar three, in front of which was parked Kent’s staff car, and a blue and white Ford with police markings. In fact, a gold shield on the door of the police car was emblazoned with the words “Midland Police Chief.”

Cynthia said, “That will be Chief Yardley’s car. I worked with him once. Have you?”

“No, and I don’t intend to start now.”

We walked into the cavernous hangar, where I noticed, first, a white BMW 325 convertible, which I assumed was Ann Campbell’s car. At the far end of the hangar were Ann Campbell’s household effects, arranged, I assumed, in some sort of room-by-room order, with the ripped-up carpeting laid out according to the floor plan of the town house. As I got closer, I noticed her office furniture, as well. As we got even closer, I saw a long table covered with Polaroid photos of her house and office. There were a few MPs on the fringes of the layout, and there was Colonel Kent, and there was a man wearing a cowboy hat who looked like he could have been, and probably was, Police Chief Yardley. The man was big, bursting out of his tan poplin suit, and his face was red, leading me to wonder if he was sunburned, had high blood pressure, or was monumentally pissed-off.

Yardley and Kent were conversing and glancing toward Cynthia and me as we approached. Yardley finally turned and came toward me as I came toward him. He greeted me with these words: “You got a shitload of explaining to do, son.”

I thought not, and informed him, “If you’ve touched anything or come in contact with anything, I will need prints from you, and fibers from your clothing.”

Yardley stopped a foot from me and sort of stared for a long time, then laughed. “You son-of-a-bitch.” He turned to Kent. “You hear that?”

Kent forced a smile, but he was not happy.

I continued, “Please keep in mind that you are on a military reservation and that I have the sole responsibility for this case.”

Kent, a bit belatedly, said, “Chief Yardley, may I introduce Mr. Brenner and Ms. Sunhill.”

“You may,” replied Yardley, “but I’m not real delighted.”

Yardley, you may have guessed, had a rural Georgia accent that grates on my nerves in the best of circumstances. I can only imagine how my South Boston accent sounded to him.

Yardley turned to Cynthia, and, all southern charm now, he touched his cowboy hat. “I believe we’ve met, ma’am.”

I mean, was this guy out of central casting, or what? I asked Yardley, “Can you tell me what your official business is here?”

Again he smiled. I seemed to amuse him. He said, “Well, now, my official business is to ask you how all this stuff got here.”

Remembering Karl’s nearly intelligent advice and wanting this guy gone, I replied, “The deceased’s family asked that I take charge of these items and transport them here.”

He mulled that over a moment, then said, “Good thinkin’, son. You skunked me.”

“Thank you.” Actually, I liked this guy. I’m partial to assholes.

Yardley said, “Tell you what—you give me and the county lab access to this stuff, and we’ll call it even.”

“I’ll consider that after the CID lab is finished with it.”

“Don’t mess with me, son.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. Hey, how’s this sound—you let us in on this matter, and I’ll give you access to the deceased’s house, which we got all locked up and guarded now.”

“I don’t care about the house.” Except the basement. The guy had an ace he didn’t know about.

“Okay, I got some official files on the deceased.”

The deal was getting better, but I said, “I’ll subpoena your files if I have to.”

Yardley turned to Kent. “This is a horse trader.” He turned back to me. “I got things up here”—he tapped his head, which sounded hollow—“things that you can’t subpoena.”

“You knew the deceased?”

“Hell, yeah, boy. How ’bout you?”

“I didn’t have the pleasure.” Double entendre, perhaps.

“I know the old man, too. Hey, tell you what,” said Chief Yardley, using that annoying expression, “you come on down to my office and we’ll jawbone this one.”

Recalling how I had suckered poor Dalbert Elkins inside a cell, I replied, “If we do speak, we’ll do it in the provost marshal’s office.”

The mention of Kent’s title seemed to arouse him and he said, “We will all cooperate in the sharing of files, leads, and forensic reports.”

Cynthia spoke for the first time. “Chief, I understand your feeling that we’ve acted improperly, but don’t take that personally, or view it as a professional insult. If the victim had been almost anyone else, we would have asked you to join us at the house and conferred with you regarding the best way to proceed.”

Yardley was pursing his lips, as though he were contemplating this statement or was forming the word “bullshit.”

Cynthia continued, “We get just as upset when a soldier is arrested in town for some minor infraction that a local boy would get away with.”

Unless the local boy was black, of course. Don’t say it, Brenner.

“So,” Cynthia continued with sweet reason, “we will sit down at a mutually convenient time tomorrow and formulate a good working relationship.” And so on and so forth.

Yardley nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he replied, “Makes sense to me.” He said to Kent, “Thanks, Colonel. Call me at home tonight.” He turned to me and slapped me on the shoulder. “You skunked me, boy. I owe you one.” He strode away, across the long floor of the hangar, looking like a man who would be back.

After he exited the small personnel door, Kent said, “I told you he would be ripped.”

I replied, “Who cares?”

Kent replied, “I don’t want to get into a pissing match with this guy. The fact is, he can be very helpful. Half the military personnel live off post on his turf, and ninety percent of the civilian workers on post live in Midland. When we get a list of suspects, we’ll need Yardley.”

“Maybe. But I think every suspect will wind up on government land at some point. If not, we’ll kidnap them.”

Kent shook his head, which seemed to stir his brain, and he asked, “Hey, did you see the general yet?”

“No. Am I supposed to?”

“He wants to see you, ASAP. He’s home.”

“All right.” The bereaved have many things on their minds, but talking to the investigating officer is not usually one of them. But a general, I suppose, is another species of human being, and General Campbell, perhaps, had a need to make things happen, to show he was still in command. I said to Kent, “I just saw Cal Seiver, the forensic OIC. You met him?”

“Yes,” replied Kent. “He seems to have things under control. Has he come up with anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you?”

“I have a preliminary list of possible suspects.”

Kent looked almost startled. “Already? Who?”

“Well, you, for one.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, Brenner?”

“My suspects are everyone who had contact with the crime scene and/or the victim’s town house. Forensic will pick up traces, footprints, and fingerprints of those people, and I have no way of knowing if those traces were left before, during, or after the crime.” I added, “The preliminary suspects, then, are Sergeant St. John, PFC Casey, who responded to the call, you, any other MPs who were at the scene, Cynthia, and me. These are not likely suspects, but I have to deal with the forensic evidence.”

Kent said, “Then you’d better start getting alibis.”

“Okay. What’s yours?”

“All right… I was home in bed when I got a call from my duty sergeant.”

“You live on post, correct?”

“Correct.”

“What time did you get home?”

“At about midnight. I had dinner in town, then went to the office, worked late, then went home.”

“Your wife can verify that?”

“Well… no, she’s visiting her parents in Ohio.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, fuck off, Paul. Just fuck off.”

“Hey, take it easy, Colonel.”

“You know, you think you’re funny, but you’re not. There’s nothing funny about making a joke about murder and murder suspects.”

I looked at him and saw he was truly agitated.

He continued, “There’s going to be enough of that crap as it is. Enough rumors, whispering, finger-pointing, and suspicion. We don’t need you here making it worse.”

“All right,” I said, “I apologize. But I assumed that three law officers could speak their minds. Nothing we say is leaving this hangar, Bill, and if we speculate, or even make a few idiotic remarks, we understand that it’s between us. Okay?”

But he didn’t look mollified, and he snapped at me, “Where were you last night?”

I said, “Home alone in my trailer until about 0430 hours. Got to the post armory around 0500 hours. No witnesses.”

“A likely story,” snorted Kent, who seemed inordinately happy that I had no alibi. He turned to Cynthia, “And you?”

“I got to the VOQ about 1900 hours and wrote my report on the Neely case until about midnight, then went to bed, alone, and was awakened by an MP knocking on my door at about 0530 hours.”

I commented, “I’ve never heard three weaker alibis in my life. But, okay, we’ll let them stand for now. The point is, this post is like a small town, and the deceased’s circle of friends, family, and acquaintances includes the top echelons of this community.” I said to Kent, “You wanted somebody on this case who was an outsider. Correct?”

“That’s right. But don’t push it, Paul.”

“Why did you have an MP summon Ms. Sunhill?”

“Same reason I called you. Out-of-town talent.”

It occurred to me that out-of-town talent was another way of saying, “We want two investigators who don’t have a clue about the dirt that everyone here knows about.” I asked Kent, “How well did you know Ann Campbell?”

He hesitated a moment, then chose the words “Fairly well.”

“Would you expound?”

Clearly, Colonel Kent, who outranked me and was himself a cop, was not pleased. But he was a professional and therefore knew what was required of him. He forced a smile and said, “Should we read each other our rights?”

I smiled in return. This was awkward, but necessary.

He cleared his throat and said, “Captain Campbell was stationed here about two years ago. I was here at the time and so were General and Mrs. Campbell. The Campbells invited me to their home with a few other officers to meet their daughter. Our work areas were not related in the usual sense, but as a psychologist she was interested in criminal behavior, and I was interested in the criminal mind. It’s not unusual for a law enforcement officer and a psychologist to have common interests.”

“So you became friends?”

“Sort of.”

“Lunch?”

“Sometimes.”

“Dinner? Drinks?”

“Once in a while.”

“Alone?”

“Once or twice.”

“But you didn’t seem to know where she lived.”

“I knew she lived off post. But I’ve never been to her house.”

“Has she been to yours?”

“Yes. A number of times. For social functions.”

“Does your wife like her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You figure it out, Brenner.”

“Okay. I figured it out.” Cynthia had the good sense to not join in my interrogation of a high-ranking officer, so I turned to her. “Any questions for Colonel Kent?”

Cynthia replied, “Just the obvious one.” She looked at Kent.

He said, “I was never intimate with her. If I had been, I would have told you from minute one.”

“One hopes so,” I said. I asked him, “Did she have a steady boyfriend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did she have any known enemies?”

He thought about that, then replied, “Some women didn’t like her. I think they felt threatened. Some men didn’t like her. They felt…”

“Inadequate?” Cynthia prompted.

“Yes. Something like that. Or maybe she was a little cool with some of the younger, unmarried officers who had the hots for her. But as for real enemies, I don’t know of any.” He hesitated, then added, “Considering how she died, I think it was a lust murder. I mean, there are women who you might have healthy sexual or romantic fantasies about, but Ann Campbell, I think, provoked rape fantasies in some men. I think somebody just went for it. After the rape, the guy knew he was in a world of serious trouble. Maybe Ann taunted him, for all we know. I wouldn’t put it past her. The guy thought about life in Leavenworth and strangled her.” Kent looked at me and Cynthia. “A lot of guys are pulled around by the one-eyed, heat-seeking monster, and it leads them right to hell. I’ve seen too much of that on this job. So have you.”

True enough. But in this case, I was focusing more on the thing that the monster was seeking. I asked Kent, “Well, do you know if she dated? Was she sexually active?”

“I don’t know if she was sexually active. I only know one unmarried officer who dated her—Lieutenant Elby, one of the general’s aides—but she never discussed her private life with me, and her behavior never came to my attention professionally. On the other hand, you have to wonder what she did for fun.”

“What do you think she did for fun?”

“What I would do in her situation. Keep my professional life here separate from my social life in the civilian community.”

“What kind of files does Yardley have on her?”

“Well… I guess he means when she was arrested in Midland about a year ago. Before she was even booked, Yardley called me and I went downtown and picked her up.”

“So she did come to your attention professionally.”

“Sort of. This was unofficial. Yardley said there would be no file, no record of the arrest.”

“Obviously he lied. What was she arrested for?”

“Yardley said it was for disturbing the peace.”

“In what way did Ann Campbell disturb the peace of Midland?”

“She had an altercation with some guy on the street.”

“Any details?”

“No. Yardley wouldn’t say. Just said to get her home.”

“So you took her home.”

“No, I told you I don’t know where she lives, Brenner. Don’t try that shit with me. In fact, I took her back to post. That was at about 2300 hours. She was cold sober, by the way. So I took her for a drink at the O Club. She never told me what happened, and I didn’t ask. I called her a taxi and she left about midnight.”

“You don’t know the name of the man involved, or the arresting officer?”

“No. But I’m sure Yardley does. Ask him”—Kent smiled—“now that you have his full cooperation. Any other questions?”

Cynthia said to him, “How did you feel when you were informed that she was dead?”

“Stunned.”

“Sad?”

“Of course. And sad for General and Mrs. Campbell. And damned angry, and a little upset knowing it happened on my beat. I liked her, but we weren’t so close that I took it very badly. I’m more upset professionally.”

I commented, “I appreciate your honesty.”

“You’re going to appreciate it more when you start hearing the bullshit.”

“No doubt.” I asked him, “Any questions for me?”

He smiled. “What did you say the traveling time was between post and Whispering Pines?”

“Half an hour. Less in the early morning hours.”

He nodded, then surveyed the furniture and household goods in the hangar. “Look all right to you?”

“It’s okay. Good job. But get some portable partitions up, hang the pictures, and hang the clothes on poles where the closets were.” I asked him, “Did they get the stuff out of the basement?” I glanced at Cynthia.

Kent replied, “Yes. Over there, still in boxes. We’ll get some tables and shelves to simulate the basement area.” He thought a moment, then commented, “I would have thought there would be… something more here. Did you happen to notice, for instance, that there were no… personal items?”

“You mean like birth control items? Letters from men, photos of boyfriends, sexual aids and erotica?”

“Well, I don’t know if single women keep sexual aids… and I didn’t look closely for letters and such… I guess I meant birth control pills or devices.”

“Did you touch anything, Bill?”

“No.” He pulled a pair of surgical gloves out of his trouser pockets. “But I may have touched something bare-handed when I was supervising the unloading. Yardley touched a few things, too, by accident.”

“Or on purpose.”

Kent nodded. “Or on purpose. Add another suspect to the list.”

“I already have.” I walked over to where Ann Campbell’s office furniture had been placed. It was the sort of spartan stuff that the Army likes to buy on the one hand, while they lobby Congress for three-million-dollar tanks on the other.

The office consisted of a steel desk, a swivel chair, two folding chairs, a bookshelf, two upright file cabinets, and a computer station. The books on the shelves were all standard texts on psychology, plus military publications on the same subject, as well as on psychological operations, POW studies, and other related subjects.

I opened a file drawer and read the folder tabs, which seemed to refer to lecture notes. The next drawer was marked “Confidential,” so I opened it and saw that the folders were not named, but numbered. I drew out one of the folders and scanned the papers inside. The pages appeared to be a transcribed interview with a person identified only by the initials “R.J.” The interviewer was identified as “Q,” for question or questioner. It looked like a typical format for a psychological interview or session, but the person being interviewed, according to page one, was a convicted sex offender. The questions were things like “How did you pick your victim?” and “What did she say to you when you told her she had to perform oral sex on you?” I closed the file. This was pretty standard stuff in a police or prison psychologist’s office, but I didn’t see how it related to psychological warfare. Obviously, this was a private interest of Ann Campbell’s.

