The General's Daughter

“Colonel Moore.”

He seemed to think about that, then nodded. “It fits.”

“How does it fit, Bill?”

“Well… they had a close relationship, he would have the opportunity, and I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s weird. I just don’t know what his motive would be.”

“Me neither.” I asked Kent, “Tell me about Captain and General Campbell.”

“What about them?”

“Were they close?”

He looked me right in the eye and said, “They were not.”

“Go on.”

“Well… perhaps we can discuss that another time.”

“Perhaps we can discuss it in Falls Church.”

“Hey, don’t threaten me.”

“Look, Colonel, I’m the investigating officer in a homicide case. You may feel that you’re under some social and professional restraints, but you’re not. Your duty is to answer my questions.”

Kent did not seem happy, but at the same time, he seemed relieved to be told in no uncertain terms that he had to unburden himself. He walked off toward the center of the hangar, and we followed him. He said, “Okay. General Campbell disapproved of his daughter’s choice of military occupation specialty, her choice of men, her decision to live off post, her associations with people like Charles Moore, and probably a half dozen other things that I’m not privy to.”

Cynthia asked, “Wasn’t he proud of her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“The Army was proud of her,” Cynthia pointed out.

Kent replied, “The Army had about as much choice in the matter as General Campbell did. Ann Campbell had one hand on her father’s balls and the other on the Army’s balls, to be quite blunt.”

Cynthia asked him, “What does that mean?”

“That means that, as a woman, a general’s daughter, a West Pointer, and a nearly public figure, she got away with a lot. She wangled her way into that recruiting stuff before her father knew what was happening, and all of a sudden she’s got the power of public notoriety, doing radio and TV, and addressing colleges and women’s groups, pushing an Army career for women and all that. Everyone loved her. But she didn’t give a damn about the Army. She just wanted to become untouchable.”

Cynthia asked him, “Why?”

“Well, as much as the general disapproved of her, she hated his guts ten times more. She did everything she could to personally embarrass him, and there wasn’t much he could do to her without screwing up his own career.”

“My goodness,” I said, “that’s interesting information. You must have forgotten to tell us that as you were agonizing over how to break the news to the general.”

Kent glanced around him, then said in a soft voice, “That’s between us. Officially, they loved each other.” He hesitated, then said, “To tell you the truth, General Campbell may have disapproved of this or that, but he didn’t hate her.” He added, “Look, this is all hearsay, but I’m passing it on to you in confidence, so you know what the hell is going on here. You didn’t hear it from me, but you can follow up on it.”

I nodded, “Thanks, Bill. Anything else?”

“No.”

But of course there was. “Who,” I asked, “were these men that the general disapproved of, aside from Colonel Moore?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was Wes Yardley one of them?”

He looked at me a long time, then nodded. “I think so.”

“Was Wes Yardley the man she had an altercation with in Midland?”

“Possibly.”

“Why did she want to embarrass her father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did she hate his guts?”

“If you find out, let me know. But whatever the reason was, it was one hell of a big one.”

“What was her relationship with her mother?”

Kent replied, “Strained. Mrs. Campbell was torn between being the general’s lady and being the mother of a very independent woman.”

“In other words,” I said, “Mrs. Campbell is a doormat, and Ann Campbell tried to raise her consciousness.”

“Something like that. But it was a little more complex.”

“How so?”

“You should speak with Mrs. Campbell.”

“I intend to.” I said to him, “Tell me again that you never went to Ann Campbell’s house, so I can explain in my report why your fingerprints were found on a bottle of her liquor.”

“I told you, Brenner, I touched a few of the things.”

“The liquor was sealed in a box by your MPs and not opened until about an hour ago.”

“You can’t pull that crap with me, Paul. I’m a cop, too. If you have evidence, let’s talk to Seiver and he can show it to me.”

“Look, Bill, let’s clear the air here so we can get onto more important things, like Colonel Moore. Here’s the question, and remember that you have a duty to answer truthfully, and if that doesn’t impress you, remember that I may discover the truth myself. Okay? Here’s the big question—were you fucking her?”

“Yes.”

No one spoke for a few long seconds, and I noticed that Kent seemed rather at ease with his confession. I didn’t remind him that he had said he would have told me that from minute one, because it was better if we all made believe this was minute one and that previous statements contained no lies.

Finally, Cynthia said, “Is that one of the ways that Ann Campbell tried to embarrass her father?”

Kent nodded. “Yeah… I never took it for anything more than that. The general knows—she made sure he did. But my wife doesn’t, obviously. That’s why I held back on that.”

My goodness, I thought, the things people will tell you at midnight, under stress, trying to put their lives in order because another life just ended, and trying to save whatever they can of their career and marriage. Obviously, Colonel William Kent needed our help. I said to him, “We’ll try to leave that out of the report.”

He nodded. “Thanks. But with Ann gone, the general has a clear field to settle some scores. I’ll be given the opportunity to resign for the good of the service. I might be able to save my marriage.”

Cynthia said, “We’ll do what we can.”

“Appreciate it.”

I asked him, “What other scores would the general like to settle?”

Kent smiled grimly. “Christ, she fucked for the general’s entire male staff.”

“What?”

“Everybody. Well, at least most of them. Everyone from that young lieutenant, Elby, his aide-de-camp, right up the chain through most of his immediate staff, plus the staff judge advocate, and people like me in key positions.”

“My God…” said Cynthia, “are you serious?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“But why?”

“I told you. She hated her father.”

“Well,” Cynthia said, “she didn’t think much of herself, either.”

“No, she didn’t. And if I’m any indication, then the men who slept with her didn’t think much of themselves afterward.” He added, “It wasn’t easy to turn that down.” He looked at me and tried to smile. “Can you relate to that, Mr. Brenner?”

I felt a bit uncomfortable with the question, but answered truthfully. “Yes, I understand. But I’m not married, and I don’t work for General Campbell.”

He smiled wider. “Then you wouldn’t have been one of her candidates, so you’d never be put to the test.”

“Well…”

He added, “If you had no power, you got no pussy.”

Cynthia interjected, “And she told you—told everyone—who she slept with?”

“I assume she did. I think that was part of the program, to spread corruption, mistrust, fear, anxiety, and so forth. But I think she lied sometimes about who she’d serviced.”

“So, for instance,” I asked, “you can’t say for sure if she had slept with the post chaplain, Major Eames, or the post adjutant, Colonel Fowler?”

“Not for sure. She claimed she’d seduced both of those two, for example, but I think at least Colonel Fowler was not taken in by her. Fowler once told me that he knew all about this and that I was part of the problem. I think he meant that he wasn’t. He was the only one the general trusted completely, and probably for that reason.”

I nodded. I could see Fowler telling Ann Campbell something like “Don’t try that with me, young lady. I don’t need you.”

Cynthia said to Kent, “This is bizarre… I mean, it’s sick.”

Kent nodded. “Well, regarding that, Ann once told me she was conducting a field experiment in psychological warfare, and the enemy was Daddy.” He laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. He said, “She hated him. I mean from the bottom of her guts and with all her heart. She couldn’t destroy him, but she was doing a hell of a job hurting him.”

Again, no one spoke for some time, then Cynthia said, as if to herself, “But why?”

“She never told me,” Kent replied. “I don’t think she ever told anyone. She knew, he knew, and maybe Mrs. Campbell knew. This was not a real happy family.”

“And maybe,” I said, “Charles Moore knew.”

“No doubt about it. But maybe we will never know. I’ll tell you one thing I believe. Moore was the force behind this. Moore told her how she could get back at her father for whatever it was he did to her.”

Which, I thought, was probably true. But that didn’t establish a motive for him to kill her. Quite the opposite. She was his protégé, his shield against the general’s wrath, his most successful experiment. The bastard deserved to die, but he should die for the right reason. I asked Kent, “And where did your trysts with the general’s daughter take place?”

He replied, “Here and there. Mostly motels out on the highway, but she wasn’t shy about doing it right here on post, in her office, my office.”

“And at her place?”

“Once in a while. I guess I misled you about that. But she liked to keep her place off limits.”

Either he didn’t know about the room in the basement, or he didn’t know I knew, and if he was in any of those photos, he wasn’t going to volunteer that information.

Kent said to us, “So if Moore is the killer, you’ve wrapped it up without too much damage to the Army and to the people here at Hadley. But if Moore is not the killer, and you’re looking for new suspects, then you’re going to have to start questioning a lot of men here on this post, Paul. I’ve come clean, and you should make them come clean, too. As you say, this is homicide, and to hell with careers, reputations, and good order and discipline.” He added, “Jesus, can you see the newspapers? Think about that story. An entire general staff and most of the senior officers on an Army post corrupted and compromised by a single female officer. That will set things back a few decades.” He added, “I hope Moore is the guy, and that’s as far as it has to go.”