I closed the drawer and went to her computer station. I don’t even know how to turn these things on, but I said to Kent, “There is a woman in Falls Church, Grace Dixon, who squeezes the brains of personal computers. I’ll get her down here, and I don’t want anyone else messing with this thing.”

Cynthia had gone into the transplanted study and was looking at the answering machine. “There’s a call here.”

Kent nodded. “Came in about noon, a few minutes after the phone company got the call-forwarding in place.”

Cynthia pushed the play button and a male voice said, “Ann, this is Charles. I tried you earlier, but your phone was out of order. I knew you wouldn’t be at work this morning, but I want you to know that a group of MPs were here and they’ve removed your entire office. They wouldn’t tell me anything about it. Please call me, or meet me at the O Club for lunch or something. This is very strange. I’d call the police, but they are the police.” He chuckled, but it was forced. He continued, “I hope this is nothing serious. Call me.”

I asked Kent, “Who is that?”

“Colonel Charles Moore. Ann’s boss at the school.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Well, he’s a shrink, too, of course. Ph.D. type. An odd duck. Sort of on the fringes. That whole school is on the fringe. Sometimes I think they should put a fence around it, with guard towers.”

Cynthia asked Kent, “Were they friends?”

Kent nodded. “They seemed to be close. He was sort of her mentor, which doesn’t say a lot for her judgment. Excuse me.”

I said to him, “We don’t have to speak only well of the dead in a homicide investigation.”

“Yes, but that was out of line.” Kent rubbed his eyes. “I’m just a little… tired.”

Cynthia observed, “It’s been a stressful day for you. I don’t suppose it was pleasant informing the Campbells of their daughter’s death.”

“No. I called their home and got Mrs. Campbell. I asked her to call the general and requested that they meet me at their home.” He added, “She knew something had happened. I showed up with the head chaplain, Major Eames, and a medical officer, Captain Swick. When they saw us… I mean, how many times have we seen or been part of a notification detail? But when it’s a combat death, you can say the right things. When it’s murder, then… there’s not much to say.”

Cynthia asked, “How did they take it?”

“Bravely. That’s what you’d expect of a professional soldier and his wife. I only had to stay a few minutes, then I left them with the chaplain.”

I asked, “Were you at all explicit?”

“No. I just told them that Ann had been found on the rifle range, dead, apparently murdered.”

“And he said?”

“He said… ‘She died while doing her duty.’ ” Kent paused, then added, “I suppose that is comforting.”

“You didn’t go into details about her condition, the possible rape?”

“No… He did ask how she died, and I said she was apparently strangled.”

“And he said?”

“Nothing.”

“And you gave him my name and phone number?”

“Yes. Well, he asked if the CID was doing everything possible. I told him I’d taken advantage of your presence here, and Ms. Sunhill’s presence, and that I’d requested that you take the case.”

“And he said?”

“He said he wanted Major Bowes, the CID commander here, to take the case, and that you and Ms. Sunhill were relieved of your responsibility.”

“And you said?”

“I didn’t want to get into it with him, but he understands that this is one thing that he has no control of on this post.”

“Indeed not.”

Cynthia asked, “And how did Mrs. Campbell take it?”

Kent replied, “She was stoic, but about to fall apart. Appearances are important with general officers and their ladies, and they’re both from the old school.”

“All right, Bill. Forensic will be here after dark, and they’ll stay through the night. Tell your people here that no one else is allowed in, except us.”

“Right.” He added, “Don’t forget—the general would like to see you at his home, soonest.”

“Why?”

“Probably to get the details of his daughter’s death, and to ask you to brief Major Bowes, and to ask you to step aside.”

“Sounds good to me. I can do that over the phone.”

“Actually, I got a call from the Pentagon. The judge advocate general agrees with your boss that you and Ms. Sunhill, as outside parties and being more experienced than the local CID people at Hadley, are best equipped to handle this. That’s the final word. You can pass that on to General Campbell when you see him. And I suggest you do so now.”

“I’d rather speak to Charles Moore now.”

“Make an exception, Paul. Do the politics first.”

I looked at Cynthia and she nodded. I shrugged. “Okay. General and Mrs. Campbell.”

Kent walked with us across the hangar. He said, “You know, it’s ironic… Ann had a favorite expression, a sort of personal motto that she got from… some philosopher… Nietzsche.The expression was, ‘What does not destroy us, makes us stronger.’ ” He added, “Now she’s destroyed.”

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

We headed toward the general’s quarters on main post. Cynthia said, “I’m starting to see a picture of a tortured, unhappy young woman.”

“Adjust your rearview mirror.”

“Cut it out, Paul.”

“Sorry.”

I must have drifted off because the next thing I remember is Cynthia poking me. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. Cut it out.”

“I said, I think Colonel Kent knows more than he’s telling.”

I sat up and yawned. “One gets that impression. Can we stop for coffee someplace?”

“No. Tell me, is Kent really a suspect?”

“Well… in a theoretical sense. I didn’t like it that his wife was out of town and he had no corroboration for his alibi. Most married men, in the early morning hours, are in bed with their wives. When the wives are out of town, and something like this happens, you have to wonder if it was his bad luck or something else.”

“And Chief Yardley?”

“He’s not as stupid as he sounds, is he?”

“No,” confirmed Cynthia, “he is not. I worked a rape case with him about a year ago when I returned from Europe. The suspect was a soldier, but the victim was a Midland girl, so I had the pleasure of meeting Chief Yardley.”

“He knows his business?”

“He’s been at it a long time. As he pointed out to me then, officers and soldiers come and go from Hadley, but he’s been a Midland cop for thirty years, and he knows the territory, on and off post. He’s actually very charming when he wants to be, and he’s extremely cunning.”

“He also leaves his fingerprints in places where he suspects they might already be.”

“So did Kent. So did we.”

“Right. But I know I didn’t kill Ann Campbell. How about you?”

“I was sleeping,” Cynthia said coolly.

“Alone. Bad luck. You should have invited me up to your room. We’d both have an alibi.”

“I’d rather be a murder suspect.”

The road was long, straight, and narrow, a black slash between towering pines, and heat waves shimmered off the hot tar. “Does it get this hot in Iowa?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but it’s drier.”

“Did you ever think about going home?”

“Sometimes. How about you?”

“I get back fairly often. But there’s less there each time. South Boston is changing.”

“Iowa stays the same. But I’ve changed.”

“You’re young enough to get out and start a civilian career.”

“I like what I do,” she replied.

“Do it in Iowa. Join the county police force. They’d love to have your experience.”

“The last felon in the county was found dead of boredom ten years ago. There are ten men on the county police force. They’d want me to make coffee and screw for them.”

“Well, at least you make good coffee.”

“Fuck off, Paul.”

Score another zinger for me. As I said, it’s hard to hit on just the right tone and tint when speaking to someone you’ve seen naked, had sexual intercourse with, lain in bed with, and talked through the night with. You can’t be stiff and cold, as if it never happened, yet you can’t be too familiar because it’s not happening anymore. You watch your language and watch your hands. You don’t pinch the other person’s cheek, or pat their butt, though you may want to. But neither do you avoid a handshake, and I guess you can put your hand on the other person’s shoulder, or poke your finger in their stomach as Cynthia did to me. There really ought to be a manual for this kind of thing, or, lacking that, a law that says that exlovers may not come within a hundred yards of each other. Unless, of course, they’re trying to get it on again. I said to her, “I always had the feeling that we left things up in the air.”

She replied, “I always had the feeling that you chose to avoid a confrontation with my… my fiancé and walked away.” She added, “I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

“That’s ridiculous. The man threatened to kill me. Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Maybe. But sometimes you have to fight for what you want. If you want it. Weren’t you decorated for valor?”

I was getting a little annoyed now, of course, having my manhood questioned. I said, with some anger, “I received a Bronze Star for valor, Ms. Sunhill, for charging up a fucking hill that I didn’t particularly need or want. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to put on a show for your amusement.” I added, “Anyway, I don’t recall getting any encouragement from you.”

She replied, “I wasn’t quite sure which of you I wanted, so I thought I’d just go with whoever was left alive.”

I looked at her, and she gave me a glance, and I saw she was smiling. I said, “You’re not funny, Cynthia.”

“Sorry.” She patted my knee. “I love it when you get angry.”

I didn’t reply, and we rode in silence.

We entered the outskirts of the main post, and I saw the cluster of old concrete buildings with the sign that said, “U.S. Army Training School—Psy-Ops—Authorized Personnel Only.”

Cynthia commented, “Can we hit that place after we see the general?”

I looked at my watch. “We’ll try.” Speed, speed. Beyond the problems of cold trails, I had the feeling that the more time everyone in Washington and Fort Hadley had to think, the more likely they’d start screwing me up. Within seventy-two hours, this base would be knee-deep in FBI guys and CID brass trying to score points, not to mention the media, who, even now, were probably in Atlanta trying to figure out how to get here from there.

Cynthia asked me, “What are we going to do about the stuff in her basement?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we won’t need it. That’s what I’m counting on. Let it sit for a few days.”

“What if Yardley finds that room?”

“Then it’s his problem what to do with the information. We saw enough to get the idea.”

“The clue to her killer may be in that room.”

I stared out the side window and watched the post go by. After a minute, I said, “Here’s what’s in that room—enough compromising evidence to ruin careers and lives, including her parents’ lives, not to mention the deceased’s posthumous reputation. I don’t know that we need anything more from that room.”

“Is this Paul Brenner speaking?”

“It’s Paul Brenner the career Army officer speaking. Not Paul Brenner the cop.”

“Okay. I understand that. That’s good.”

“Sure.” I added, “I’d do the same for you.”

“Thanks. But I have nothing to hide.”

“Are you married?”

“None of your business.”

“Right.”

We arrived at the general’s official residence, called Beaumont, a huge brick plantation house complete with white columns. The house was set in a few acres of treed grounds on the eastern edge of the main post, an oasis of magnolias, stately oaks, flower beds and such, surrounded by a desert of military simplicity.

Beaumont is an antebellum relic, the former home of the Beaumont clan, who still exist in the county. Beaumont House escaped Sherman’s March to the Sea, being not in the direct path of the march, but it had been looted and vandalized by Yankee stragglers. The locals will tell you that all the women in the house had been raped, but, in fact, the local guidebook says the Beaumonts fled a few steps ahead of the Yankees.

The house was expropriated by the Union occupation forces for use as a headquarters, then at some point returned to the rightful owners, then, in 1916, sold along with the plantation acreage to the federal government, who designated it Camp Hadley. So, ironically, it is again Army property, and the cotton fields around the house have become the main post, while the remainder of the 100,000 wooded acres is the training area.

It’s hard to gauge how much of history impacts on the local population, but in these parts, I suspect the impact is greater than a kid from South Boston or an Iowa farm girl can fully understand. I deal with this as best I can and calculate it into my thinking. But in the end, when someone like me meets someone like Yardley, there is very little meeting of minds and souls.

We got out of the car and Cynthia said, “My knees are shaking.”

“Walk around the gardens. I’ll take care of this.”

“I’ll be all right.”

We climbed the steps to the columned porch and I rang the bell. A handsome young man in uniform answered. He was a lieutenant, and his name tag said Elby. I announced, “Warrant Officers Brenner and Sunhill to see General and Mrs. Campbell at the general’s request.”

“Oh, yes.” He looked over Cynthia’s informal attire, then stepped aside, and we entered. Elby said, “I’m the general’s personal aide. Colonel Fowler, the general’s adjutant, wishes to speak to you.”

“I’m here at the general’s request to see the general.”

“I know, Mr. Brenner. Please see Colonel Fowler first.”

Cynthia and I followed him into the large foyer decorated in the style and period of the house, but I suspected that this wasn’t original Beaumont stuff, but bits and pieces collected from the down-and-out minor gentry since the Army bought the place. Lieutenant Elby showed us into a small front room, a sort of official waiting room for callers with lots of seating and little else. The life of a plantation owner was, I’m certain, different from the life of a modern-day general, but what they had in common was callers, and lots of them. Tradesmen went around back, gentry were shown directly to the big sitting room, and callers on official business got as far as this room, until a decision could be made regarding their status.

Elby took his leave, and Cynthia and I remained standing. She said, “That was the young man who Colonel Kent said dated Ann Campbell. He’s quite good-looking.”

“He looks like a wimp and a bed wetter.”

Changing the subject, she asked me, “Did you ever want to be a general?”

“I’m just trying to hang on to my little warrant officer bar.”

She tried to smile, but was clearly nervous. I wasn’t exactly at ease, either. To break the tension, I fell back on an old Army expression. “Remember, a general puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you do.”

“I usually sit on the bed and pull my pants on both legs at once.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“Maybe we can just speak to the adjutant and leave.”

“The general will be very courteous. They all are.”

“I’m more nervous about meeting his wife. Maybe I should have changed.”

Why do I try to figure these people out?

Cynthia said, “This will hurt his career, won’t it?”

“Depends on the outcome. If we never find the killer, and no one ever finds that room, and if there’s not too much dirt dragged up, he’ll be all right. He gets the sympathy vote. But if it gets very messy, he’ll resign.”

“And that’s the end of his political ambitions.”

“I’m not sure he has any political ambitions.”

“The papers say he does.”

“That’s not my problem.” But, in fact, it could be. General Joseph Ian Campbell had been mentioned as a possible vice-presidential choice, and was also mentioned as a potential candidate for senator from his native state of Michigan, or as a candidate for governor of that state. Plus, his name had come up to succeed the present Army chief of staff, which meant a fourth star, or another possibility was an appointment as the president’s top military advisor.

This embarrassment of riches was a direct result of General Campbell’s service in the Persian Gulf War, prior to which no one had ever heard of him. As the memory of the war faded, however, so was his name fading from public consciousness. This was either a clever plan on the part of Joseph Campbell, or he honestly didn’t want any part of the nonsense.

How and why Fighting Joe Campbell got assigned to this backwater that the Army called Fort Hades and the GIs called Fort Hardly, was one of those mysteries of the Pentagon that only the connivers and plotters there could explain. But I had the sudden thought that the power brokers in the Pentagon knew that General Campbell had a loose cannon rolling around the ramparts, and the loose cannon was named Ann. Was that possible?

A tall man entered, wearing the Army-green dress uniform, type A with colonel’s eagles, the insignia of the Adjutant General Corps, and a name tag that said Fowler. He introduced himself as General Campbell’s adjutant. In the service, when in uniform, it is redundant to introduce yourself by name and rank, but people appreciate a short job description so they can ascertain if they have to work with you or ever see you again.