I replied, “If you’re hinting that Colonel Moore is the best man to hang, though perhaps not the right man, then I have to remind you of our oath.”

“I’m just telling you both that you should not dig where you don’t have to dig. And if Moore is the guy, don’t let him try to take everyone with him. If he committed murder, then everyone else’s adulteries and actions unbecoming an officer are not relevant, and are not mitigating circumstances for his crime. That’s the law. Let’s take one court-martial at a time.”

Kent turned out to be not as dull as I’d remembered him. It’s amazing how sharp a man can get when he’s looking at dishonor, disgrace, divorce, and perhaps a board of official inquiry into his behavior. The Army still prosecutes for wrongful diddling, and Colonel Kent definitely diddled wrong. Sometimes I’m awed at the power of raw sex, at how much people are willing to risk—their honor, their fortunes, even their lives—for an hour between two thighs. On the other hand, if the thighs belonged to Ann Campbell… but that’s a moot issue.

I said to Kent, “Indeed, I appreciate your honesty, Colonel. When one man comes forth and tells the truth, others will do the same.”

“Maybe,” Kent replied, “but I would appreciate it if you kept my name out of it.”

“I will, but it doesn’t matter in the long run.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m finished.” He shrugged. “I knew that two years ago when I first got involved with her.” He added, almost light-heartedly, “She must have kept some sort of service schedule, because just when I thought I could make myself believe I’d never slept with her, she’d stop by my office and ask me to have drinks with her.”

Cynthia inquired, “Didn’t you ever think to say no?”

Kent smiled at Cynthia. “Did you ever ask a man to have sex with you, and the guy said no?”

Cynthia seemed a bit put off by that and replied, “I don’t ask men.”

“Well,” Kent advised her, “try it. Pick any married man and ask him to have sex with you.”

“The subject,” said Cynthia, very coolly, “is not me, Colonel.”

“All right, I apologize. But to answer your question, Ann Campbell would not take no for an answer. I’m not saying she blackmailed anyone. She never did, but there was an element of coercion sometimes. Also, she expected expensive gifts—perfume, clothes, airline tickets, and so forth. And here’s the crazy thing—she really didn’t care about the gifts. She just wanted me, and I guess everyone else, to feel the pinch once in a while, to part with more than a little time. It was sort of a control thing with her.” He added, “I remember once she asked me to bring her a bottle of some expensive perfume. Can’t remember what it was, but it set me back about four hundred dollars, and I had to cover that at home with a loan from the credit union, and eat lunch in the damned mess hall for a month.” He laughed at the thought, then said, “My God, I’m glad it’s all over.”

“Well, but it’s not,” I reminded him.

“It is for me.”

“I hope so, Bill.” I asked him, “Did she ever ask you to compromise your duties?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Just small things. Traffic tickets for friends, a speeding citation for her once. Nothing major.”

“I beg to differ, Colonel.”

He nodded. “I have no excuses for my conduct.”

That’s exactly what he was going to say in front of a board of inquiry, and that was the best and only thing he could say. I wondered how she compromised the other men, besides sexually. A favor here, a special consideration there, and who knew what else she wanted and got? In my twenty years in the service, including fifteen in the Criminal Investigation Division, I had never seen or heard of such rampant corruption on an Army base.

Cynthia asked Kent, “And the general could neither stop her nor get rid of her?”

“No. Not without exposing himself as an ineffective and negligent commander. By the time he realized his recruiting poster daughter had screwed and compromised everyone around him, it was too late for official action. The only way he could have righted things was to inform his superiors in the Pentagon of everything, ask for everyone’s resignation here, then offer his own resignation.” Kent added, “He couldn’t have gone too wrong if he just shot himself.”

“Or killed her,” Cynthia suggested.

Again, Kent shrugged. “Maybe. But not the way she was killed.”

“Well,” I said, “if we didn’t already have a prime suspect, you’d be one of many, Colonel.”

“Right. But I didn’t get burned as badly as some of the others. Some of them were actually in love with her, obsessed, and maybe homicidally jealous. Like that young kid, Elby. He used to mope for weeks when she ignored him. Interrogate Moore, and if you think he didn’t kill her, then ask him for his list of suspects. That bastard knew everything about her, and if he tells you it is privileged information, let me know and I’ll put a pistol in his mouth and tell him he can take the information to the grave with him.”

“I might be a little more subtle.” I informed him, “I’m trying to get Moore’s office padlocked until I can get clearance to bring it here.”

“You should just put the damn cuffs on him.” Kent looked at me and said, “Anyway, you see why I didn’t want the local CID guys in on this.”

“I guess I do now. Were any of them involved with her?”

He pondered a moment, then replied, “The CID commander, Major Bowes.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Ask him. He’s one of your people.”

“Do you and Bowes get along?”

“We try.”

“What’s the problem?”

“We have jurisdictional problems. Why do you ask?”

“Jurisdictional meaning criminal activity, or meaning something else?”

He looked at me, then replied, “Well… Major Bowes had become possessive.”

“He didn’t like to share.”

Kent nodded. “A few of her boyfriends got that way. That was when she dumped them.” He added, “Married men are real pigs.” He thought a moment, then said, “Don’t trust anyone on this post, Paul.”

“Including you?”

“Including me.” Kent looked at his watch. “Is that it? Did you want to see me for something in particular?”

“Well, whatever it was, it’s not real important now.”

“Right. I’m going home. You can reach me there until 0700, then I’ll be in my office. Where can I find you tonight if something comes up?”

Cynthia replied, “We’re both in the VOQ.”

“All right. Well, my wife’s probably been trying to call me from Ohio. She’ll start thinking I’m having an affair. Good evening.” He turned and left, making the long walk with a lot less spring in his step than when he’d entered.

Cynthia commented, “I can’t believe this. Did he just tell us that Ann Campbell slept with most of the senior officers on post?”

“Yes, he did. Now we know who those men were in her photos.”

She nodded. “And now we know why this place seemed so strange.”

“Right. The suspect list just got real long.”

So, I thought, Colonel Kent, Mr. Clean, Mr. Law and Order, broke nearly every damned rule in the book. This brittle, stuffy man had a libido, and it led him right to the dark side of the moon. I said to Cynthia, “Would Bill Kent commit murder to safeguard his reputation?”

Cynthia replied, “It’s conceivable. But I think he was indicating that his secret was public knowledge, and his career was just waiting for General Campbell to have a chance to ax it.”

I nodded. “Well, if not to avoid disgrace and humiliation, as it says in the manual, then how about jealousy?”

She thought a moment, then said, “Kent is also indicating that his relationship with Ann Campbell was just sport for him. A little lust, but no emotional involvement. I can believe that.” She saw that I wanted more from her, and she pondered a moment, then added, “On the other hand, the motive he assigned to Major Bowes—possessiveness and, by extension, jealousy may not be true and may actually be what Bill Kent himself felt. Remember, this guy’s a cop, and he read the same manual we did. He knows how we think.”

“Precisely. Yet, I find it hard to think of that guy as passionate, jealous, or emotionally involved with any woman.”

“I know. But it’s the cool ones who burn hot at the center. I’ve seen his type before, Paul. Authoritarian, control freaks, conservative, and obsessed with rules and regulations. It’s a mechanism they use because they’re frightened of their own passions, and they know what lurks beneath the neat suit or uniform. In reality, they have no natural checks and balances on their behavior, and when they spin out of control, they’re capable of anything.”

I nodded. “But maybe we’re getting too psychobabbly.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But let’s keep an eye on Colonel Kent. He’s got a different agenda than we do.”

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Cal Seiver said he was finished with Ann Campbell’s study, or what was once her study, so I sat on her sofa and played another videotape of her psyops lecture series. Around me, the men and women of the forensic laboratory went about their occupation of examining the microscopic particles of a person’s existence, the type of stuff that other people called dirt—hairs, fibers, dust, fingerprints, smudges, and stains.