We shook hands all around, and Colonel Fowler said, “Indeed, the general wishes to see you, but I want to speak to you first. Won’t you have a seat?”

We all sat, and I regarded Colonel Fowler. He was a black man, and I could imagine the generations of former slaveowners who lived here spinning in their graves. Anyway, Fowler was extremely well groomed, well spoken, and carried himself with good military bearing. He seemed like the perfect adjutant, a job which is sort of like a combination of a personnel officer, senior advisor, a receiver and communicator of the general’s orders, and so forth. An adjutant is not like the deputy commander, who, like the vice-president of the United States, has no real job.

Fowler had long legs, which may seem irrelevant, but an adjutant has to do the adjutants’ walk, which means long strides between the general and his subordinates to relay orders and bring back reports. You’re not supposed to run, so you have to develop the adjutants’ walk, especially on a big parade ground where short stubby legs hold up the whole show. Anyway, Fowler was every inch the officer and the gentleman. Unlike some white officers who can get a little sloppy, like myself, the black officer, like the female officer, has something to prove. Interestingly, blacks and women still use the standards of the white officer as their ideal, though, in fact, that ideal and those standards were and are myths. But it keeps everybody on their toes, so it’s fine. The Army is fifty percent illusion, anyway.

Colonel Fowler said, “You may smoke if you wish. A drink?”

“No, sir,” I said.

Fowler tapped the arms of his chair for a few beats, then began. “This is certainly a tragedy for the general and Mrs. Campbell. We don’t want it to become a tragedy for the Army.”

“Yes, sir.” The less said, the better, of course. He wanted to talk.

He continued, “Captain Campbell’s death, occurring as it did on post—on this very post where her father is commander—and occurring in the manner it did, will certainly cause a sensation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think I have to tell either of you not to speak to the press.”

“Of course not.”

Fowler looked at Cynthia. “I understand you made an arrest in that other rape case. Do you think there’s a connection here? Could there be two of them? Or could you have gotten the wrong man in the other case?”

“No on all counts, Colonel.”

“But it is possible. Will you look into that?”

“No, Colonel. These are two different cases.”

Clearly, the general’s staff had met and some bright boy brought this up as a possibility, or as wishful thinking, or as the official story; i.e., there was a gang of young trainees running around, laying the pipe to unsuspecting female officers. I said to Colonel Fowler, “It doesn’t wash.”

He sort of shrugged and turned his attention back to me. “Well, do you have any suspects?”

“No, sir.”

“Any leads?”

“Not at the moment.”

“But you must have a theory or two, Mr. Brenner.”

“I do, Colonel. But they are only theories, and all of them would upset you.”

He leaned forward in his chair, obviously not pleased. “I’m only upset that a female officer has been raped and murdered and that the culprit is at large. Not much else about this case is going to upset me.”

Wanna bet? I said, “I’ve been told that the general wishes to relieve me and Ms. Sunhill from this case.”

“I believe that was his early reaction. But he’s spoken to some people in Washington, and he’s rethinking this. That’s why he wants to meet you and Ms. Sunhill.”

“I see. Sort of a job interview.”

“Perhaps.” He added, “Unless you don’t want this case. If you don’t, it will not reflect negatively in your records. In fact, a letter of commendation will be inserted into your files in recognition of your initial work on this case. And you would both be offered thirty days of administrative leave, to begin immediately.” He looked from me to Cynthia, then back to me. “Then there will be no reason to see the general, and you may both leave now.”

Not a bad deal if you thought about it. The idea was not to think about it. I replied, “My commanding officer, Colonel Hellmann, has assigned me and Ms. Sunhill to this case, and we have accepted the assignment. This is a closed issue, Colonel.”

He nodded. I couldn’t quite get a handle on Fowler. Behind the stiff façade of the adjutant was a very facile operator. He had to be in order to survive this job, which by almost any military standards sucked. But you’d never become a general until you’d served on a general’s staff, and clearly, Colonel Fowler was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from his first Silver Star.

Fowler seemed deep in thought, and there was a silence in the room. I, having said my piece, now had to wait for his reply. Higher-ranking officers had this unsettling habit of letting long silences pass, and the unwise junior officer would sometimes charge into the breach with an afterthought, then get clobbered with an icy stare or a reprimand. It was sort of like a trap play in football, or in war, and, although I didn’t know Colonel Fowler very well, I knew the type too well. The man was testing me, testing my nerve and resolve, perhaps to see if he was dealing with an overly enthusiastic asshole or someone as shrewd as himself. Cynthia, to her credit, let the silence drag on, too.

Finally, he said to me, “I know why Ms. Sunhill is here at Fort Hadley. But what brings a special unit CID investigator to our little outpost?”

“I was on undercover assignment. One of your armory NCOs was about to go into business for himself. You ought to tighten security at the armory, and you should know that I’ve saved you some embarrassment.” I added, “I’m sure the provost briefed you.”

“In fact, he did. Some weeks ago when you got here.”

“So you knew I was here.”

“Yes, but not why you were here.”

“Why do you suppose Colonel Kent asked me to take this case in light of the fact that no one else here wants me to take it?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “To be honest with you, Colonel Kent is not fond of the local CID commander, Major Bowes. In any case, your people at Falls Church would have put you on it immediately. Colonel Kent did what he thought was best for everyone.”

“Including Colonel Kent. What is the problem between Colonel Kent and Major Bowes?”

He shrugged. “Probably just jurisdictional. Turf.”

“Not personal?”

“I don’t know. Ask them.”

“I will.” In the meantime, I asked Colonel Fowler, “Did you know Captain Campbell personally?”

He looked at me a moment, then replied, “Yes. In fact, the general has asked me to give the eulogy at her funeral.”

“I see. Were you with General Campbell prior to this assignment?”

“Yes, I’ve been with General Campbell since he was an armored division commander in Germany. We served together in the Gulf, then here.”

“Did he request this assignment?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“I assume you knew Ann Campbell before Fort Hadley?”

“Yes.”

“Could you give me an idea of the nature of your relationship?” How was that for smooth?

Fowler leaned forward in his chair and looked me in the eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Brenner. Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I hope not, Colonel.”

He laughed, then stood. “Well, you both come to my office tomorrow and you can fire away. Call for an appointment. Follow me, please.”

We followed Colonel Fowler back into the central foyer, then toward the rear of the mansion, where we came to a closed door. Colonel Fowler said to us, “No need to salute, quick condolences, you’ll be asked to take a seat. Mrs. Campbell will not be present. She’s under sedation. Please keep this short. Five minutes.” He knocked on the door, opened it, and stepped inside, announcing us as Warrant Officers Brenner and Sunhill of the CID. Sounded like a TV series.

Cynthia and I followed and found ourselves in a sort of den of highly polished wood, leather, and brass. The room was dark, the drapes drawn, and the only light came from a green-shaded desk lamp. Behind the desk stood Lieutenant General Joseph Campbell, in a dress-green uniform with a chest full of medals. The first thing you noticed about him was that he was huge, not only tall but big-boned, like the Scottish clan chiefs from which he must have descended, and on this occasion I also noticed the unmistakable smell of Scotch whisky in the room.

General Campbell extended his hand to Cynthia, who took it and said to him, “My deepest condolences, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I took his hand, which was huge, passed on my condolences, and added, “I’m very sorry to have to bother you at a time like this,” as though this meeting had been my idea.

“Not at all.” He sat and said, “Please be seated.”

We sat in leather chairs facing his desk. I regarded his face in the shaded light. He had a full head of blondish-gray hair, bright blue eyes, craggy features, and a good jaw with a cleft chin. A handsome man, but aside from the eyes, Ann Campbell’s beauty must have come from her mother.

With a general, one never speaks until spoken to, but the general wasn’t speaking. He stared off, between Cynthia and me, at some point behind us. He nodded, I suppose to Fowler, and I heard the door close behind us, as Colonel Fowler departed.

General Campbell now looked at Cynthia, then at me, and addressed us both in a quiet voice, which I knew, from radio and television, was not his normal speaking voice. He said, “I take it that you two wish to remain on this assignment.”

We both nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

He looked at me. “Can I convince you that everyone would be better served if you turn this matter over to Major Bowes here at Fort Hadley?”

“I’m sorry, General,” I responded. “This matter transcends Fort Hadley and transcends your personal grief. None of us can change that.”

General Campbell nodded. “Then I will give you my full cooperation and promise you the cooperation of everyone here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

“No, sir.” Do you?

“Do I have both your assurances that you will work quickly and that you will work with us to minimize the sensational aspects of this incident and that you will do more good than harm here?”

I replied, “I assure you that our only objective is to make an arrest as soon as possible.”

Cynthia added, “We have taken steps, General, from the very beginning to minimize outside involvement. We have transported the entire contents of Captain Campbell’s home to this post. Chief of Police Yardley seems upset about that, and I suspect he will contact you in that regard. If you would be so kind as to tell him you authorized this before it happened, we would be very appreciative. Regarding minimizing sensationalism and harm to the post and the Army, a word from you to Chief Yardley would go a long way in achieving that goal.”

General Campbell looked at Cynthia for a few long seconds. Undoubtedly, he could not look at a young, attractive woman of that age without thinking of his daughter. What he was thinking of his daughter is what I didn’t know. He said to Cynthia, “Consider it done.”

“Thank you, General.”

I said, “It is my understanding, General, that you were supposed to see your daughter this morning after she got off duty.”

He replied, “Yes… we were to have breakfast. When she didn’t arrive, I called Colonel Fowler at headquarters, but he said she wasn’t there. I believe he called her home.”

“About what time was that, sir?”

“I’m not certain. She was due at my house at 0700. I probably called headquarters at about 0730.”

I didn’t pursue this but said to him, “General, we appreciate your offer of full cooperation and will take you up on it. At your first available opportunity, I’d like to conduct a more detailed interview with you, and with Mrs. Campbell. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid we have to make funeral arrangements tomorrow and attend to other personal business. The day after the funeral may be convenient.”

“Thank you.” I added, “The family often has information that, without realizing it, can be critical in resolving a case.”

“I understand.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Do you think… was this someone she may have known?”

“It’s quite possible,” I replied, and our eyes met.

He kept good eye contact and said to me, “I have that feeling, too.”

I asked him, “Has anyone, aside from Colonel Kent, spoken to you about the circumstances of your daughter’s death?”

“No. Well, Colonel Fowler did. He briefed me.”

“About the possible rape, and how she was found?”

“That’s correct.”

There was a long silence, and I knew from past experience with general officers that he was not waiting for me to speak, but that the interview was over. I said, “Is there anything we can do for you at this time?”

“No… just find the son-of-a-bitch.” He stood and pressed a button on his desk, then said, “Thank you for your time.”

Cynthia and I stood, and I said, “Thank you, General.” I shook his hand. “And, again, my deepest sympathy to you and your family.”

He took Cynthia’s hand, and perhaps it was my imagination, but he seemed to hold it a long time and he looked into her eyes. Then he said, “I know you’ll do your very best. My daughter would have liked you. She liked self-assured women.”

“Thank you, General,” Cynthia replied. “You have my promise I’ll do my best, and again, my deepest condolences.”

The door behind us opened, and Colonel Fowler escorted us out, through the central hallway and toward the front door. He said to me, “I understand that you have special arrest powers. But I’m going to ask that before you arrest anyone, you notify me.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he replied a bit sharply, “we don’t like our personnel being arrested by outside people without our knowing about it.”

“It happens fairly often,” I informed him. “In fact, as you may know, I just threw the armory sergeant in jail a few hours ago. But if you wish, I’ll notify you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brenner.” He added, “As always, there are three ways of doing things—the right way, the wrong way, and the Army way. I have the feeling you’re trying to do it the right way, which is the wrong way, Mr. Brenner.”

“I know that, Colonel.”

He looked at Cynthia and said, “If you change your mind about thirty days’ free leave, let me know. If you don’t, please keep in touch with me. Mr. Brenner appears to be the type of man who gets so immersed in his work that he could forget the protocols.”

“Yes, sir,” Cynthia replied. “And please try to get us an early appointment with General and Mrs. Campbell. We’ll need at least an hour. Also, please call us at the provost marshal’s office if you think of anything significant.”

He opened the door and we stepped outside. Before he closed it, I turned and said to him, “By the way, we heard your message to Captain Campbell on her answering machine.”

“Oh, yes. It seems a bit silly now.”

“What time did you make that call, Colonel?”

“About 0800 hours. The General and Mrs. Campbell expected their daughter at about 0700 hours.”

“Where did you make the call from, sir?”

“I was at work—at Post Headquarters.”

“Did you look around Post Headquarters to see if Captain Campbell was delayed on duty?”

“No… I just assumed she forgot and went home.” He added, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I see. Did you look to see if her car was in the headquarters’ parking lot?”

“No… I suppose I should have.”

I asked him, “Who briefed you regarding the details of Captain Campbell’s death?”

“I spoke to the provost marshal.”

“And he told you how she was found?”

“That’s correct.”

“So you and General Campbell know that she was tied, strangled, and sexually assaulted?”

“Yes. Is there something else we should know?”

“No, sir.” I asked him, “Where can I contact you during off-duty hours?”

“I live in officer housing on post. Bethany Hill. Do you know where that is?”

“I believe so. South of here, on the way to the rifle ranges.”

“That’s right. My phone number is in the post directory.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Good day, Mr. Brenner, Ms. Sunhill.”

He closed the door, and Cynthia and I walked toward her car. She asked me, “What did you think of Colonel Fowler?”

“Not as much as Colonel Fowler thinks of himself.”

“He actually has an imposing presence. Some of it is just spit-shined staff pompousness, but I suspect he’s as cool, smooth, and efficient as he looks.”

“That doesn’t do us any good. His loyalty is to the general, and only the general. His fate and the general’s are intertwined, and his Silver Star rises only when the general’s career is on course.”

“In other words, he’ll lie to protect the general.”

“In a heartbeat. In fact, he lied about his call to Ann Campbell’s house. We were there before 0800, and the message was already on her answering machine.”

Cynthia nodded. “I know. There’s something not right about that call.”

“Add a suspect,” I said.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Cynthia asked, “Psy-Ops School?”

It was five-fifty P.M. on my civilian watch, and a new Happy Hour was about to begin. “No, drop me off at the O Club.”

We headed out toward the Officers’ Club, which is set on a hill, away from the activities of the post, but close enough to be convenient.

Cynthia inquired, “How are we doing so far?”

“Do you mean personally or professionally?”

“Both.”

“Well, professionally, I’m doing a hell of a job. How about you?”

“I’m asking you.”

“So far, so good. You’re a pro. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you. And personally?”

“Personally, I enjoy your company.”

“And I enjoy yours.”

After a few seconds of pregnant silence, she changed the subject and asked me, “How did General Campbell seem to you?”

I thought a moment. It’s important to gauge the reaction of friends, family, and coworkers to the news of a death as soon after the death as possible. I’ve solved more than one homicide case just by determining who didn’t act right and following up on that. I said to Cynthia, “He did not have that look of total desolation and inconsolable grief that a parent has on learning of the death of a child. On the other hand, he is who he is.”

She asked, “But who is he?”

“A soldier, a hero, a leader. The higher up the power ladder you go, the more distant the individual becomes.”

“Maybe.” She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Taking into account how Ann Campbell died… I mean, how she was found… I certainly don’t think her father was the killer.”

“We don’t know that she died where she was found, or if she died with her clothes on or off. Things are not always as they seem. With a clever killer, you only see what the killer wants you to see.”

“Still, Paul, I can’t believe he would strangle his own daughter.”

“It’s not common, but it’s not unheard of, either.” I added, “If she were my daughter, and I knew about her sexual antics, I might be enraged.”

“But you wouldn’t fly into a homicidal rage with your own daughter.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But you never know. I’m just identifying motives.”

We pulled up to the Officers’ Club, which, as I said, is a Spanish-style stucco building. This was apparently a popular style in the 1920s when this club and other permanent structures were built after Camp Hadley became Fort Hadley. The war to end all wars had been won, but somewhere in the back of a bunch of collective minds must have been the thought that there was a need for a large standing Army for the next war to end all wars, and I had the pessimistic thought that the current reduction in force was just a temporary state of affairs.

I opened the car door and said to Cynthia, “You’re not dressed for the club or I’d invite you to dinner.”

“Well… I’ll change, if you’d like. Unless you’d rather dine alone.”

“I’ll meet you in the grill.” I got out of the car and she drove off.

I went into the club as retreat was being sounded over the PA system. I found the secretary’s office, showed my CID badge, and commandeered the telephone and post directory. Colonel Charles Moore had no post housing listing, so I called the Psy-Ops School. It was a little after six, but the nice thing about the Army is that there’s usually somebody on duty somewhere. We never sleep. A duty sergeant answered and connected me to Colonel Charles Moore’s office. “Psy-Ops, Colonel Moore speaking.”

“Colonel Moore, this is Warrant Officer Brenner. I’m with the Army Times.”

“Oh…”

“Regarding the death of Captain Campbell.”

“Yes… oh, God, how awful… just tragic.”

“Yes, sir. Could I trouble you for a few words?”

“Of course. Well… I was Captain Campbell’s commanding officer—”

“Yes, sir. I know that. Colonel, would it be convenient for you to meet me at the O Club now? I won’t keep you more than ten minutes.” Unless you interest me, Colonel.

“Well…”

“I have a deadline in about two hours, and I’d like to get at least a few words from her commanding officer.”

“Of course. Where—?”

“The grill. I’m wearing a blue suit. Thank you, Colonel.” I hung up. Most Americans know that they don’t have to speak to the police if they choose not to, but somehow they think that they have an obligation to speak to the press. Be that as it may, I’d spent the better part of the day as Paul Brenner, CID, and the need to be deceitful was more than I could bear.

I pulled the Midland telephone directory toward me and located a Charles Moore in the same garden apartment complex where Ann Campbell had lived. In and of itself, this was not unusual, though Victory Gardens was not where a colonel would normally choose to live. But maybe he had debts, or maybe, as a shrink, he didn’t care if he bumped into lieutenants and captains in the parking lot. Or maybe he wanted to be near Ann Campbell.

I jotted down his address and phone number, then called the VOQ and reached Cynthia just as she got into her room. “Colonel Moore is meeting us. We’re from the Army Times. Also, see if you can get me a room there. I can’t go back to Whispering Pines with Chief Yardley on the prowl. Stop at the PX and pick me up a toothbrush, razor, and all that. Also, jockey shorts, medium, and socks. Maybe a fresh shirt, too, size fifteen collar, and be sure to bring walking shoes for yourself for later when we go out to the rifle range, and a flashlight. Okay? Cynthia? Hello?”

Bad connection, I guess. I hung up and went downstairs to the grill room, which is not as formal as the main dining room, and where you can get immediate sustenance. I ordered a beer from the bar and dined on potato chips and bar nuts while I listened to the conversations around me. The subject was Ann Campbell, and the tone of the conversation was cautious and muted. This was, after all, the Officers’ Club. The subject in the Midland bars would be the same, but there would be more opinions expressed.

I saw a middle-aged man in dress greens with colonel’s eagles enter the grill, and he scanned the big open basement room. I watched him for a full minute, noting that no one waved or said hello to him. Obviously, Colonel Moore was not well known or perhaps not well liked. I stood and approached him. He saw me and smiled tentatively. “Mr. Brenner?”

“Yes, sir.” We shook hands. Colonel Moore’s uniform was wrinkled and badly tailored, the true sign of an officer in one of the specialized branches. “Thank you for coming,” I said. Colonel Moore was about fifty, had black curly hair that was a bit too long, and an air about him that suggested a civilian shrink called to active duty the day before. Army doctors, Army lawyers, Army shrinks, and Army dentists always intrigue me. I can never determine if they’re on the run from a malpractice suit or if they’re simply dedicated patriots. I led him to a table in the far corner, and we sat. “Drink?”

“Yes.”

I signaled a waitress, and Colonel Moore ordered a glass of cream sherry. We were off to a bad start already.

Moore stared at me as though trying to guess my mental disorder. Not wanting to disappoint him, I volunteered, “Sounds like she got nailed by a psycho. Maybe a serial murderer.”

True to his profession, he turned the statement back on me and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Just a wild guess.”

He informed me, “There have been no similar rapes and murders in this area.”

“Similar to what?”

“To what happened to Captain Campbell.”

Exactly what happened to Captain Campbell should not have been general knowledge at this point, but the Army thrives on rumor and hearsay. So, what Colonel Moore knew and Colonel Fowler knew and General Campbell knew, and when they knew it and how they knew it, was anyone’s guess at this point in the day. I asked, “What did happen to her?”

He replied, “She was raped and murdered, of course. Out on the rifle range.”

I took out my notebook and sipped on my beer. “I just got called in from D.C., and I don’t have much information. I heard she was found naked, tied up.”

He considered his response, then said, “You’d better check with the MPs on that.”

“Right. How long were you her commanding officer?”

“Since she got here at Fort Hadley, about two years ago.”

“So you knew her fairly well?”

“Yes. It’s a small school. There are only about twenty officers and thirty enlisted men and women assigned.”

“I see. How did you feel when you heard the news?”

He said to me, “I’m in total shock over this. I still can’t believe this happened.” And so forth. He actually looked all right to me despite the total shock. I work with psychologists and psychiatrists now and then, and I know they tend toward inappropriate behavior while saying appropriate things. Also, I believe that certain professions attract certain types of personalities. This is especially true in the military. Infantry officers, for instance, tend to be somewhat aloof, a bit arrogant, and self-assured. CID people are deceitful, sarcastic, and extremely bright. Your average shrink has chosen a life that is involved with troubled minds, and it might be a cliché, but a lot of them have gone around the bend themselves. In the case of Charles Moore, psychological warfare specialist, who tried to make healthy enemy minds into troubled enemy minds, you had the equivalent of a physician cultivating typhus germs for the biological warfare people.

So, anyway, as we spoke, Charles Moore seemed to me not completely well. He seemed distant for short periods of time, then he’d stare at me at inappropriate times as though trying to read something in my face or read my mind. The guy actually made me uneasy, and that takes a lot of doing. Besides being slightly weird, his eyes were a bit sinister—very dark, very deep, and very penetrating. Also, his voice had that slow, deep, pseudo-soothing tone that they must teach at shrink school.

I asked him, “Did you know Captain Campbell prior to this assignment?”

“Yes. I first met her about six years ago when she attended the functional area school at Fort Bragg. I was her instructor.”

“She had just completed her master’s in psychology at Georgetown,”

He looked at me the way people look at you when you say something they didn’t think you knew. He replied, “Yes, I believe so.”

“And were you together at Bragg while she was with the Psy-Ops Group?”

“I was at the school—she was working at her trade with the Fourth Psy-Ops.”

“Then what?”

“Germany. We were there at about the same time. Then we returned to the JFK School at Bragg, and we both instructed for a while, then we were assigned on the same orders to the Gulf, then to the Pentagon, briefly, and two years ago we came here to Fort Hadley. Is all this necessary?”

“What do you do at Fort Hadley, Colonel?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Ah.” I nodded as I scribbled. It is not common for two people to share so many assignments, even in a specialized area like psychological operations. I know married military couples who have not been so lucky. Take poor Cynthia, for example, who, though not married to that Special Forces guy at the time, was engaged to him, and there she was in Brussels while he was in the Canal Zone. I said to Colonel Moore, “You had a good professional relationship.”

“Yes. Captain Campbell was extremely motivated, bright, articulate, and trustworthy.”

That sounded like what he put on her officer evaluation report every six months. Clearly, they were a team. I asked him, “Was she sort of your protégé?”

He stared at me as though my use of one French word might lead to or suggest another French word like, perhaps, paramour, or some other dirty foreign word. He replied, “She was my subordinate.”

“Right.” I wrote that down under the heading Bullshit. I found that I was annoyed that this geek had been around the world with Ann Campbell and had shared so many years with her. How’s that for nuts? I had half a mind to say to him, “Look here, Moore, you shouldn’t even be on the same planet with this goddess. I’m the one who could have made her happy. You’re a sick little freak.” Instead, I said to him, “And do you know her father?”

“Yes. But not well.”

“Had you met him prior to Fort Hadley?”

“Yes. Now and then. We saw him a few times in the Gulf.”

“We?”

“Ann and I.”

“Ah.” I wrote that down.

I asked him a few more questions, but clearly neither of us was getting anything interesting out of this. What I wanted from this meeting was to get an impression of him before he knew whom he was talking to. Once they know you’re a cop, they go into an act. On the other hand, Army Times reporters can’t ask questions like “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?” But cops can, so I asked him, “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”

He stood. “What the hell kind of question is that? I’m going to make an official complaint—”

I held up my badge case. “CID, Colonel. Have a seat.”

He stared at the badge a second, then at me, and those eyes shot red death rays at me, zip, zip, like in a bad horror flick.

I said again, “Sit down, Colonel.”

He looked furtively around the half-filled room, sort of like he was wondering if he was surrounded or something. Finally, he sat.

There are colonels, and then there are colonels. Theoretically, the rank transcends the man or woman wearing it, and you pay respect to the rank, if not the person. In reality, this is not so. Colonel Fowler, for instance, had the power and the authority, and you had to be careful with him. Colonel Moore was not connected to any power structure that I knew about. I said to him, “I am investigating the murder of Captain Campbell. You are not a suspect in this case, and I am not going to read you your rights. Therefore, you will answer my questions truthfully and fully. Okay?”

“You have no right to pass yourself off as—”

“Let me worry about my split personality. Okay? First question—”

“I refuse to speak to you without an attorney present.”

“I think you’ve seen too many civilian movies. You have no right to an attorney and no right to remain silent unless you are a suspect. If you refuse to cooperate voluntarily, then I will consider you a suspect and read you your rights and take you down to the provost marshal’s office and announce that I have a suspect who requires an attorney. You are in what is called a military bind. So?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I have absolutely nothing to hide, and I resent your having put me in a defensive position like this.”

“Right. First question. When was the last time you saw Captain Campbell?”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his attitude, then replied, “I last saw her yesterday at about 1630 hours in my office. She said she was going to go to the club to get something to eat, then report for duty.”

“Why did she volunteer for duty officer last night?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did she call you from Post Headquarters during the evening, or did you call her?”

“Well… let me think…”

“All phone calls on post can be traced, and there is a duty officer’s log.” In fact, intra-post calls could not be traced, and Captain Campbell would not have logged any incoming or outgoing calls of a personal nature.

Moore replied, “Yes, I did call her…”

“What time?”

“About 2300 hours.”

“Why so late?”

“Well, we had some work to discuss for the next day, and I knew things would be quiet by that hour.”

“Where were you calling from?”

“From my home.”

“Where is that?”

“Off post. Victory Drive.”

“Isn’t that where the deceased lived?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to her house?”

“Of course. Many times.”

I tried to imagine what this guy looked like naked with his back to the camera, or with a leather mask on. I wondered if the forensic lab had an official pecker checker, some man (or woman) who could compare a blow-up photo of a pecker with this guy’s equipment. Anyway, I asked him, “Were you ever sexually involved with her?”

“No. But you can be sure you’ll hear rumors. Rumors have followed us wherever—”

“Are you married?”

“I was. Divorced about seven years ago.”

“Do you date?”

“Occasionally.”

“Did you find Ann Campbell attractive?”

“Well… I admired her mind.”

“Did you ever notice her body?”

“I don’t like this line of questioning.”

“Neither do I. Did you find her sexually attractive?”

“I was her superior officer, I am almost twenty years older than she, she is a general’s daughter. I never once said anything to her that could be construed as sexual harassment.”

“I’m not investigating a charge of sexual harassment, Colonel. I’m investigating a rape and murder.” I said to him, “Then why were there rumors?”

“Because people have dirty minds. Even Army officers.” He smiled. “Like yourself.”

On that note, I ordered two more drinks; another sherry to loosen him up, a beer to calm my impulse to deck him.

Cynthia arrived, wearing black pants and a white blouse. I introduced her to Colonel Moore, then said to her, “We’re not with the Army Times anymore. We’re CID. I was asking Colonel Moore if he was ever sexually involved with the deceased, and he assures me he wasn’t. We’re in a confrontational mode at the moment.”

Cynthia smiled and said to Moore, “Mr. Brenner is extremely tense and tired.” She sat and we all chatted for a few minutes as I brought Cynthia up to date. Cynthia ordered a bourbon and Coke and a club sandwich for herself and a cheeseburger for me. She knows I like cheeseburgers. Colonel Moore declined to dine with us, explaining that he was still too upset to eat. Cynthia asked him, “As her friend, did you know anyone who she might have been involved with?”

“You mean sexually?”

“I believe that’s the subject on the table,” she replied.

“Well… let me think… She was seeing a young man… a civilian. She rarely dated soldiers.”

“Who was the civilian?” Cynthia asked.

“A fellow named Wes Yardley.”

“Yardley? Chief of Police Yardley?”

“No, no. Wes Yardley, one of Burt Yardley’s sons.”

Cynthia glanced at me, then asked Moore, “How long were they seeing each other?”

“On and off since she arrived here. They had a stormy relationship. In fact, without pointing fingers, there’s a man you should speak to.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, it’s obvious. They were involved. They fought like cats and dogs.”

“About what?”

“About… well, she mentioned to me that he treated her badly.”