In and of themselves, hairs, fibers, prints, and all that were innocuous, but if, for instance, a set of fingerprints was lifted from a liquor bottle in Ann Campbell’s cupboard, and if the prints turned out to belong to, say, Colonel George Fowler, then the possibilities were two: he gave the bottle to her and she took it home, or he was in her home. But if Fowler’s prints were found, say, on the mirror of her bathroom, that would be presumptive evidence that he was actually in the bathroom. In fact, however, the latent-fingerprint section, using prints on file, had not yet matched any known prints to the ones they’d found, except mine, Cynthia’s, Ann Campbell’s, and Colonel Kent’s—which could be explained two ways. Eventually, they would match prints to Chief Yardley, and again, Yardley, being one of the polluters of the stored evidence, had an explanation. They’d find Moore’s prints, too, but as her boss and neighbor, that was meaningless. And since we had no further access to things like Ann Campbell’s bathroom mirror or her shower, those kinds of prints, which were very suggestive, were not going to be found by us, but by Chief Yardley, who would have the whole house dusted by now. And any prints he didn’t like, such as his son’s, would disappear.

Knowing who had been in her house might eventually lead to her killer in a conventional, plodding type of homicide investigation, and knowing who was in her basement boudoir would give me a list of men who suddenly had a lot to lose unless they cooperated fully. But that room remained sealed for now, and that might be a false, though very scenic trail to follow.

Knowing who was at the crime scene was more to the point, and we were close to establishing that Colonel Charles Moore was there, though when he was there and what he was doing there needed clarification.

Colonel William Kent. Now, there was a man who suddenly had a career problem, not to mention the little chat he’d eventually have to have with Mrs. Kent. Thank God I don’t have those kinds of problems.

Kent had made what amounted to a confession of sexual misbehavior, dereliction of duty, and actions unbecoming an officer, to name just three charges that the JAG office could come up with. People often do this in a murder investigation, like making a small sacrifice on the altar of the goddess of Justice, hoping that the goddess will accept it and go someplace else to find a human blood sacrifice.

Cynthia’s estimation of Kent was interesting because literally no one would think that William Kent was a passionate, possessive, or jealous man. But in some instinctive way, she saw or sensed something that I never did. What we knew now was that Kent had had sexual relations with Ann Campbell. And I don’t believe Kent is into sport-fucking. Ergo, Kent was in love with her and killed her out of jealousy. But I didn’t know that, and there were too many suppositions on the way to that ergo.

One of the side benefits of having forensic lab people all over the place is that you can lie to suspects about this or that, though it doesn’t say so in the manual. I had to know, or suspect, of course, that a person was here or there or did this or that before trying to bully and deceive that person. And sometimes you get your head handed to you, the way Kent did to me. Still, I think I smoked him out with the accusation.

My mind returned to the television screen and I focused on Ann Campbell. She stood in front of me, speaking directly to me, and we made good eye contact. She wore the light summer green B uniform with a short-sleeve blouse and a skirt, and now and then she’d walk away from the lectern and stand at the edge of the stage in the lecture hall, speaking as she moved around, very much at ease in her gestures, body language, and facial expressions.

For all her reported coolness, she seemed accessible during her lecture. She smiled, looked directly at a questioner in the audience, and laughed at her own occasional joke and at amusing comments from the hundred or so men in the lecture hall. She had this sexy habit of throwing back her head and brushing her long blond hair away from her face. Now and then, she’d bite her lip in thought or look wide-eyed as a combat veteran told an interesting anecdote, then she’d ask intelligent questions of her own. This was no programmed android droning on behind the lectern like so many Army and academic lecturers, as I’m sure Colonel Moore was. This was a woman with an inquiring mind, a good sense of when to talk and when to listen, and an exuberance for her slightly offbeat subject. Now and then, the camera would scan the audience and you could see a lot of alert men out there who clearly enjoyed what they were hearing as much as what they were seeing.

Ann Campbell was talking about psychological operations directed at specific individuals, and I tuned in to what she was saying. “We’ve spoken about psy-ops directed toward enemy combat soldiers, toward support personnel, and toward the civilian population as a whole. Now I’d like to speak about psychological operations directed toward individuals, specifically enemy military commanders and political leaders.”

Cynthia sat down beside me with a fresh cup of coffee and a plate of donuts. She asked me, “Good movie?”

“Yes.”

“Can we turn this off?”

“No.”

“Paul, why don’t you go get some sleep?”

“Quiet.”

Cynthia stood and walked away. Ann Campbell continued, “And the last time we used this tool effectively was in World War II against the Nazi political and military leaders. We had the advantage of knowing something about them, about their personal histories, their superstitions, their sexual preferences, their beliefs in the occult or in omens, and so forth. And what we didn’t know, we found out through various intelligence-gathering sources. Thus, we had a biographical and psychological profile of many of these men, and we were able to target them individually, and we were able to exploit their weaknesses, undermine their strengths, and introduce false and deceptive elements into their decision-making process. In short, the goal was to weaken their self-confidence, lower their self-esteem, and demoralize them through the process of what is sometimes called mind-fucking. Excuse me.”

She waited until the laughter and applause died down, then continued, “We’ll call it mind-fudging, because we’re on tape today. Okay, how do you fudge up someone’s mind who is a thousand miles away, deep in the heart of enemy territory? Well, in much the same way you do it with your wife, girlfriend, boss, or pain-in-the-neck neighbor. First, you have to be aware that this is something you want to do, and have to do. Then you have to know the other person’s mind—what worries that person, what annoys that person, what frightens that person. You can’t manipulate until you know how all the levers, switches, and buttons work. Finally, you have to be in contact with that person. Contact is made on several levels—personal contact, surrogate contact through a third party, written contact in the form of documents, newspapers, letters, air-dropped leaflets—don’t do that with your wife or boss—radio contact in the form of propaganda transmissions, or planted and managed news stories, and so on.”

She expounded on this awhile, then said, “In regard to surrogate or personal contact, this is the most effective and ancient of all contacts with the enemy leader. This sort of contact is an interactive contact, and, though difficult to achieve, it pays off handsomely. One type of personal contact with the enemy that we in the United States Army do not officially condone, or use, is sexual contact—Mata Hari, Delilah, and other famous seductresses, sex sirens, and seducers.”

She continued, “If women ever become field commanders, we’ll need guys like you to sneak into their tents at night.”

A little laughter, and you could hear someone say something about putting a flag over the face of some old battle-ax lady general and screwing her for Old Glory.

Then someone asked, “If you get that close to an enemy leader, why not kill him?”

Ann Campbell replied, “Why not, indeed? Aside from moral and legal considerations is the fact that a compromised, frightened, or totally bonkers leader, such as a Hitler or Hussein, is like you having ten more infantry divisions at the front. The damage that an ineffective leader can do to his own military operation is incalculable. We in the military have to relearn what we knew in the past—what all armies in the field knew throughout history, which is this: the troops are already filled with doubt and homesickness and with irrational battlefield superstitions and fear. You have to do the same to the generals.”

Fade to black. I stood and shut off the TV. It all seemed very clever, very logical, and very effective as she presented it in a classroom situation. Obviously, too, she’d had at least one field experiment in progress, as Kent had suggested. If I could believe Kent, Ann Campbell was waging a planned, deliberate, and totally vicious campaign against her enemy, her father. But what if he deserved it? What did Moore say about her killer? That whoever it was thought he was justified. Likewise, perhaps, Ann Campbell thought that what she was doing to her father was justified. Therefore, he’d done something to her, and whatever it was, it had set her on a course of revenge and, ultimately, self-destruction. One thing that came to mind that would make a daughter do that to her father, and to herself, was sexual abuse and incest.

That was what the shrinks would tell me when I asked, and that fit every psychological case history I’d ever heard about. But if it was true, the only person who would confirm it was dead. The general could confirm it, but even Paul Brenner wasn’t going to touch that one. However, I could make discreet inquiries, and maybe, just maybe, Mrs. Campbell could be delicately questioned on the subject of her daughter’s relationship with her father. What the hell, I had my twenty years in.

On the other hand, as Kent suggested, why dig up muck that had nothing to do with the homicide at hand? But who’s to know what muck you needed and what muck you didn’t?

So, did the general kill his daughter to stop her fury, or to shut her up? Or did Mrs. Campbell do it for the same reasons? And what was Colonel Moore’s role in this? Indeed, the more muck I raked up, the more the ladies and gentlemen of Fort Hadley got splattered.

Cynthia came up to me and forced a piece of donut in my mouth. Obviously, we were on the verge of something more intimate than sharing a car, a bathroom, and a donut. But to tell you the truth, at my age, at two in the morning, Private Woody wasn’t going to stand tall. Cynthia said, “Maybe the JAG Office will give you those videotapes when the case is closed.”

“Maybe I’d rather have the tapes in her basement.”

“Don’t be disgusting, Paul.” She continued on the subject, as women will do, “It’s not healthy, you know.”

I refused to respond.

“When I was a teenager, I fell in love with James Dean. I’d watch Rebel Without a Cause and Giant on late night TV, and cry myself to sleep.”

“What an astonishing admission of necrophilia. What’s the point?”

“Forget it. Here’s the good news. The tire tracks on rifle range five were made by Colonel Moore’s car, or what we’re pretty sure is his car. The prints on Moore’s hairbrush, which we assume were made by Moore, match two prints on the tent peg, at least six prints on the humvee, and one in the male latrine; also in the latrine, in the sink trap, was another hair that matched Moore’s hair. Also, all the fingerprints on the trash bag are Moore’s and Ann Campbell’s, and ditto the prints on her boots, holster, and helmet, suggesting that they both handled those items. So your reconstruction of the crime, the movements and actions of Ann Campbell and Colonel Moore, seem to comport with the physical evidence. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“So does this guy hang?”

“I think they shoot officers. I’ll check before I speak to Colonel Moore.”

“Case closed?”

“I’ll check that with Colonel Moore.”

“If he doesn’t confess, will you go to the judge advocate general with what we’ve got?”

“I don’t know. It’s not an airtight case yet.”

“No,” Cynthia agreed, “it’s not. We have your theory of the wrong times of the headlights, for one thing. We can put Moore at the scene of the crime, but we can’t put the rope in his hands at the time of death. Also, we don’t know his motive.”

“Right. And without motive, you’ve got a tough job with a jury.” I added, “There’s also the possibility it was an accident.”

“Yes, that’s what he’s going to say if he says anything.”

“Right. He’ll have a dozen of his shrink buddies explain to the court-martial board about sexual asphyxia, and how it was a consensual act, and how he misjudged her physical state while she was having an orgasm and he was stimulating her. And the officers on the court-martial board will be completely grossed-out and fascinated. Eventually, they’ll have reasonable doubt, and they’ll have to agree that the physical evidence does not support an act of violent and forcible rape. They’ll believe it was a good time gone bad. And I don’t think they can even find for manslaughter. You have two consenting adults engaging in kinky sex, and one of them inadvertently causes the death of the other. The charge is reckless endangerment, if even that.”

Cynthia commented, “Sex crimes are tough. There’re all sorts of other things involved.”

I nodded, recalling a CID case, not my own, where a guy was into high-colonic enemas, and the woman administering them gave him one too many, and the guy’s intestine burst, leading to death by hemorrhaging and infection. The crew at Falls Church and the boys in the JAG Office had a good time with that one, but in the end decided not to prosecute. The woman, a young lieutenant, was asked to resign, and the man, an older sergeant major with a chest full of medals, was given a military funeral with honors. All for the good of the service.

Sex. Ninety percent of the human sex drive comes from the mind, and when the mind is wrong, the sex is wrong. But if you have consent, you don’t have rape, and if it was or could have been an accident, you don’t have murder. You have someone in need of serious counseling.

Cynthia asked me, “So? Do we make an arrest?”

I shook my head.

She said, “I think that’s the right decision at this point.”

I picked up the telephone and dialed Colonel Fowler’s number. A sleepy woman answered. I identified myself, and Fowler got on the line. “Yes, Mr. Brenner?” He sounded a little annoyed.

I said, “Colonel, I’ve decided I don’t want Colonel Moore’s office padlocked or the contents confiscated at this time. I wanted you to know.”

“Now I know.”

“You asked me to let you know about arrests, and I’ve had second thoughts about placing him under arrest.”

“I didn’t know you intended to arrest him, Mr. Brenner, but if you rethink it again, will you please wake me up later so I can keep score?”

“Of course.” This was fun. I liked a man with a dry sense of humor. I said to him, “I called to ask you not to mention this to anyone. It could jeopardize the case.”

“I understand. But I will report this to the general.”

“I suppose you have no choice.”

“None whatsoever.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have any other suspects?”

“Not at the moment. But I have some good leads.”

“That’s encouraging. Anything further?”

“I’m starting to turn up evidence that Captain Campbell… how shall I put this…? That Captain Campbell had an active social life.”

Dead silence.

So I continued, “It was inevitable that this would come out. I don’t know if this relates to her murder, but I’ll do my best to keep this in perspective and to minimize the damage to the fort and the Army if this information should become public, and so on.”

“Why don’t we meet at, say, 0700 hours at my house for coffee?”

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you at home at that hour.”

“Mr. Brenner, you are borderline insubordinate and definitely pissing me off. Be here at 0700 hours sharp.”

“Yes, sir.” The phone went dead. I said to Cynthia, “I’ll have to speak to the Signal Corps people about the phone service at Fort Hadley.”

“What did he say?”

“Colonel Fowler asks that we join him for coffee, 0700, his house.”

She looked at her watch. “Well, we can get a little sleep. Ready?”

I looked around. Most of the hangar was in darkness now, and most of the cots were filled with sleeping men and women, though a few diehards were still at it, bent over typewriters, test tubes, and microscopes. “Okay, half a day today.”

As we walked through the hangar, I asked Cynthia, “Did they find her West Point ring in that bag of clothes?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“And it hasn’t turned up in her household possessions yet?”

“No, I asked Cal about it.”

“Odd.”

“She may have lost it,” Cynthia said. “Maybe it’s being cleaned.”

“Maybe.”

Cynthia said to me, “Paul, if we had found her on that rifle range alive, and she was right here with us now, what would you say to her?”

“What would you say to her? You’re the rape counselor.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Okay. I’d say to her that whatever happened in the past should be dealt with in a healthy way, not a destructive way. That she needed good counseling, not bad counseling, that she should try to find a spiritual answer to her pain, that she should try to forgive the person or persons who… mistreated her and took advantage of her. I’d tell her she was an important and worthwhile human being with a lot to live for, and that people would care about her in a good way if she started caring about herself. That’s what I’d say to her.”

Cynthia nodded. “Yes, that’s what someone should have said to her. Maybe someone did. But something bad happened to her, and what we see and hear is her response to that. This type of behavior in a bright, educated, attractive, and professionally successful woman is often the result of… some past trauma.”

“Such as?”

We left the hangar and walked out into the cool evening. The moon had set and you could see a billion stars in the clear Georgia sky. I looked out across the huge dark expanse of Jordan Field, recalling when it was lit every night, and remembering a particular flight that used to come in after midnight two or three times a week. I said to Cynthia, “I unloaded bodies from Vietnam here.”

She didn’t respond.

I said, “If they don’t bury her here in Midland, this is where everyone will gather after church to see her off. Tomorrow or the next day, I guess.”

“Will we be here?”

“I plan to be.”

We went to her car and she said to me, “In answer to your question… I think her father is the key to her behavior. You know, a domineering figure, pushed her into the military, tried to control her life, a weak mother, extended absences, lots of moving around the world, total dependence on and deference to his career. She rebels in the only way she knows how. It’s all pretty much textbook stuff.”

We got in the car and I said, “Right. But there are a million well-adjusted daughters out there with the same backgrounds.”

“I know. But it’s how you handle it.”

“I’m thinking about a more… abnormal relationship with her father that would explain her hate.”

We headed toward the gates of the airfield. She said, “I know what you’re saying, and I thought that, too. But if you think rape and murder are hard to prove, try proving incest. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you, Paul. That one could hurt you.”

“Right. My first case as a CID officer was a barracks theft. Look how far I’ve come. Next step, the abyss.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY

Cynthia parked at the VOQ, and we took the outside staircase up to the second floor and found our rooms. “Well,” she said, “good night.”

“Well,” I replied, “I’m bursting with energy, second wind, too wound up to sleep, adrenaline pumping, and all that. How about a little TV and a drink?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’d be better off not sleeping at this point. You’ll feel worse when you have to get up. We’ll just relax, shower, change, and off to Colonel Fowler’s.”

“Well, maybe… but…”

“Come on in.” I opened my door, and she followed me inside. She picked up the phone and called the charge-of-quarters person and left a wake-up call for 0530 hours. She said to me, “Just in case we pass out.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Well, as it turns out, I can’t offer you a drink, and I don’t see a TV here. How about charades?”

“Paul…”

“Yes?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Then how about rock, scissors, and paper? Do you know how to play that? It’s easy—”

“I can’t stay here. This has been an upsetting day for me. This wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be any good, anyway.” And so on.

I said, “I understand. Go get some sleep. I’ll call you when I get the wake-up call.”

“Okay. Sorry. I’ll leave the bathroom doors unbolted.”

“Fine. See you in a few hours.”

“Good night.” She went toward the bathroom door, turned and came back, kissed me lightly on the lips, started to cry, then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water running, then heard the other door open to her room, then silence.