This sort of took me by surprise. I said to Moore, “He treated her badly?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t call, he went out with other women, he saw her when it suited him.”

This wasn’t computing. If I was in love with Ann Campbell, why wasn’t every other man following her around like a puppy dog? I said to Moore, “Why would she put up with that? I mean, she was… desirable, attractive…” Incredibly beautiful, sexy, and she had a body you could die for. Or kill for.

Moore smiled, almost knowingly, I thought. This guy made me uncomfortable. He said, “There is a type of personality—I’ll put this in layman’s terms: Ann Campbell liked the bad boys. Whoever showed her the slightest bit of attention, she considered weak and contemptible. That included most men. She was drawn to men who treated her badly, almost abusive men. Wes Yardley is such a man. He’s a Midland policeman like his father, he is a local playboy and has many women friends, he’s good-looking, I suppose, and has some of the charm of a southern gentleman and all of the macho posturing of a good ol’ boy. Rogue or scoundrel might be good words to describe him.”

I was still having trouble with this, and I said, “And Ann Campbell was involved with him for two years?”

“On and off.”

Cynthia said, “She discussed all of this with you?”

“Yes.”

“Professionally?”

He nodded at her astuteness. “Yes, I was her therapist.”

I was not as astute, perhaps because my mind was unsettled. I was extremely disappointed in Ann Campbell. The playroom and the photos didn’t upset me, perhaps because I knew that these men were just objects and she used them as such. But the idea of a boyfriend, a lover, someone who abused her, a relative of Burt Yardley at that, really pissed me off.

Cynthia said to Moore, “You know just about everything there is to know about her.”

“I believe so.”

“Then we’ll ask you to help us with the psychological autopsy.”

“Help you? You couldn’t even scratch the surface, Ms. Sunhill.”

I composed myself and said to him, “I’ll need all your notes and transcripts of all your sessions with her.”

“I never took a single note. That was our arrangement.”

Cynthia said, “But you will assist us?”

“Why? She’s dead.”

Cynthia replied, “Sometimes a psychological autopsy helps us develop a psychological profile of the killer. I assume you know that.”

“I’ve heard of it. I know very little about criminal psychology. If you want my opinion, it’s mostly nonsense, anyway. We’re all criminally insane, but most of us have good control mechanisms, internal and external. Remove the controls and you have a killer. I’ve seen well-adjusted men in Vietnam kill babies.”

No one spoke for a while, and we just sat there with our own thoughts.

Finally, Cynthia said, “But we expect you, as her confidant, to tell us everything you know about her, her friends, her enemies, her mind.”

“I suppose I have no choice.”

“No, you don’t,” Cynthia assured him. “But we’d like your cooperation to be voluntary, if not enthusiastic. You do want to see her killer brought to justice.”

“I’d like to see her killer found because I’m curious about who it may be. As for justice, I’m fairly certain that the killer thought he was administering justice.”

Cynthia asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, when a woman like Ann Campbell is raped and murdered almost under her father’s nose, you can be certain that someone had it in for her, her father, or both, and probably for a good reason. At least good in his own mind.” He stood. “This is very upsetting for me. I feel a strong sense of loss. I’m going to miss her company. So if you’ll excuse me…”

Cynthia and I stood also. He was a colonel, after all. I said, “I’d like to speak to you tomorrow. Please keep your day loose, Colonel. You interest me.”

He left and we sat down.

The food came and I picked at my cheeseburger. Cynthia said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“I think Ann Campbell’s choice of lovers has upset you. You kind of went into a funk when he said that.”

I looked at her. “They say never get emotionally involved with witnesses, suspects, or victims. But sometimes you can’t help it.”

“I always get emotionally involved with rape victims. But they’re alive and hurting. Ann Campbell is dead.”

I didn’t respond to that.

Cynthia continued, “I hate to say this, but I know the type. She probably took sadistic delight in mentally torturing men who couldn’t keep their eyes or minds off her good looks, then she masochistically gave herself to a man who she knew was going to treat her like dirt. Most likely, on some dim level, Wes Yardley knew his part and played it well. Most probably, she was sexually jealous of his other women, and, most probably, he was indifferent to her threats to find another boyfriend. They had a good relationship within the unhealthy world they created. Wes Yardley is probably the least likely suspect.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Well… I haven’t been there myself, but I know lots of women who have. I see too many of them.”

“Really?”

“Really. You know men like that, too.”

“Probably.”

“You’re showing classical symptoms of fatigue. You’re getting dull and stupid. Go get some sleep and I’ll wake you later.”

“I’m fine. Did you get me a room?”

“Yes.” She opened her purse. “Here’s the key. The stuff you asked for is in my car, which is open.”

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll put it on my expense account. Karl will get a laugh out of the men’s underwear.” She added, “You can walk to the VOQ from here, unless you want to borrow my car.”

“Neither. Let’s go to the provost marshal’s office.” I stood.

“You could use a little freshening up, Paul.”

“You mean I stink?”

“Even a cool guy like you sweats in Georgia in August.”

“All right. Put this stuff on my tab.”

“Thanks.”

“Wake me at 2100.”

“Sure.”

I walked a few paces from the table, then came back and said, “If she didn’t have anything to do with the officers on post, and she was crazy over this Midland cop, who were those guys in the photos?”

Cynthia looked up from her sandwich. “Go to bed, Paul.”

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

The phone in my room rang at 2100 hours, waking me out of a restless sleep. The voice said, “I’ll be downstairs.”

“Give me ten minutes.” I hung up, went into the bathroom, and washed my face. The visiting officers’ quarters at Fort Hadley is a two-story structure of tan brick that vaguely resembles a civilian motor inn. It’s okay, and the rooms are clean, but, in typical military fashion, there’s no airconditioning, and there’s a common bathroom between every two rooms just in case you get the idea that the Army is getting soft on its junior officers. When you use the bathroom, you’re supposed to bolt the door that leads to the other room, then remember to unbolt it when you leave so the person next door can get in. This rarely works out right.

I brushed my teeth with the recently purchased items, then went into the bedroom and unwrapped my new shirt, wondering how I was going to get my stuff from Whispering Pines to here without running into the local fuzz. This was not the first time I’d become persona non grata in town, and it wouldn’t be the last. Usually, we can straighten things out so I can drive away after I’m finished with a case. But once, at Fort Bliss, Texas, I had to be helicoptered out and didn’t see my car for a few weeks, until someone was detailed to drive it to Falls Church. I put in for the nineteen cents a mile, but Karl turned it down on a technicality.

Anyway, the jockey shorts were small, not medium. Women can be petty. I got dressed, complete with Glock 9mm accessories, and went out into the hall, where I saw Cynthia coming out of the next room. I asked her, “Is that your room?”

“No, I’m cleaning it for a total stranger.”

“Couldn’t you get me a room down the hall or something?”

“Actually, this place is full of summer reservists doing their two weeks. I had to pull my CID routine to get you any room.” She added, “I don’t mind sharing a bathroom with you.”

We got outside and into her Mustang. She said, “Rifle range six?”

“Right.” She was still wearing the black pants and white blouse, but had put on running shoes and a white sweater. The flashlight I asked her to bring was on the console between the seats. I asked her, “Are you carrying?”

“Yes. Why? Are you expecting trouble?”

“A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.”

“Nonsense.”

The sun had set, a full moon was rising, and I hoped that the conditions at this hour were close enough to those of the early morning hours out on the rifle ranges to get a sense of what may have happened, and to give me inspiration.

We drove past the post movie theater, where a crowd was letting out, then past the NCO Club, where the drinks are better than in the Officers’ Club, the food is cheaper, and the women are friendlier.

Cynthia said, “I went to the provost marshal’s office and saw Colonel Kent.”

“Good initiative. Anything new?”

“A few things. First, he wants you to go easy on Colonel Moore. Apparently, Moore complained about your aggressive behavior.”

“I wonder who Kent complains to.”

“Here’s more good news. You had a message from Karl, and I took the liberty of calling him at home. He’s royally pissed-off about someone called Dalbert Elkins, who he says you transformed from a criminal into a government witness with immunity.”

“I hope someone does the same for me someday. Anything else?”

“Yes. Karl, round two. He has to report to the judge advocate general at the Pentagon tomorrow, and he’d like a more comprehensive report than the one you filed earlier today.”

“Well, he can wing it. I’m busy.”

“I typed out a report and faxed it to his home.”

“Thank you. What did the report say?”

“There’s a copy of it on your desk. Do you trust me or not?”

“Of course. It’s just that if this case goes bad, you may be safe if you don’t have your name on things.”

“Right. I signed your name to it.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. Let me worry about my career”

“Fine. Anything from forensic?”

“Yes. The hospital sent a preliminary protocol to the provost marshal’s office. Death occurred no earlier than midnight and no later than 0400 hours.”

“I know that.” The autopsy report, known for some unexplained reason as the protocol, generally picked up where forensic left off, though there was some overlap, which is fine. The more ghouls, the better.

“Also, death was definitely a result of asphyxia. There were internal traumas discovered in her neck and throat, and she’d bitten her tongue. All consistent with strangulation.”

I’ve seen autopsies, and, as you can imagine, they are not pleasant things to watch. Being murdered and naked is undignified enough, but being sliced up and examined by a team of strangers is the ultimate violation. “What else?” I asked.

“Lividity and rigor were consistent with the position of the body as it was found, so it appears that death occurred there, and there was no movement of the body from another location. Also, there were no other wounds aside from the ligature around her neck, no other trauma to exposed tissue or to bones, brain, vagina, anus, mouth, and so forth.”

I nodded, but made no response. “What else?”

Cynthia gave me a rundown of stomach contents, bladder and intestine contents, conditions of the internal organs, and anatomical findings. I’m glad I hadn’t finished that cheese-burger, because my stomach was getting jumpy. Cynthia said, “There was some erosion of the cervix, which could be consistent with an abortion, a prior disease, or perhaps insertions of large objects.”

“Okay… is that it?”

“That’s it for now. The coroner hasn’t done microscopic examinations of tissue and fluids yet, or toxology, which they want to do independent of the forensic lab.” Cynthia added, “She didn’t keep any secrets from them, did she?”

“Only one.”

“Right. Also, there were some preliminary notes from Cal. They finished the serology tests and found no drugs or poisons in the blood, just a trace of alcohol. They found saliva at the corners of her mouth, running downward, consistent with the position of her body. They found perspiration in various places, and they found dried tears running downward from the eyes, again consistent with the position of the body. All three liquids have been identified as belonging to the victim.”

“Tears?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “Lots of tears. She’d been crying.”

“I missed that…”

“That’s all right. They didn’t.”

“Right… but tears are not consistent with the lack of wounds, and not necessarily consistent with a strangulation.”

“No,” Cynthia agreed, “but it is consistent with being tied up by a madman and being told you’re going to die.” She added, “What is not consistent with this is your theory that she was a voluntary participant. So maybe you have to change your theory.”

“I’m fine-tuning my theory.” I thought a moment, then said, “You’re a woman. What made her cry?”

“I don’t know, Paul. I wasn’t there.”

“But we have to get ourselves there. This was not a woman who would cry easily.”

Cynthia nodded. “I agree with that. So whatever made her cry was perhaps an emotional trauma.”

“Right. Someone she knew made her cry without even touching her.”

“Perhaps. But she may have made herself cry. We don’t know at this point.”

“Right.” Forensic evidence is objective. That is, dried tears were present in large quantities. The tears belonged to the victim. They flowed from the eyes toward the ears, indicating that they flowed when the body was in a supine position. End of statement. Exit Cal Seiver, enter Paul Brenner. The tears indicated crying. Therefore, who made her cry? What made her cry? Why did she cry? When did she cry? Is this important to know? Somehow, I thought it was.

Cynthia said, “Trace fibers were from her own underwear and from BDUs that are probably her own but could be from another person. There were no other fibers found. Also, the only hair found on and around the body was her own.”

“How about the hair in the latrine sink?”

“That was not hers. It was black, undyed, from a Caucasian, came from the head, probably fell out, not pulled or cut, and from the shaft they determined that it was blood type O. There were no roots, so no genetic markers, and the sex can’t be determined conclusively, but Cal’s guess, based on the length and the lack of any dye, conditioner, styling preparations, and so forth, is that it belonged to a man. It was characterized as curly, not straight or wavy.”

“I just met a guy with that kind of hair.”

“Yes. We should get a strand of Colonel Moore’s hair for microscopic comparison.”

“Right. What else?”

“Well, there was no semen found on her skin or in any of her orifices. Also, there was no trace of any type of lubrication in her vagina or anus that would suggest a penetration by a foreign object, or by a lubricated condom, for instance.”

I nodded. “No sexual intercourse took place.”

“It could have taken place if a man dressed in the same BDUs she wore got on top of her, leaving no body hair, saliva, or perspiration of his own. Using a condom without lubrication, or using no condom, he penetrated her but did not ejaculate. That could have happened.”

“But it didn’t. No sexual intercourse took place. Transference and exchange has got to occur to some extent. Even a microscopic extent.”

“I tend to agree. But we can’t rule out some sort of genital stimulation. If the rope around her neck was to induce sexual asphyxiation, as you suggested, then it follows that genital stimulation was supposed to take place.”

“That would be logical. But I’ve given up on logic in this case. Okay, how about fingerprints?”

“None on her body. They couldn’t lift any complete or distinct prints from the nylon rope, but they got several from the tent pegs.”

“Are they good enough to run through the FBI?”

“No, but they’re good enough to match to known prints. In fact, some of the prints were Ann Campbell’s. Some were not and may belong to the other person.”

“I hope so.”

Cynthia said, “So she handled the tent pegs, which means she was forced to assist the perpetrator, or she voluntarily assisted the perpetrator, as in a consensual act of sexual fantasy or whatever.”

“I lean toward the latter.”

“I would, too, except what made her cry?”

“Happiness. Ecstasy.” I pointed out, “Crying is an empirically observable event. The cause of the crying is open to different interpretations.” I added, “Some people do cry after orgasm.”

“I’ve heard. So anyway, we know a lot more than we did at sunrise, but in some ways we know a lot less. Some of this stuff is not fitting together in the normal way.”

“That’s an understatement. Any fingerprints from the humvee?”

“Lots. They were still working on that and on the latrines. Cal took the humvee and the lower bleacher seats to the hangar. He’s set up shop there.”

“Good.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’ve only had two homicide cases that I’ve solved to my satisfaction where I’ve failed to get a conviction. And those two involved bright people who took care not to leave any forensic evidence behind. I don’t want this to be one of those cases.”

“Well, Paul, as they say, long before there was scientific evidence, there were confessions. Often the perpetrator needs to confess and is just waiting for us to ask him to do so.”