I undressed and hung my clothes and got into bed. I must have passed out within seconds, then the next thing I remember is the phone ringing. I answered it, expecting to hear a wake-up call, or hear Cynthia’s voice asking me to come to her room. But, no, it was the deep, bass voice of Colonel Fowler. “Brenner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sleeping?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Do you take milk?”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t have any milk or cream, Brenner.”

“That’s okay—”

“I wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

I thought I heard a laugh before the phone went dead. My watch said it was nearly five A.M., so I got up, stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and got under it. What a day. Half of it didn’t even seem real. I was firing on two cylinders and my tank was on empty. But I needed about forty-eight more hours at this pace, then I’d be out of here in a blaze of glory, or I’d crash in flames.

Personal and career considerations aside, there was something very wrong here at Fort Hadley, a festering sore, and it needed to be lanced and washed clean. That much I knew I could do.

Through the rippled glass and steam on the shower door, I saw a figure standing in the entrance to Cynthia’s room. “Okay if I come in?”

“Sure.”

She was wearing something white, probably a nightshirt, and disappeared into the stall where the toilet was. A few minutes later she reappeared and went to the sink, her back to me. She washed her face and called out over the noise of the shower, “How do you feel?”

“Fine. How about you?”

“Not bad. Did I hear your phone ring?”

“Yes. Colonel Fowler. Just a harassment call.”

She laughed. “You deserve it.” She began brushing her teeth.

My phone rang again, and I said, “That’s the CQ. Can you get it?”

She rinsed her mouth. “Sure.” She went into my room and came back a few seconds later. “It’s five-thirty.” She went back to the sink, gargled, then asked me, “Are you taking one of your marathon showers?”

“Yes. Do you want to save time?”

Silence. Maybe that was too subtle. “Cynthia?”

She turned away from the sink, and I heard her say to herself, “Oh, what the hell.”

I saw her pull off her nightshirt, and she opened the shower door and stepped inside. “Do my back.”

So I did. Then I did her front. We embraced and kissed, and the water ran over us, and our bodies pressed closer together. The body remembers an old lover, I think, and a flood of good memories came back to me, and it was as if we were in Brussels again. Woody remembered, too, and rose happily, like an old hound dog whose master walks in the door after a year’s absence. Ruff, ruff!

“Paul… it’s all right… go ahead.”

“Yes, it’s all right. It’s good. Here or in bed?”

“Here. Now.”

But, as luck would have it, the phone rang again, and she said, “You’d better get that.”

“Damn it!” We separated, and Cynthia hung the washcloth on my hook and laughed.

I threw the washcloth aside and said, “Don’t go anywhere.” I got out of the shower, grabbed a towel on my way, and picked up the phone on my nightstand. “Brenner here.”

“Well, now, you’re a hell of a hard man to find.”

“Who’s this?”

“It ain’t your mommy, son.”

“Oh…”

Chief Yardley informed me, “Bill Kent just told me you decided to stay on post. Why don’t you come on home to your trailer?”

“What?”

“I spent the whole damn day tryin’ to figure where you were at, and I get here and you’re AWOL, boy. Come on home.”

“What the hell—are you in my trailer?”

“Sure thing, Paul. But you ain’t.”

“Hey, Chief, do you practice that cracker accent, or what?”

“Sure ’nuf, boy.” He laughed. “Hey, tell you what—I’m cleanin’ this place out for you. No use payin’ rent someplace you ain’t gonna see again.”

“You have no right—”

“Hold that thought awhile, son. We might get back to that. Meantime, come on down to my office and gather up your stuff.”

“Chief, there is government property in there—”

“Yeah, I saw that. Had to bust a lock. Got a gun here, some official-lookin’ papers, some weird book fulla codes or somethin’… what else we got here? Pair of cuffs, some uniforms and ID from a guy named White… you sleepin’ with some guy?”

Cynthia came into the room wrapped in a bath towel and sat on the bed. I said to Yardley, “Okay, you skunked me.”

“Let’s see… box of rubbers, prissy little bikini shorts . . that yours or your boyfriend’s?”

“Chief—”

“Tell you what, son—you come on over to the station and pick this here stuff up. I’ll be waitin’ on ya.”

“You deliver the government property to the provost office. I’ll meet you there at noon.”

“Let me think on that awhile.”

“You do that. And bring Wes with you. I’d like to talk to him.”

Silence, followed by, “You can talk to him at my office.”

“I’ll just wait to see him at the funeral service here. I assume he’ll attend.”

“I reckon he will. But we don’t conduct business at funerals around here,”

“You should. That’s where everybody shows up after a murder.”

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you talk to him because I want to see the son-of-a-bitch who done this in the pokey. But I’m lettin’ you know now, my boy was on duty when it happened, and his partner will verify that, and we got tapes of his radio calls all night.”

“I’m sure of that. Meanwhile, you can have access to the hangar as of now. I want to send my lab people to Captain Campbell’s house.”

“Yeah? What for? Y’all took every damn thing. My boys had to bring their own damn toilet paper.”

“I’ll see you and Wes at noon. Bring my stuff and the government’s stuff.”

“Don’t hold your breath, son.”

He hung up, and I stood, wrapping the towel around me. Cynthia asked, “Burt Yardley?”

“Sure ’nuf.”

“What did he want?”

“My ass, mostly. The SOB cleaned out my trailer.” I laughed. “I like this guy. Too many wimps around these days. This guy is a genuine, hard-ass old prick.”

“That’ll be you next year.”

“I hope so.” I looked at my watch on the nightstand. “It’s ten after six. Do we have time?”

She stood. “I have to dry my hair, get dressed, do my face—”

“All right. Rain check?”

“Sure.” She walked to the bathroom door, then turned and asked me, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Yes. Colonel Fowler at seven, then Moore about eight—”

“I forgot, you don’t like that expression. Are you romantically involved with anyone?”

“No, I’m kind of between meaningful relationships at the moment. Truth is, no one since you.”

“Good. Keeps it simple.”

“Right. Except for Major what’s-his-name. Your husband?”

“I’m very clear about that now.”

“That’s encouraging. We don’t want a repeat of Brussels, do we?”

She laughed. “Sorry. Why do I find that funny?”

“Because you weren’t looking down the muzzle of the gun.”

“No, but you didn’t have to listen to him for the next year. But, okay, Paul, I owe you for that. I’ll pay off tonight, then we’ll see where it goes.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me, too.” She hesitated, then said, “You’re too obsessed with… this case. You need a release.”

“You’re a sensitive and nurturing partner.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and I found yesterday’s shorts and yesterday’s socks. I got dressed, thinking, as I went through the motions, that life is a series of complications, some small, like where to get clean underwear, some a little bigger, like the one who just left the room. How you handle life depends a lot on how you handle plan B, or if you have a plan B.

Anyway, as I checked to see if my Glock had a firing pin and ammunition, I considered that the time had come for me to settle down a bit, and that what I didn’t need anymore was a little light sport-fucking now and then.

Right. Whatever happened tonight with Cynthia would be the real thing. Something good had to come out of this mess.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

Bethany Hill is Fort Hadley’s Shaker Heights, though considerably smaller and not as well manicured. There are about thirty solid brick colonial-style homes set in an area of some sixty acres of oaks, beech, maple, and other high-ranking trees, while the lowly southern pine is specifically absent. All of the houses go back to the 1920s and ’30s, when officers were gentlemen, were expected to live on post, and there weren’t so many of them

Times change, and the officer population has swelled beyond the Army’s needs and its ability to give each one a house, a horse, and a manservant. But the top dogs on post still get the houses on the hill if they want them, and Colonel Fowler probably felt that living on post was good politics. Mrs. Fowler may have also preferred Fort Hadley. Not that Midland is a bastion of Old South attitudes toward blacks; it is not, having been influenced by decades of close proximity to the fort. But Bethany Hill, sometimes called the colonels’ ghetto, was probably more comfortable in social terms than a similar neighborhood in town.

Bethany Hill’s only disadvantage was its proximity to the rifle ranges, range number one being about five miles south of the hill. I could imagine that during a night firing exercise, with the wind from the south, you could hear the gunfire. But for some of the old infantry types, it was probably as soothing as a lullaby.

Cynthia was wearing a green silk blouse and a tan skirt, and, presumably, clean undergarments. I said to her, “You look very nice this morning.”

“Thank you. How long do I have to see that blue suit?”

“Think of it as the duty uniform of the week.” I added, “Your makeup didn’t cover the dark circles under your eyes, which are also bloodshot and puffy.”

“I’ll look fine with a good night’s sleep. You need a more recent birthday.”

“Are you a little grumpy this morning?”

“Yes. Sorry.” She put her hand on my knee. “These aren’t the best circumstances for us to renew our friendship.”