“That’s what they said during the Inquisition, the Salem witch trials, and the Moscow show trials. I’d like to see some evidence.”

We drove through the outskirts of the main post, neither of us saying much. I rolled down my window, letting in the cool night air. “Do you like Georgia?”

She glanced at me. “I never had a permanent duty station here. Just here and gone. But I like it. How about you?”

“Brings back memories.”

We left the main post, and Cynthia found Rifle Range Road without too much difficulty. The moon was still below the trees, and it was dark except for our headlights on the road. You could hear crickets, tree frogs, locusts, and all sorts of other nocturnal things that make weird sounds, and the smell of the pines was overwhelming, reminding me of Whispering Pines many years ago: sitting outside at night on lawn chairs, drinking beer with the other young soldiers and their wives, listening to Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, or whomever, waiting for the mimeographed papers that began, “You are hereby ordered to report…”

Cynthia asked, “What did you think of Colonel Moore?”

“Probably the same as you. He’s an odd duck.”

“Yes, but I think he’s a key to why Ann Campbell was killed.”

“Quite possibly,” I asked her, “Do you consider him a suspect?”

“For the record, no. We have to keep him talking. But between us, I can see him as a suspect.”

“Especially if that was his hair in the sink,” I pointed out.

“What would be his motive?” Cynthia asked.

“Well, it wasn’t classical sexual jealousy.”

“Do you believe that he never slept with her, or even propositioned her?”

“Yes. That shows how sick he is.”

“That’s an interesting observation. The more I deal with men, the more I learn.”

“Good for you. What do you think his motive could be?”

“Well, I agree with you that Colonel Moore is somewhat asexual. But she may have threatened to break off their platonic or therapeutic relationship, and he couldn’t handle it.”

“Then why kill her that way?” I asked.

“How do I know? We’re dealing with two shrinks here.”

“Right. But I’ll bet Moore knows why. Moore knows how she got there on the ground, even if he didn’t kill her himself. For all we know, he told her it was good therapy to have sex with strangers in open places. I’ve heard of that kind of thing.

Cynthia nodded. “You’re getting close to something.”

“Just another theory to store in the hangar.”

After a moment of quiet, I said to her, apropos of nothing except my whole life, “Did you many Major what’s-his-name

with the gun?” She replied, not enthusiastically, I thought, “Yes, I did.”

“Well, congratulations. I’m extremely happy for you, Cynthia, and wish you all the best that life has to offer.”

“I’ve filed for divorce.”

“Good.”

We rode in silence awhile, then she said, “I felt guilty after Brussels, so I accepted his proposal. Actually, I guess I was engaged to be married to him, so we got married. But… he never let me forget that he didn’t trust me anymore. Your name came up once or twice.”

“Am I supposed to feel guilty? I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t. He turned out to be a possessive manipulator, anyway.”

“You didn’t see that?”

“No. The best thing about some long-distance relationships is that they’re long-distance. It’s very romantic. Living together is another matter.”

“I’m sure you bent over backward to please.”

“If that’s sarcasm, you’re wrong. I did bend over backward. But every time I had to go off on assignment, he got very nasty, and every time I came back from assignment, he interrogated me. I don’t like being interrogated.”

“No one does.”

“I never fooled around on him.”

“Well, once.”

“You know what I mean. So anyway, I got to thinking that military life and married life don’t go together. He wanted me to resign. I said no. He got violent, and I had to pull my gun on him.”

“My goodness. You’re lucky he didn’t have that automatic he pulled on me.”

“Well, he did, but I’d taken the firing pin out months before. Look, it’s all so tawdry, and I feel embarrassed even talking about it. But I think I owe you at least that explanation of my life between Brussels and now.”

“Thank you. Does he have the firing pin back in the gun?”

She laughed. “He’s all right. He accepted it gracefully. He’s tired of ripping himself apart with jealousy. He’s back on a good career track, and he has a girlfriend.”

“Where is this happy psychopath stationed?”

“He’s at the Ranger School at Benning.”

“That’s commuting distance to here.”

“He doesn’t even know where I am now. Are you worried?”

“No. I just need to know what I’m dealing with. Basic intelligence gathering.”

“What are you dealing with?”

“The past, the present, and the future. Same old stuff.”

“Can we be friends without being lovers?”

“Of course. I’ll ask Colonel Moore where he got himself neutered.”

“You’re so basic.” She thought a moment, then said, “I don’t want another jealous crazy.”

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow, or next week.”

“Fine.”

After a minute or two, I asked, “Are you seeing anyone else?”

“Is it next week already?”

“I just don’t want to get shot. You know?”

“No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to get shot.”

She said, “Paul, shut up or I’ll shoot you. God, you bug me.”

“Don’t shoot.”

She laughed. “Stop it.”

We rode the last mile in silence, then I said, “Pull over here and kill the lights and the engine.”

The sky was a clear moonlit blue, and the temperature had dropped, but it was still comfortable despite the humidity. It was a nice evening, the kind of night made for romantic trysts out in the countryside. I listened to the nightbirds and the breeze in the pines. I said, “Not only have I thought about you, but I’ve missed you.”

“I know. Me, too.”

I nodded. “So what did we do wrong? Why did we go our own ways?”

She shrugged. “Maybe we just blew it.” She added, “I wanted you to… well, but that’s past.”

“What did you want me to do?”

“I wanted you not to accept my decision to break it off. I wanted you to take me away from him.”

“That’s not my style, Cynthia. You made a decision. I respected it.”

“Oh, God, Paul, you’re such a goddamned sharp detective, aren’t you? You can read a killer’s heart at a hundred yards, and spot a liar in the blink of an eye. But you don’t know how to read yourself, and you damned sure don’t know much about women.”

So I sat there, like the idiot I am, realizing she was right, and at a loss for words, knowing what I felt in my heart, but unable to express it or unwilling actually to commit my feelings to words. I wanted to say, “Cynthia, I love you, I’ve always loved you. I will continue to love you. Run away with me.” But I couldn’t, so I said, slowly and deliberately, “I know what you’re saying, I agree with you, I’m working on it, and we’ll work it out.”

She took my hand and held it awhile, then said, “Poor Paul. Do I make you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t like that feeling, do you?”

“No.”

She squeezed my hand. “But I see some improvement since last year in Brussels.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re trying my patience.”

“We’re going to be okay.”

“Good.” She leaned over and kissed me lightly, then released my hand. “What now?”

“Well, let’s get to work.” I opened my door.

“This is not rifle range six,” she pointed out.

“No, this is five.”

“Why are we getting out here?”

“Take the flashlight.” I got out of the car and she followed.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

We stood a few feet apart listening for a while, adjusting to the darkness and the nuances of the night, the way we were taught in school.

Finally I said, “I have this nagging thought that the headlights that PFC Robbins saw at 0217 hours were not from Ann Campbell’s humvee. That, indeed, as you suggested, she drove to rifle range six without her headlights. She knew where the guard was posted, of course, and didn’t want to attract attention. She turned off her lights about here and went the rest of the way in the dark, which is no problem with this moonlight. She had come directly here to meet someone after she left Sergeant St. John at headquarters at 0100 hours. That’s why no other guard post saw her. Logical?”

“If you’re assuming that this was a preplanned rendezvous, then, yes, it’s logical so far.”

“Let’s assume that. She could have gotten here as early as 0115 hours.”

“Possible.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to think this out, “the person she was supposed to meet probably got here first.”

“Why?”

“Because she told him to. She knew she could be held up by something at headquarters. She calls this person from Post Headquarters and says, ‘Be there no later than half past midnight. Wait for me.’ ”

“Okay.”

“So this person she was supposed to meet may have had no business or reason to be out here, and he may have been driving a POV. So as not to attract attention from the guard post, which he also knows is up the road, he goes as far as here, range five, and turns off the road to the left.” We walked off the road into a graveled parking area.

I said to Cynthia, “This graveled field also serves ranges four and six. The troop carriers stop here, leave off the men for all three ranges, turn around and leave, and the men walk to their assigned ranges. I remember that from my days here.”

“Except they don’t use muskets anymore.”

“Right. So the guy who was supposed to meet her here knows to pull off on the gravel so as not to leave tire marks. Follow me.” We walked across the gravel, which was crisscrossed with the impressions of dozens of tires, none of them distinct enough in the crushed stone to be worth photographing or trying to get a cast of. But as we got past the bleachers of rifle range five, the gravel thinned, and with the flashlight we could make out tire marks where no truck or car should have been. The tire marks continued toward a stand of scrub pine, then stopped. I said, “Any vehicle parked here would not be seen from the road, but he did leave his tire marks.”

“Paul, this is incredible. These could be the tire marks of the perpetrator.”

“These are probably the tire marks of the person who met her here. The person did not want his vehicle seen by a passing MP patrol or by the guard truck that would have come by this way at about 0100 hours to relieve the guard at the ammo shed a kilometer up the road, and to post PFC Robbins at that shed. This person was already here before that time and parked here, then walked on the back trail to rifle range six and went into the latrine to wait. While there, he may have used the latrine and may have washed his face and hands, leaving water spots and a hair behind. Logical so far?”

“So far.”

“Let’s walk.” We found the back trail, made from small logs laid side by side to form an all-weather road or path, what the Army calls a corduroy surface. This surface left no footprints. We followed it for about a hundred meters through the brush until it came out into the area behind the latrines of rifle range six. “Okay, the guy waits here, in or around the latrines. The first thing he sees is the guard truck going up the road to the ammo shed, then, a while later, the truck returns after having relieved the original guard and posting Robbins. The truck does not go all the way to main post, where it may have met Ann Campbell coming the other way. It turns off toward Jordan Field to post and relieve guards at the hangars, which takes a while. I recall that from when I was stationed here. So Ann Campbell probably did not cross the path of the guard truck and proceeded directly to range six. She extinguished her headlights at some point and parked the humvee where we found it on the road. Okay?”

“So far. But it’s all speculation.”

“Right. That’s what reenactment mostly is. You’re here to find holes, not tell me I’m making it up.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Okay. The person waiting here near the latrines sees her stop her humvee on the road, and he walks across this open area—” I began to walk toward the road, and Cynthia followed. “He approaches Ann Campbell, who is in or near her humvee, and tells her that the guard truck has come and gone, as it should have by this time, and there’s nothing to worry about now, except perhaps a random MP patrol. But that’s not likely out here. This road dead-ends at range ten, and there will be no through traffic. The only other people who might come by are the officer of the guard or the sergeant of the guard, but they would not come out this way so soon after the changing of the guard, and, most likely, they wouldn’t bother at all. The only other person who would conceivably come out here is the post duty officer, and on this night, the duty officer is Captain Ann Campbell. Follow?”

“Up to a point. Why would she pull up here? Why not hide her vehicle if she was here for a sexual rendezvous? In fact, why the hell was she on the rifle range, so close to the road?”

“I’m not sure. Except that whatever she did, she did it the way she wanted to do it. None of this was random, and everything was planned, including apparently volunteering for duty officer on a moonlit night. Therefore, she had a reason for leaving her vehicle right here, and a reason for picking that spot, fifty meters from the road.”

“Okay… we’ll let that slide.”

“So, to continue, I have no idea what transpired between her and the person she met, but at some point here on the road, she took off her pistol, then all her clothes except her bra and panties. She had a blacktop smudge on her foot. She and this person walked on the well-trod path between the firing lanes. Her clothes and pistol were probably back in the jeep. She, or the other person, is carrying tent pegs, precut rope, and a small sledgehammer. They pick their spot at the base of that pop-up target over there.” We both looked out onto the range. The pavilion was still pitched, and the tarpaulins were still laid out to form a trail to the spot where the body had lain. I asked Cynthia, “How does this sound so far?”

“It has its own internal logic. But I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I. But it’s pretty much what happened.” I said, “Let’s walk.” We followed the tarpaulin trail and stopped under the pavilion. Cynthia shined her flashlight on the spot where Ann Campbell had lain, revealing an outline of the spread-eagled body made with white chalk powder. Yellow marker flags stuck out of the holes where the tent pegs had been.

Cynthia said, “Shouldn’t there be MPs here?”

“There should be. Kent slipped up.” I looked out over the moonlit rifle range where about fifty lifelike targets stood like a platoon of infantry advancing through the brush. I said to Cynthia, “Obviously, this had some symbolism for Ann Campbell—armed men coming to gang-rape her, or watching her as she was tied naked on the ground—or who knows what she was trying to create or express?”

Cynthia said, “All right, they’re standing here. Ann Campbell in her bra and panties, this man carrying the rape kit or sexual paraphernalia if she’s a willing accomplice. He’s not armed, and she’s going along with this.”

“Right. So together they bind one end of each rope around her wrists and ankles. Probably at this point, she removes her bra and panties and puts the panties around her neck, since we found no trace of soil on them.”

“Why did she wear the bra?”

“I can’t say for sure, but she may have just left it on without thinking, then threw it on the ground where we found it. They’ve planned this, but they’re understandably a little nervous. Okay?”

“Okay. I’m nervous just talking about it.”

“So they pick their spot at the base of this pop-up target, she lies down here, spreads her arms and legs, and he pounds the four tent pegs into the ground.”

“Doesn’t this make noise?”

“The pegs were polyvinyl. Also, he may have used a handkerchief to muffle the sound. The wind is blowing from the direction of the guard post a kilometer away, and PFC Robbins couldn’t even hear a car door slam.”

“All right,” Cynthia said. “The tent pegs are in, and he ties her ankles and wrists to the pegs.”

“Correct. Then he wraps the long rope around her neck, over the panties.”

“So she’s now as we found her.”

“Yes,” I said, “she is now as we found her, except, at this point, she was still alive.”

Cynthia had one hand in the pocket of her pants now and was staring at the ground where her flashlight beam ended, obviously deep in thought. Finally, she said, “He knelt near her and applied tension to the rope, inducing sexual asphyxia. Maybe, using his fingers, or an object, he stimulates her. She had an orgasm…” Cynthia added, “He would have masturbated at some point though we found no semen on her, and he may have taken photos, which is common after going through all this trouble. I’ve had cases where an audiotape was made, and one where a videotape was made…” She paused a moment, then continued, “All right… she’s done, he’s done, she wants to be untied. At this point, he snaps for some reason and strangles her to death, or he’d planned to do that all along, or he may have honestly strangled her by accident during the act.” She looked at me. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“But there’s more to it,” Cynthia reminded me. “Her clothes, dog tags, her West Point ring, and her pistol are missing.”

“I know. That’s a problem.” I said, “We’re back to souvenirs.”

“Yes, they do take souvenirs. But you know, if I had just killed a general’s daughter out on the rifle range, on purpose or by accident, I don’t think I’d put her clothes in my car and drive around with the evidence that would put me in front of a firing squad.”

“Not likely, is it? And remember, she had her watch on. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Cynthia replied. “That may be insignificant.”

“It may be. Let’s walk.” We retraced our steps along the tarpaulin path and came back to the road where Ann Campbell’s humvee had been parked. “All right,” I said, “he comes back here to the vehicle. He takes her BDUs, her helmet, dog tags, socks, boots, and so forth, but leaves her handbag on the passenger seat of the vehicle.”

“He may have forgotten the handbag. Men often do. I’ve seen that before.”

I turned toward the latrines. “Carrying those items, he crosses the grassy area, passes the bleachers, passes the latrines, and finds the corduroy trail. He would not walk on the road.”

“No.”

“Okay, if they’d started at about 0115 hours, it is now about 0215 hours, give or take a few minutes. It can’t be later because PFC Robbins saw headlights at 0217 hours.”

“And you’re sure they were not Ann Campbell’s headlights?”

“I’m making the strong assumption she got here earlier, and she drove up without headlights. So this vehicle comes by, sees her parked humvee, stops, turns off the lights, and gets out of his or her vehicle. That is what Robbins saw at 0217 hours.”

“And he or she can see Ann Campbell from the road. Right?”

“Sergeant St. John did. The moon was nearly full. Anyone who saw the parked humvee would look around. Fifty meters away, this person sees something on the rifle range. It’s almost a human instinct to recognize another human form, especially a naked one. We’ve both heard similar stories—someone walking in the woods sees something lying on the ground, and so on.”

“All right. So what does that person do?”

“That person goes up to her and sees that she’s dead, goes back to his or her vehicle, makes a U-turn, and gets the hell out of there.”

“Without turning his or her headlights back on.”

“Apparently. PFC Robbins was transfixed by the headlights and kept watching, but never saw them go on again. The next lights she saw were Sergeant St. John’s at 0425 hours.”

“Why would this person not turn their headlights back on when they were leaving? Why turn them off to begin with? It’s damned spooky out here, Paul. I’d leave my lights on if I got out of my car. And who is this new person you’ve introduced, and why didn’t this person make a report?”

“The only answer I can come up with is that Ann Campbell had not gone through all this trouble for one tryst. Her fantasy may have been multiple rapes. She may have had several appointments.”

“That’s very weird.” She added, “But possible.”

I said, “Let’s follow the path that Ann Campbell’s assistant or assailant took back.” We retraced our steps and intersected the corduroy path in the bush behind the rifle ranges, then turned left onto it and headed back to rifle range five. I said, “Here, in these bushes, will probably be a plastic bag containing her clothes.”

Cynthia looked at me. “Are you psychic, too?”

“The area search turned up nothing, and neither did the dogs, so the clothes will be in a plastic, odorproof bag, probably a trash bag, and they will be farther away than the search. When we get closer to rifle range five, you’ll turn that flashlight into the bush. We may have to come back tomorrow—”

Cynthia stopped. “Wait.”

“What?”

“The latrine sheds.”

“Damn it! You’re right.”

So back we went to the latrine sheds. A line of steel-mesh trash pails sat between the two sheds, and I turned one of them over and jumped onto the roof of the shed for male personnel. There was nothing on the flat, pitched roof, but as I scrambled to my feet, I saw on the next latrine roof a brown plastic trash bag shining in the moonlight. I took a running start, jumped onto the adjoining shed, and kicked the bag off, following it to the ground. Somewhere in midair, I remembered my paratrooper training, flexed my knees into a shoulder roll, and bounded up on my feet.

Cynthia asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Get a handkerchief.”

She took a handkerchief from her pocket, knelt, and untwisted the wire tie, then carefully pulled open the mouth of the bag and shined her flashlight into it. Inside, we could see a jumble of clothing, a pair of boots, and a white sock. Carefully, with her hand wrapped in the handkerchief, Cynthia moved the things around, uncovering the pistol belt and holster with the automatic still in it, then finally the dog tags, which she held up and read in the beam of her flashlight. “Campbell, Ann Louise.” She let the dog tags drop back into the bag and stood. She looked up at the top of the latrine shed. “One of the older tricks in the book. But why did this guy care about hiding her clothes?”

I thought a moment. “It seems that the clothes were supposed to be recovered later.”

“By whom? The perpetrator? A third party?”

“Don’t know. But I like the idea of a third party.”

A pair of headlights lit up the road, then I heard the engine of a vehicle, then saw it, an olive-drab staff car that stopped. The engine remained running, and the headlights stayed on. I felt for my pistol and so did Cynthia.

The driver’s door opened, and the interior lights revealed the figure of Bill Kent as he got out drawing his pistol and looking toward our flashlight. He slammed his door and issued a challenge. “Identify yourselves.”

I called back, “Brenner and Sunhill, Colonel.” A little formal, but you don’t fool around when being challenged by an armed man.

We stayed motionless until he said, “I’m coming to you.”

“Understand.” We both stood until he got closer, then saw him holster his pistol, and heard him say, “Recognize.”

All a little silly, too, except that every once in a while, a guy gets plugged messing around with challenges and such. Kent asked us, “What are you doing here?”

I replied, “This is the scene of the crime, Bill, and detectives and criminals always return to it. What are you doing here?”

“I resent the implication, wise guy. I’m here for the same reason you are—to try to get a feeling for the scene at night.”

“Let me be the detective, Colonel. I expected to see MPs posted here.”

“I suppose I should have posted a few. But I have patrols going by.”

“I haven’t seen any. Can you get a couple of people here?”

“All right.” He asked Cynthia, “Why is your car way back there?”

She replied, “We wanted to walk in the moonlight.”

He looked like he was going to ask why, but then noticed the bag. “What is that?”

“That is,” Cynthia replied, “the missing items.”

“What items?”

“Her clothing.”

I watched Kent as he took this in. He seemed almost indifferent, I thought. He asked, “Where’d you find them?”

“On top of the female latrine shed. Your guys missed it.”

“I guess they did.” He asked, “Why do you think her clothes were up there?”

“Who knows?”

“Are you through here?”

“For now.”

“What’s next?”

I replied, “We’ll meet you at Jordan Field in about an hour.”

“Okay.” He added, “Colonel Moore is very upset with you.”

“Then he should file formal charges instead of crying on your shoulder. Do you know the guy?”

“Only through Ann.” He looked at his watch. “One hour.”

“Right.”

We parted, he backed toward his car on the road, we along the corduroy trail, me carrying the plastic trash bag.

Cynthia said to me, “You don’t trust him, do you?”

“I did… I’ve known Bill Kent for over ten years. But now… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s a suspect, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he, like just about everybody here, is hiding something.”

“I know. I get that feeling, too. It’s like we’ve arrived in a small town and everybody knows everybody’s dirty secrets, and we know there are skeletons in the closet, but we can’t find the closets.”

“That’s about it.”

We reached the car, and I put the bag in the trunk.

Cynthia and I got in, and she started the engine, then brushed something from my shoulder. “Anything broken, soldier? Can I take you to the hospital?”

“No, but I need my head examined. Psychological Operations School.”

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

We arrived at the Psy-Ops School at about 2300 hours, and Cynthia parked near the school headquarters. The school was made up of a cluster of about thirty concrete buildings, all of which were a uniquely depressing slate gray, the color of suicide, of Seattle.

There was not much grass, few trees, and the inadequate exterior lighting would be unacceptable in a civilian setting, but in the Army, muggings and lawsuits were not yet a problem.

Most of the buildings were dark, except for two that looked like living quarters, and in the nearby headquarters building, a single ground floor window was lit.

As we walked toward the headquarters, Cynthia asked me, “What exactly goes on here?”

“This is a subcommand of the JFK Special Warfare School at Bragg. In reality, it’s not a school at all, but that’s the cover.”

“Cover for what?”

“It’s a research facility. They don’t teach, they learn.”

“What do they learn?”

“I think they learn what makes people tick, then they find out how to make them stop ticking without putting a bullet in them.” I added, “Most of it is experimental.”

“Sounds spooky.”

“I’m with you. Bullets and high explosives work every time. Screw panic and free-floating anxiety.”

A humvee turned the corner up ahead and came toward us. It stopped and an MP dismounted from the passenger side while the driver stayed in the vehicle, pointing his headlights at us. The MP, a corporal named Stroud, saluted, which is customary, then asked us, “Do you have business here?”

I replied, “Yes. CID.” I held up my identification, which he examined with a flashlight, then examined Cynthia’s and turned out his light. “Who do you have business with, sir?”

“The duty sergeant. Why don’t you escort us, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.” He walked with us to the headquarters and asked, “The Campbell murder?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Damned shame.”

“Did you know her?” Cynthia asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Not well, but I’d see her here at night sometimes. Lots of what they do here, they do at night.” He added, “Nice lady. Got any leads?”

I replied, “Not yet.”

“Glad to see you’re working all night on this.”

We all entered the headquarters building, where a staff sergeant was sitting in an office located to the right of the small lobby. He saw us and stood as we entered. After the preliminaries, I said to the duty sergeant, whose name was Corman, “Sergeant, I’d like to see Colonel Moore’s office.”

Sergeant Corman scratched his head and glanced at Corporal Stroud, then replied, “Can’t do that, sir.”

“Sure you can. Let’s go.”

He stood his ground. “I really can’t without proper authorization. This is a restricted area.”

In the Army, you don’t actually need probable cause or a search warrant, and if you did, the warrant wouldn’t be issued by a military judge because they have no power outside a court-martial. What I needed was someone in the chain of command. I asked Sergeant Corman, “Does Colonel Moore keep a personal locker in his office?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go and get me his hairbrush or comb.”

“Sir?”

“He needs to comb his hair. We’ll stay here and cover the phone.”

“Sir, this is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave.”

I said, “May I use your phone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Privately.”

“I can’t leave—”

“MP Corporal Stroud will stay here. Thank you.”

He hesitated, then walked out of the office. I said to Stroud, “Whatever you hear is confidential.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked up Colonel Fowler’s Bethany Hill phone number in the post directory, and Fowler answered on the third ring. I said, “Colonel, this is Mr. Brenner. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour.” Actually I wasn’t. “But I need you to authorize me to remove something from Colonel Moore’s office.”

“Where the hell are you, Brenner?” He sounded as if he might have been sleeping.

I replied, “At the Psy-Ops School, Colonel.”

“At this hour?”

“I must have lost track of the time.”

“What do you have to remove from Colonel Moore’s office?”

“Actually, I’d like to remove the entire office to Jordan Field.”

He replied, “I can’t authorize that. That school is run from Fort Bragg, and it’s a restricted area. Colonel Moore’s office is full of classified documents. But I’ll call Bragg in the morning and see what I can do.”

I didn’t mention that I already had Ann Campbell’s office at Jordan Field. This is what happens when you ask permission to do anything in the Army. The answer is always no, then you negotiate. I said, “Well, then, Colonel, give me permission to seal the office.”

“Seal the office? What the hell’s going on?”

“A murder investigation.”

“Don’t be flippant with me, Mr. Brenner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call Bragg in the morning. That’s all I can do.”

“That’s not enough, Colonel.”

“You know, Mr. Brenner, I appreciate your hard work and initiative, but you can’t be charging around like a bull, wreaking havoc wherever you go. There’s only one murderer out there, and you should give some thought to the feelings of the remainder of the people on this post. And while you’re doing that, you may want to keep in mind Army regulations, customs, protocols, and courtesy. Do you follow me, Mr. Brenner?”

“Yes, sir. What I actually need at the moment is a sample of Colonel Moore’s hair to match up with a strand found at the scene of the murder. You could call Colonel Moore at home, sir, and have him report to the forensic lab at Jordan Field for a plucking, or we can get a sample of his hair from his comb or brush here, which I would prefer, as time is short. Also, I’d rather that Colonel Moore did not know he was a suspect at the moment.” I noticed Corporal Stroud’s eyes widen.

There was a long silence, then Colonel Fowler said, “All right, I’ll let you take his brush or comb, but if anything else in his office is touched, I’ll have you charged.”

“Yes, sir. Will you instruct the duty sergeant?”

“Put him on.”

“Yes, sir.” I motioned to Stroud, who went out and got Sergeant Corman. I said to Corman, “Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant, wishes to speak to you.”

He took the phone without enthusiasm, and his end of the conversation went something like “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He hung up and said to me, “If you’ll cover the phones, I’ll go look for his brush or comb.”

“Fine. Wrap it in a handkerchief.”

He took a set of keys and left the office. I heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

I said to Corporal Stroud, “We’ll be outside. Wait here and collect the evidence.”

“Yes, sir.”

Corporal Stroud seemed happy to be of help in the case. Cynthia and I went outside and stood in the headlights of the MP vehicle.

Cynthia said to me, “This place is tight.”

“If you were conducting experiments in brainwashing, interrogation techniques, morale destruction, and producing fear and panic, you might not want outsiders snooping around.”

“That’s what she was involved in, wasn’t it?”

“I believe so.” I added, “They have cell blocks here where they keep volunteers for their experiments, and they have an entire mock POW camp out on the reservation.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I worked on a case with a psychologist about a year ago who had once been stationed here. He applied for a transfer.”

“I guess this place could get to you.”

“Yes. You know, I found a piece of paper in Ann Campbell’s personnel file—another Nietzsche quote. It said, ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.’ ”

“How in the world did that get in there?”

“Don’t know, but I think I understand what it means.”

“Yes… I think we both do.” She said, “Sometimes I want to do something else for a living. I’m getting tired of vaginal swabs and DNA testing of sperm, and taking statements from rapists and rape victims.”

“Right. I think ten years is the limit. I’ve had almost twenty. This is my last case.”

“Do you say that every time?”

“Yes.”

Corporal Stroud came out of the headquarters building holding something in his hand, and as he got closer, we could see him smiling. He called out, “He found it.”

We met him on the sidewalk, and he handed me a hairbrush wrapped in an olive-drab handkerchief.

I said to him, “You know about chain of custody. I need a statement from you describing how and where we found this, when, who, and so forth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Signed, sealed, marked ‘Brenner,’ and in the provost marshal’s office before 0600 hours,”

“Yes, sir.”

Cynthia asked him, “Would you know what kind of vehicle Colonel Moore drives?”

He thought a moment. “Let’s see… old car… kind of beat-up… gray sedan… what the hell is that? Right, a big Ford Fairlane, about ’85 or ’86.”

“You’ve been very helpful.” She added, “This is all strictly confidential.”

Corporal Stroud nodded and offered, “Anything else you want to know about Colonel Moore, ask me, and if I don’t know, I’ll find out.”

“Thank you,” I said. Clearly, there were those who would like to see Colonel Moore on death row in Leavenworth.

We exchanged salutes and went back to our respective vehicles.

Cynthia put the Mustang in gear. “Jordan Field?”