“No. But we got real close there.”

We found the house, a good-sized brick structure with standard green door, green trim, and green shutters. A Ford station wagon and Jeep Cherokee were parked in the driveway. American-made vehicles are not de rigueur for high-ranking officers, but it’s not a bad idea, either.

We parked on the street, got out of Cynthia’s Mustang, and proceeded up the front walk. It was still cool on the hill at 0700 hours, but the hot sun was slanting in at a low angle under the trees, and it felt like another one of those days in the making.

I said to Cynthia, “Colonels with enough time in grade and time in service to be a general, such as Colonels Fowler and Kent, are extremely sensitive to career-limiting problems.”

Cynthia replied, “Every problem is an opportunity.”

I said, “Sometimes every problem is a problem. Kent, for instance, is finished.” It was exactly 0700 hours and I knocked on the green door.

An attractive black woman, wearing a nice aqua summer dress, opened the door and forced a smile. Before I could announce ourselves, which is customary, she said, “Oh… Ms. Sunhill and Mr. Brenner. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I was willing to forgive her for recognizing the younger and obviously lower-ranking warrant officer first. Civilians, even colonels’ wives, sometimes got it wrong, and to be honest, rank among warrant officers is like virginity among prostitutes: there ain’t none.

We stood there awkwardly a moment, then she showed us in and escorted us down the center hall.

Cynthia said to her, “This is a beautiful home.”

She replied, “Thank you.”

Cynthia asked her, “Did you know Captain Campbell well?”

“Oh… no… not well.”

Which was a rather odd reply. I mean, how could General Campbell’s adjutant’s wife not know General Campbell’s daughter? Clearly, Mrs. Fowler was distracted, forgetting all sorts of little social courtesies that should be second nature to a colonel’s wife. I asked her, “Have you seen Mrs. Campbell since the tragedy?”

“Mrs. Campbell? No… I’ve been… too upset…”

Not as upset as the victim’s mother, however, and that was a sympathy call that should have been made by now.

I was about to ask another question, but we reached our destination, a screened porch in the rear of the house where Colonel Fowler was speaking on the telephone. He was already dressed in his green A uniform, his shirt buttoned and his tie snug, though his jacket was draped over a chair. He motioned us into two wicker chairs opposite him at a small table, and we sat.

The military is perhaps the last American bastion of fixed and clearly defined social customs, rank, responsibilities, and required courtesies, and in case you needed guidance, there’s an entire six-hundred-page book for officers, explaining what your life is and should be about. So when things seem a little askew, you start wondering.

Mrs. Fowler excused herself and disappeared. Colonel Fowler was listening on the phone, then said, “I understand, sir. I’ll tell them.” He hung up and looked at us. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Colonel.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He poured two cups of coffee and indicated the sugar. He began without preamble, “I’ve encountered very little discrimination in the Army, and I can speak for other minorities when I say that the Army is, indeed, a place where race and religion are not a factor in advancement or in any other area of Army life. There may be racial problems among the enlisted personnel, but there is no systemic racial discrimination.”

I wasn’t sure where this was going, so I put sugar in my coffee.

Colonel Fowler looked at Cynthia. “Have you experienced any discrimination based on your sex?”

Cynthia hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps… yes, on a few occasions.”

“Have you ever been harassed because of your gender?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been the subject of rumors, innuendos, or lies?”

“Maybe… once that I know of.”

Colonel Fowler nodded. “So you see that I as a black man have had fewer problems than you as a white woman.”

Cynthia replied, “I know that the Army is less accepting of females than of males. But so is the rest of the world. What is the point, Colonel?”

“The point, Ms. Sunhill, is that Captain Ann Campbell had a very difficult time here at Hadley. If she had been the general’s son, for instance, and had fought in the Gulf, Panama, or Grenada, she would have been idolized by the troops as so many sons of great warriors have been throughout history. Instead, the rumor going around is that she fucked for everyone on post. Excuse my language.”

I offered, “And if Captain Campbell had been the son of a fighting general who came home covered with glory and fucked all the female personnel on post, he’d never have to buy another drink in the O Club.”

Colonel Fowler looked at me. “Precisely. We have that odd double standard for men and women that we would not tolerate if it were racial. So if you have some hard information concerning Captain Campbell’s sexual conduct, I’d like to hear it, though I don’t care if it’s true or not.”

I replied, “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources at this time. My only interest in Captain Campbell’s sexual conduct is how or if it relates to her murder. I have no prurient interest in her sex life as an entertaining sidelight to her rape and strangulation out there on the rifle range.” Actually, of course, she wasn’t raped, but I wasn’t giving out free copies of the autopsy.

Colonel Fowler said, “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Brenner, and I didn’t mean to question your professional ethics. But you’d damned well better keep that connection in mind and not let your investigation become a witch-hunt.”

“Look, Colonel, I appreciate your distress, and the distress of the deceased’s family. But we’re not talking about rumor and innuendo, as you suggested. We’re talking about hard facts that I have. Ann Campbell had not only an active sex life, which in her position in this man’s Army is not solely her business, but she led a potentially dangerous sex life. We can argue about double standards all morning, but when I hear that a general’s daughter slept with half the senior married officers on post, I think of suspects, not tabloid headlines. The words ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ don’t pop into my detective’s mind. But the words ‘blackmail’ and ‘motive’ do. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

Colonel Fowler must have thought so, because he was nodding, or perhaps he was agreeing with some thought in his head. He said to me, “If you make an arrest, do I have your assurances that only the minimal amount of this information appears in your report?”

I had half a mind to tell him about Ann Campbell’s hidden store of sexual delights and how I had already compromised myself to minimize the damage. I said, “The evidence in Captain Campbell’s house could have and should have been shared with Chief Yardley. But Ms. Sunhill and I took a precautionary move to ensure that anything in the house of an unmarried, attractive female officer that would be embarrassing to her family or the Army did not wind up as a public amusement. Actions speak louder than words, and that’s the only assurance I can give you.”

Again, he nodded, then said quite unexpectedly, “I’m very pleased with both of you. I’ve checked you both out, and you come to us with the highest recommendations. It’s our privilege to have you assigned to this case.”

I lifted my feet because the bullshit was getting higher, but I replied, “That’s very good of you to say that.”

He poured us more coffee and said, “So you have a prime suspect. Colonel Moore.”

“That’s correct.”

“Why is he a suspect?”

“Because,” I replied, “there is forensic evidence that he was at the scene of the crime.”

“I see… but no evidence that he actually murdered her?”

“No. It’s possible that he was there earlier or later than the time of the crime.”

“But you have no evidence that anyone else was there.”

“No conclusive evidence.”

“Then doesn’t that leave him as the most likely suspect?”

“As of now.”

“If he doesn’t confess, will you charge him?”

“I can only recommend in a case like this. The final decision as to charges will undoubtedly be made in Washington.”

“It seems to me that your report and recommendation will be the deciding factor.”

“It should be the only factor, considering that no one else has a clue to what happened.” I added, “I must tell you, sir, that these rumors linking Ann Campbell to certain officers on post may or may not include people such as the staff judge advocate, and others who may not be as objective or impartial as they should be in this matter. I hate to be the one to sow seeds of mistrust, but I’m only advising you of what I’ve heard.”

“Heard from whom?”

“I can’t say. But it came from a good source, and I suspect you know how widespread this problem is. I don’t think you can clean your own house here, Colonel. Your broom is dirty. But perhaps Ms. Sunhill and I can.”

He nodded. “Well, on that subject, I was speaking to General Campbell when you arrived. There’s been a new development.”

Uh-oh. I don’t like new developments. “Yes?”

“The Justice Department, in a meeting with your superior, Colonel Hellmann, and the Army judge advocate general and other interested parties, has decided to assign the FBI to this case.”

Oh, shit. I said to Colonel Fowler, “Well, then, the damage control is out of my hands. You and everyone else who wears a green uniform should know that.”

“Yes. Some people are upset. Not everyone in the Pentagon knows how much damage control is necessary, so they caved in to these demands without a good fight. But they did get a compromise.”

Neither Cynthia nor I bothered to ask what it was, but Colonel Fowler informed us, “You two are to remain on the case until noon tomorrow. If, after that time, you haven’t made an arrest and recommended charges, you will be relieved of your investigative duties. Though you will remain available to the FBI for consultation.”

“I see.”

“A task force is assembling right now in Atlanta consisting of FBI personnel, a team from the Judge Advocate General’s Office, the Attorney General’s Office, and senior officers from your own CID in Falls Church.”

“Well, I hope the SOBs all have to stay in the VOQ.”

Colonel Fowler forced a smile. “We don’t want this, of course, and I suspect you don’t, either. But if you think about it, it was inevitable.”

Cynthia said, “Colonel, Army captains are not murdered every day, but this sounds like overkill, and sounds more like PR than good police science.”

“That point was raised. The reality, however, is that it was a female, she was raped, and it was General Campbell’s daughter.” He added, “There is equal justice for all, but some people get more of it.”

I said, “I realize you have nothing to do with this decision, Colonel, but you ought to discuss this with General Campbell and see if he can get this decision reversed or at least modified.”

“I did. That’s how we got the compromise. As of about 2300 hours last night, you and Ms. Sunhill were relieved. General Campbell and Colonel Hellmann bought you some time. They thought you were very close to an arrest. So perhaps if you have good evidence and strong suspicions regarding Colonel Moore, you’ll make that arrest. You have our permission to do so if you feel you need that.”

I thought a moment. Colonel Moore seemed to be the most popular candidate for scapegoat. And why not? Evidence aside, he was a loony who did weird work in secret, and his uniform was sloppy, and General Campbell disliked his relationship with Ann Campbell according to Kent, and he had no significant awards or medals, and he was not a popular officer. Even an MP corporal couldn’t wait to rat him out. This guy was walking into a noose with his face buried in a book of Nietzsche nuttiness. I said to Colonel Fowler, “Well, if I have about thirty hours, I’ll take it.”

Fowler seemed a little disappointed. He inquired, “What’s keeping you from acting on the evidence you have?”

“There’s not enough of it, Colonel.”

“There seems to be.”

“Did Colonel Kent tell you that?”

“Yes… and you indicated that the forensic evidence put Colonel Moore at the scene of the crime.”

“Right. But it’s a matter of times, motive, and ultimately the nature of the act itself. I have probable cause to believe Colonel Moore was somehow involved with what happened out there, but I can’t say he acted alone, or even with malice, or indeed that he can be charged with murder in the first degree. I feel that I have to perfect a case against him, rather than just arrest him and throw the case onto the court.”

“I see. Do you think he would confess?”

“You never know until you ask.”

“When will you ask?”

“I usually ask when the suspect and I are both ready for that kind of conversation. In this case, I may wait until the clock runs out.”

“All right. Do you need the assistance of the post CID?”

“I’ve been informed that Major Bowes was also a lover of the deceased.”

“That’s hearsay.”

“That’s right. But if I—no, Colonel, if you ask him on his honor as an officer, he will probably tell you the truth. In any case, since we may never know for sure, and since it’s come up, he has to disqualify himself from this case. And I don’t want to deal with the people under his command, either.”

“I’m sensitive to that, Mr. Brenner, but a vague accusation—even a confession of sexual involvement with the victim—does not automatically disqualify Major Bowes from the investigation.”

“I think it does. And I think it puts him on the B or C list of suspects until I hear his alibi or lack of same. And on that subject, Colonel, if you’re finished, may I begin my interview with you?”

Colonel Fowler poured himself another cup of coffee with a rock-steady hand. The sun was higher now and the screened porch was a little darker. My stomach was gurgling with coffee and not much else, and my mind was not as alert as it should have been. I glanced at Cynthia and thought she looked better than I felt, but this high-noon deadline meant having to choose between sleep, sex, food, and work. Plan B.

Colonel Fowler asked, “Can I offer you breakfast?”

“No, thank you, Colonel.”

He looked at me and said, “Fire away.”

I opened fire. “Were you sexually involved with Ann Campbell?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who was?”

“Colonel Kent has told you he was. I won’t mention any other names since to do so seems to put them on your suspect list.”

“Okay, let’s go right to the list—do you know of anyone who might have had a motive for killing her?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you know that General Campbell’s junior aide, Lieutenant Elby, was infatuated with her?”

“Yes, I did. That’s not uncommon, nor was it unwise of him to pay attention to his commanding officer’s daughter. They were both single, attractive, and officers. Marriages actually evolve from these situations.” Colonel Fowler added, “I give the young man credit for balls.”

“Amen. But did she return his attentions?”

Colonel Fowler thought a moment, then replied, “She never returned any man’s attentions. She initiated all the attention, and ended it when it pleased her.”

“That’s a rather startling statement from you, Colonel.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Brenner, you know all of this by now. I’m not trying to protect her reputation from you two. The woman was a… God, I wish I could come up with the right word… more than a seductress, not a tease—she delivered—not a common slut…” He looked at Cynthia. “Give me a word.”

Cynthia replied, “I don’t think we have a word for what she was, except perhaps avenger.”

“Avenger?”

Cynthia said, “She wasn’t the victim of rumor, as you first tried to suggest, and she wasn’t promiscuous in the conventional sense, and neither was she clinically a nymphomaniac. She was, in fact, using her charms and her body to exact a revenge, Colonel, and you know it.”

Colonel Fowler did not seem pleased with this evaluation. I suspected that Colonel Kent had given him only an edited briefing of what he’d told us and failed to include the fact that Ann Campbell’s sexual behavior had a specific purpose, and that the purpose was to make Daddy look like a horse’s ass. Colonel Fowler said to Cynthia, “She did hate the Army.”

Cynthia replied, “She hated her father.”

Fowler seemed, for the first time, uncomfortable. The man was a cool customer, and his armor was tried and tested, and so was his sword, but Cynthia just informed him that his rear was exposed. Fowler said, “The general truly loved his daughter. Please believe that. But she had developed an obsessive and unreasonable hate for him. In fact, I spoke to an outside psychologist about it, and though he couldn’t analyze the dynamics from afar, he did suggest that the daughter might be suffering from a borderline personality disorder.”

Cynthia commented, “From what I’ve heard so far, it doesn’t sound so borderline.”

“Well, who the hell knows what these people mean? I couldn’t follow all he was saying, but it comes down to the fact that the children of powerful men who try to follow in the father’s footsteps become frustrated, then go through a period of questioning their own worth, then eventually to preserve their ego they find something they can do well, something very different from their father’s world, where they will not be in direct competition with him, but something that society considers important. Thus, according to this psychologist, many of them wind up in social work, or as teachers, even nurses or some other nurturing profession.” Colonel Fowler added, “Including psychology.”

I remarked, “Psychological warfare is not exactly a nurturing profession.”

“No, which is where this analysis diverts from the norm. This psychologist told me that when the son or daughter remains in the father’s world, it’s often because they want to harm the father. They can’t compete, they won’t or can’t go off on their own, so they stay close to the source of their anger and engage in what amounts to guerrilla warfare, ranging from petty annoyances to major sabotage.”

He thought a moment, then added, “They do this because it is the only way they can avenge—yes, as you said, Ms. Sunhill—avenge themselves over these imagined injustices or whatever. In Captain Campbell’s case, she was in a unique position to do this. Her father couldn’t fire her, and she had developed a power base of her own. Many sons and daughters who have these feelings against their father, according to this psychologist, engage in promiscuous behavior, drunkenness, gambling, and other antisocial acts that they know will embarrass the authority figure in his world. Captain Campbell, perhaps as a result of her knowledge in the field of psychology, took it a step further, and apparently sought to seduce the men around her father.”

Colonel Fowler leaned across the table and said to us, “I hope you understand that Ann’s behavior was irrational, and that it had nothing to do with her father’s behavior toward her. We all have imagined enemies, and when it’s a parent, no amount of parental love or caring can overcome that anger in the child’s mind. This was a very disturbed woman who needed help, and she wasn’t getting it. In fact, that son-of-a-bitch Moore was fueling the flames of her anger for his own sick purposes. I believe he wanted to see how far he could push and control the dynamics of this situation.”

No one spoke for a full minute, then Cynthia inquired, “Why wasn’t some drastic action taken by the general? Isn’t this the man who led an armored task force to the Euphrates River?”

Colonel Fowler replied, “That was easy. Handling Ann Campbell was not so easy. Actually, the general considered such action about a year ago. But according to the professional advice I was getting, had the general intervened by having Colonel Moore transferred, for instance, or having Ann ordered into therapy, which he could do as a commander, the situation may have gotten worse. So the general listened to this advice and let the situation take its own course.”

I commented, “And it wouldn’t have done the general’s career much good to pull rank on Moore and his daughter. and thereby admit there was a problem.”

Colonel Fowler replied, “It was a very delicate situation. Mrs. Campbell… Ann’s mother thought that the situation would improve if Ann was left to vent her irrational anger. So it was a standoff. But the general had decided to act, just a week ago. But then… well, it was too late.”

“How,” I inquired, “did the general decide to act?”