“Right.”

We left the main post again and drove out onto the military reservation. The 100,000 acres of government property computed to something like 150 square miles of mostly uninhabited land. There are, however, backcountry people, poachers, hunters, and trappers who trespassed frequently. Also, from the days that preceded Camp Hadley, there are ghost towns, old cemeteries, country churches, abandoned quarries and logging camps, as well as ramshackle structures from what used to be the Beaumont Plantation. It was a unique environment, sort of frozen in time when the government exercised its right of eminent domain to meet the national emergency of the great war to end all wars.

As I said, I took my infantry basic training and advanced infantry training here, and I still remember the terrain: an inhospitable and eerily quiet landscape of wooded hills, lakes and ponds, swamps and marshes, and a species of hanging moss that gave off a phosphorescent glow at night that caused visual disorientation.

The training itself was a grueling program whose objective was to turn normally fucked-up American kids into efficient, motivated, and loyal combat-ready soldiers with a healthy desire to kill. The whole process took only four months, though they were long, intensive months. With a little leave time thrown in, you could enter the Army in June, after high school, as I did, and find yourself in the jungle with an M-16 rifle before Christmas, as I also did, with new clothes and a different head. Amazing.

Cynthia said, apropos of my silence, “Are you solving the case?”

“No, I was reminiscing. I took my infantry training here.”

“Was that World War II or Korea?”

“You’re engaging in unacceptable ageism. Watch yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I said, “Have you ever penetrated into the wilds of this reservation?”

“No. Rifle range six is as far as I’ve gone.”

“That’s only scratching the surface. If you take this road coming up to the left here—General Pershing Road—it leads to the major training sites. There are artillery and mortar practice ranges and areas for special training exercises, like things called ‘The Rifle Company in the Attack,’ and ‘Armor and Infantry Joint Operations,’ ‘The Ambush,’ ‘The Night Patrol,’ and so on.”

“No picnic areas?”

“Not that I recall. There’s also an old ranger camp in there, a mock European town for urban warfare, and a mock Vietnamese village where I got killed about six times.”

“You must have learned your lesson.”

“Apparently. There’s also a mock POW camp, which the Psy-Ops School has taken over. That’s still active, and it’s a restricted area.”

“I see.” She thought a moment, then said, “So, with all that space out there, a hundred thousand acres, tell me why Ann Campbell picked a spot on an active rifle range, fifty meters from the road, with guard trucks, MPs, and a guard post a kilometer away.”

“Well, I thought about that, and three things come to mind. First, the obvious thing is that she was just going about her duties and got jumped. She didn’t pick the spot. He did. That’s what everybody here thinks, but we’re not buying that.”

“No, we’re not. So if she picked the spot, she picked a spot that her partner could find easily, because unless you were a good ranger or something, you could miss a rendezvous out in the deep woods.”

“That’s correct. That was my second thought. The guy was not comfortable or familiar with the woods at night.” I said, “Here’s your turn for Jordan Field.”

“I see it.” She made the right onto the airfield road and asked me, “Your third thought?”

“Well, Ann Campbell picked what amounted to a nearly public place because it presented an element of danger. Part of the kick, and maybe, just maybe, an element of ‘let’s see what I can get away with on Daddy’s property.’ ” I looked at Cynthia, who was nodding.

Cynthia said, “You may have something there, Paul. Pushing it in Daddy’s face.”

“Yes. But that’s supposing that Ann and Daddy seriously did not like each other,” I pointed out.

“You suggested that when we were searching her house.”

“Right. But I don’t know why I thought that. It’s just that I thought it can’t be easy to be the child of a powerful man, to live in his shadow. It’s a common syndrome.”

“Yes… I don’t have one piece of information that says that’s so in this case, so why do I think it is so?”

“Because the lack of something said is as revealing as what is said. More so. Did anyone say the general and his daughter were inseparable, close, loving, or even good friends?”

“Well, the general did say his daughter would have liked me.”

“I don’t care what the general said. No one else said anything like that—not Kent, not Fowler, not Moore, not Yardley, and not even General Campbell himself, if you think about it. So now we should find out what General and Captain Campbell thought of each other.”

Again she nodded, and said, “I have this feeling that there’s not much more left in the clue bag, and we’d better start putting it all together before we get booted or pushed aside by the FBI.”

“You got that right. I give this case two or three more days. After that we start running into well-entrenched defenses. As it says in the tank commander’s manual, our immediate advantage is shock, mobility, and firepower. We’ve got to hit them hardest where they’re softest, and fastest where they’re slowest.”

“And get there firstest with the mostest.”

“Precisely.”

We pulled up to the MP booth at Jordan Field, showed our ID, and were waved through.

Cynthia parked her car among the vans and trucks of the forensic lab, and I took the plastic bag of clothing out of the trunk, using a handkerchief, while Cynthia carried the hairbrush. Cynthia said, “If she took her own clothes off, he held the bag, so there may not be any of the other person’s prints on her holster, boots, belt buckle, or anywhere. Except perhaps the bag itself.”

“We’ll soon find out.”

We walked toward the hangar, and she said, “You’re pretty sharp, Brenner. I’m starting to admire you.”

“But do you like me?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said you did in Brussels.”

“I did, in Brussels. We’ll talk about it next week, or maybe later tonight.”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Hangar three was bathed in bright overhead lighting and busy with the activities of Fort Gillem’s transplanted forensic units. Colonel Kent had not yet arrived, which was fine for the moment.

I presented the plastic trash bag and the hairbrush to Cal Seiver, who needed no explanation. He gave the bag and the brush to a fingerprint technician and instructed him to pass it on to the trace evidence section after the prints had been lifted.

With that bag of clothing, hangar three now contained all the known artifacts of Captain Ann Campbell, excluding the mortal remains of the victim herself, but including her automobile, her office, and home. In addition, I saw that we also had in the hangar the humvee she had used that night. As we got toward the rear of the hangar, I saw the recently developed photos of the crime scene, all of which were pinned to rolling bulletin boards, plus sketch maps and diagrams of the crime scene, a rising stack of laboratory reports, the protocol complete with color photos of the cadaver, which I did not look at, plaster casts of footprints, cellophane bags of evidence, forensic laboratory equipment, and about thirty personnel, male and female.

In one corner of the hangar were about two dozen cots, and in another corner was a coffee bar. The Army, of course, has almost unlimited resources and personnel, and there’s no overtime pay to worry about, and probably no other major crime at the moment that would divert any resources. Sometimes even I am in awe of the force that is assembled and set in motion with a few words, sort of like when Roosevelt said to Eisenhower, “Assemble a force for the invasion of Europe.” Simple, direct, and to the point. This is the Army at its best. It’s at its worst when politicians try to play soldier and soldiers start to play politics. That can happen in criminal investigations, as well as in war, which is why I knew my time to act freely could be counted in days and hours.

Cal Seiver showed me a copy of the Midland Dispatch, the local daily, whose headline announced, GENERAL’S DAUGHTER FOUND DEAD AT FORT.

Cynthia and I read the article, the thrust of which was that Captain Ann Campbell had been found naked, bound, strangled, and possibly raped, out on a rifle range. The story was about half accurate, and the only direct quote from Fort Hadley came from a Captain Hillary Barnes, a public information officer, who stated that she had no official comment except that the apparent homicide was being investigated by the Army Criminal Investigation Division.

There was, however, a quote from the Midland chief of police, Burt Yardley, who said, “I’ve offered my assistance to Colonel Kent, provost marshal at Fort Hadley, and we are in close contact.”

He failed to mention the problem of the purloined house or that he wanted my ass delivered to him on a silver platter, but after our next meeting, he might start whining to the press about me.

Cal asked Cynthia, “Are those the running shoes you wore at the scene?”

“Yes. Do you want just the shoes or my feet in them?”

“Just the shoes, please.”

Cynthia sat on a folding chair, pulled off her running shoes, and handed them to Cal. He said to me, “Where are the boots you were wearing at the scene?”

“In my off-post quarters. I forgot to bring them.”

“Can I have them one of these days?”

“Sure. One of these days. I’m sort of confined to the post for a while.”

“Again? Jesus, Brenner, every time I work on a case with you that involves the civilian police, you piss them off.”

“Not every time. Okay, Cal, I’d like you to send a team out to rifle range five to get casts of some tire marks.” I told him where they would be found, and he started to amble off to take care of it. I said, “One more thing. When they’re finished there, have them go to Victory Gardens on Victory Drive and take casts of a set of tires on a Ford Fairlane, probably gray, 1985 or ’86, with an officers’ bumper sticker. I don’t have a license plate number for you, but look around unit thirty-nine.”

He regarded me a moment and replied, “If the car belongs to a soldier, we can wait until the car shows up on post.”

“I want it tonight.”

“Come on, Brenner, I can’t collect evidence outside government property without permission from the locals, and you already blew that.”

“Right. Don’t use an Army vehicle. Unit forty-five, the victim’s residence, is probably being secured by the Midland police, but the cop on duty will most likely be inside. Tell your guys to be careful and be quick.”

“It can wait until the car gets on post.”

“Okay.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I understand. I just hope those tires don’t disappear from that car by morning. Gosh, I hope the whole car doesn’t disappear tonight. But that’s all right. Wait until morning.”

“Okay, Victory Gardens. You’re pushing your luck, hotshot.” He walked off toward a group of people who were labeling plaster footprints and making notations on a sketch map of the crime scene. Cal handed them Cynthia’s running shoes and spoke to them, presumably about their midnight mission, because he kept jerking his thumb toward me, and the techs were glaring at me.

I got a cup of coffee for myself and brought one to Cynthia, who was leafing through lab reports. She took the coffee and said, “Thanks. Look at this.” She showed me a report from the footprint people. “They found a print of a smooth-soled shoe, size seven, possibly a woman’s civilian shoe. That’s not usual on a rifle range, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“What does that suggest?”

I scanned the report, which speculated that the footprint was recent. I said, “Interesting. But it could have been made a few days ago, for all we know. It hasn’t rained here in about a week.”

“Right. But it’s something to think about.”

We flipped through reports from the various forensic units for about fifteen minutes, then Cal called over to us from one of his makeshift lab areas, and we joined him at a table where a female technician was peering through a microscope. Cal said, “You may have hit pay dirt with that hairbrush. Where’d it come from?”

I patted his bald head. “Not from you.”

The technician laughed as she buried her face in the microscope.

Cal was not amused and said to Cynthia, “Since you’re the one with the brains on this team, why don’t you look in that microscope?”

The technician moved aside, and Cynthia sat at the table. The technician, a Specialist Lubbick, said, “The hair on the right was recovered from the sink basin in the male latrine at rifle range six. The hair on the left was taken from the hairbrush.”

Cynthia looked into the microscope as Specialist Lubbick continued, “I actually examined twenty hairs taken from the brush to satisfy myself that the brush hairs all belonged to the same individual. My opinion is that they do, and that statistically and logically, there should be no other individual’s hair on that brush, though I’ll examine every one of them for my report.”

I wanted to say, “Get to the point,” but you have to let technical types do it their way or they get sulky.

Specialist Lubbick continued, “Hairs have what we call class characteristics. That means they can’t be matched absolutely to a given sample. They can be used to exclude a suspect, but not to identify a suspect in a court of law, unless both samples submitted have roots so that we can get the sex of an individual and a genetic marker.”

Cal said to her, “I think they know that.”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, the sample found in the latrine has no roots, but from the shaft, I’ve determined that the individual had blood type O, and that the individual whose hair was on the brush also had blood type O. Also, both samples are Caucasian, are visually similar in texture, color, lack of artificial treatment, and general condition of health.”

Cynthia looked up from the microscope. “Yup. They look similar.”

Specialist Lubbick concluded, “My opinion is that they’re from the same individual, though the sample from the sink basin is too small to perform other tests such as spectro-analysis that might yield more similarities. Any further tests will alter or destroy this single strand taken from the latrine.” She added, “Some of the hairs from the brush do have roots, and in about an hour I can tell you the sex of that individual and get a DNA marker for you.”

I nodded. “Understand.”

Cynthia stood and said to Lubbick, “Please mark and bag this and attach a report.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks.”

Seiver asked me, “Is this enough for an arrest?”

“No, but it’s enough to start looking at a guy real close.”

“What guy?”

I took him off to the side, away from the technicians, and said, “A guy named Colonel Charles Moore whose tire tracks you are going to compare. Moore’s office is also at the Psy-Ops School. He was the victim’s boss. I’m trying to get his office sealed until we can get authorization to bring it here.”

Cynthia joined us and said, “In the meantime, Cal, match the fingerprints found on Colonel Moore’s hairbrush to the fingerprints found on the humvee, and also to any fingerprints found on the trash bag and the articles found inside the bag.”

“Right.” He thought a moment, then said, “But a match doesn’t conclusively place this Colonel Moore at the scene if Moore and the victim knew each other. He has a believable reason why his fingerprints could be on, let’s say, her holster, or on the humvee.”

I replied, “I know, but he would have a harder time explaining why his prints are on the trash bag, or why his tire marks are out on range five.”

Cal nodded. “Still, you need to place him there at the time of the murder.”

“Right. So I want you to compare the fingerprints on the hairbrush to the partial prints you found on the tent pegs. If we have his tire marks and enough fingerprints that match, then the rope around his fucking neck gets much tighter. Okay?”

Cal nodded. “Okay. You’re the detective. I’d vote guilty, but you never know these days.” He turned and walked toward the fingerprint unit.

Cynthia said to me, “If we interrogate Moore and present him with the evidence, there’s a good chance he will tell us he did it.”

“Right, or he will tell us he didn’t. Then we wind up in front of a court-martial board, all holding our breaths while they decide if a colonel in the United States Army strangled General Campbell’s daughter, or if Warrant Officers Brenner and Sunhill got the wrong guy, missed the right guy, totally dishonored themselves and the Army, and blew it big-time.”

Cynthia thought a moment and asked me, “If all the forensic evidence points to Moore, do you have any reasonable doubts?”

“Do you?”

“Reasonable doubts, yes. I just can’t see Ann Campbell doing whatever she was doing out there with that guy, and I can’t see him strangling her. He looks like the kind of sicko who’d put poison in your coffee, but he’s not a hands-on killer.”

“That’s what’s bothering me. But you never know… she may have asked him to do it. Pleaded with him to kill her. I had one like that once. And for all we know, Moore could have been flying on mind-altering drugs. Something he got from work.”

“That’s possible.”

I looked over Cynthia’s shoulder. “Meanwhile, here comes the law.”

Colonel Kent was making the long walk across the hangar, and we met him halfway. He asked, “Anything new here?”

I replied, “We’re close to something, Bill. I’m waiting for fingerprints and tire tracks.”

His eyes widened. “No kidding? Who?”