Colonel Fowler thought a moment and replied, “I don’t know if telling you anything further is relevant to this case.”

“Tell me and I’ll decide.”

“Well… all right, then. The general, a few days ago, gave his daughter an ultimatum. He gave her options. Option one was to resign her commission. Option two was to discontinue her duties at the school and agree to some sort of therapy of the general’s choice—inpatient or out. Option three, the general informed her that if she turned down those options, he would have the staff judge advocate investigate her misconduct and draw up charges for a general court-martial.”

I nodded. Somehow, I felt, this ultimatum, if it was true, precipitated what happened on rifle range six. I asked Colonel Fowler, “How did she respond to this ultimatum?”

“She told her father she’d have an answer for him within two days. But she didn’t. She was murdered.”

I said, “Maybe that was her answer.”

Colonel Fowler looked somewhat startled. “What do you mean by that?”

“Think about it, Colonel.”

“You mean she had Colonel Moore assist her in some sort of bizarre suicide?”

“Perhaps.” I asked him, “And there is no single or specific incident from the past that would explain Captain Campbell’s anger toward her father?”

“Such as what?”

“Such as… rival affections—mother, daughter, that sort of thing.”

Colonel Fowler regarded me closely for a moment as if I were a step away from crossing the line between a murder investigation and an unspeakable breach of conduct and ethics. He replied coolly, “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Brenner, and I suggest you don’t even try to explain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m afraid not. It gets even muckier, Colonel. You say you had no sexual relationship with the deceased. Why not?’

“What do you mean, why not?”

“I mean, why did she not proposition you, or if she did, did you turn her down?”

Colonel Fowler’s eyes flitted to the door for a second as if to assure himself that Mrs. Fowler was not around to hear this. He replied, “She never propositioned me.”

“I see. Was that because you’re black or because she knew it was a useless attempt?”

“I… I would rather think it was… She did date a few black officers… not here at Hadley, but in the past, so it wasn’t that. So I’d have to say that she knew…” He smiled for the first time. “… she knew I was not corruptible.” He added, again with a smile, “Or she thought I was ugly.”

Cynthia said, “But you’re not, Colonel, and even if you were, it wouldn’t have mattered to Ann Campbell. I suspect she did proposition you, and you turned her down out of loyalty to your wife, your commanding officer, or because of your own sense of morality. At that point, you became Ann Campbell’s second worst enemy.”

Fowler had clearly had enough and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation like this in my life.”

I replied, “You’ve probably never been involved in a homicide investigation.”

“No, I haven’t, and if you would make that arrest, this investigation would be over.”

“Actually, it would continue right up to and through a court-martial. I don’t make many mistakes, Colonel, but when I think I may have, I don’t mind working hard to expose my own errors.”

“I commend you, Mr. Brenner. Perhaps, though, Colonel Moore can satisfy your doubts.”

“He can try, but he may have his own version of events. I like to have everyone’s version so I can make a better evaluation as to the quality of the bullshit.”

“As you wish.’

Cynthia asked him, “Did Captain Campbell have any brothers or sisters?”

“There is a brother.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“He lives out on the West Coast. Some place with a Spanish name. Can’t think of it.”

“He’s not military?”

“No. He’s… he has explored many careers.”

“I see. You’ve met him?”

“Yes. He comes home most holidays.”

“Does he strike you as suffering from the same problems you suggested his sister was suffering from?”

“To some extent… but he chose to distance himself from the family. That’s how he deals with it. During the Gulf War, for instance, when some California TV station wanted to interview him, they couldn’t find him.”

Cynthia asked, “Would you describe him as alienated from his parents?”

“Alienated? No… just distant. When he’s home, they all seem quite happy to see him, and then sad that he’s left.”

“And how was the relationship between brother and sister?”

“Very good, from what I could see. Ann Campbell was very accepting of him.”

“In regard to his… what? His life-style?”

“Yes. John Campbell—that’s his name—is gay.”

“I see. And did General Campbell accept this?”

Fowler thought a moment, then replied, “I think he did. John Campbell was always discreet—never brought male lovers home, dressed pretty much mainstream and all that. I think if the general hadn’t had his hands full with his daughter and her indiscretions, he might have been more disappointed in his son. But compared to Ann, John is a solid citizen.”

“I understand,” Cynthia said. “Do you think that General Campbell perhaps pushed his daughter into a traditional male role—I mean West Point and the Army—to make up for his son’s lack of interest in those pursuits?”

“That’s what everyone says. But, as with most of life, things aren’t that pat. In fact, Ann was a very enthusiastic cadet at West Point. She wanted to be there and she did very well. After her four-year active-duty obligation, she stayed in. So, no, I don’t think the general pushed her or coerced her, or withheld affection from her as a child, if, for instance, she showed no interest in going to the Point. That’s what this psychologist suggested, but it was very much the opposite. Ann Campbell, as I remember her in high school, was a tomboy, and a good candidate for a military career. In fact, she wanted to continue the tradition. Her father’s father was a career Army officer as well.”

Cynthia thought a moment, then reminded him, “You said she hated the Army.”

“Yes… I said that, but, as you pointed out, it was her father she hated.”

“So you were in error when you said that?”

“Well…”

It’s always good to highlight a lie, even a small one, during an interrogation. It puts the suspect or witness on the defensive, where he or she belongs.

Colonel Fowler sought to correct his original statement and said to Cynthia, “She originally liked the Army. I can’t say with certainty how she felt about it recently. She had too much anger, and she had other motives for staying in the service.”

“I think I have that clear now.” She asked him, “Can you give us some idea of the relationship between Ann Campbell and her mother?”

Colonel Fowler considered this a moment, then replied, “They had a decent relationship. Mrs. Campbell, contrary to what some people think, is a strong woman, but she’s chosen to defer to her husband in terms of his career, his various postings around the world, including ones where she could not accompany him, and in terms of entertaining people she may not personally care for, and those sorts of things. I use the term ‘chosen’ because that’s what it is—a choice. Mrs. Campbell is from the old school, and if she makes a commitment to the marriage, she will stick with it, or leave the marriage if she changes her mind. She will not gripe and complain and sulk as so many modern wives do today who want to have their cake and eat it, too.”

He glanced at Cynthia, then continued, “She will not embarrass her husband with breaches of conduct, she will take the good with the bad, she will recognize her own worth as a wife and partner, and will not get a job selling real estate downtown in a pathetic attempt to declare her independence. She does not wear the general’s stars, but she knows that he would not be wearing them either if it weren’t for her help, dedication, and loyalty over the years. You asked me about Ann’s relationship with her mother, and I told you about Mrs. Campbell’s relationship with her husband, but now you can figure out the answer to your question.”

I nodded. “Yes, I can. And did Ann try to change her mother’s behavior or philosophy?”

“I think she did at first, but Mrs. Campbell basically told her to mind her own business and stay out of her marriage.”

Cynthia commented, “Good advice. But did it strain their relationship?”

“I’m not very attuned to mother-daughter relationships. I came from a family of four boys, and I have three sons of my own. I can’t fathom women in general and I’ve never seen a mother-daughter relationship up close. But I know they never did things together, such as shopping or tennis or planning parties. But they would dine together, alone, at times. Is that good enough for you?”

Cynthia nodded, then asked, “Did Mrs. Fowler know Ann Campbell well?”

Colonel Fowler replied, “Fairly well. It comes with the social territory.”

“And of course Mrs. Fowler knows Mrs. Campbell well, so perhaps I can speak to Mrs. Fowler—about the mother-daughter relationship.”

Colonel Fowler hesitated for a beat, then replied, “Mrs. Fowler is very upset, as you may have noticed. So unless you’re insisting, I’d have to say wait a few days.”

Cynthia inquired, “Will Mrs. Fowler be available? Or is she so upset that she may go somewhere for a rest?”

Colonel Fowler looked at Cynthia and replied, “As a civilian, she can come and go as she pleases, if I read your subtext correctly.”

“You do read me correctly, Colonel. I don’t want to have to get a subpoena. I’d like to speak to her today. I don’t have a few days, as it turns out.”

Colonel Fowler took a deep breath. Obviously, we were more than he’d bargained for and he wasn’t used to this kind of pressure from subordinates. I think the fact that we were in civilian clothes helped him put up with this crap and kept him from throwing us out, which is why the CID often chooses mufti for the dirty stuff. Fowler replied, finally, “I’ll see if she’s up to it this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia replied. “It would probably be better if she spoke to us, rather than her having to speak to the FBI.”

Colonel Fowler got the message and nodded.

I asked him, “For the record, Colonel, can you tell me your whereabouts on the night that Captain Campbell was killed?”

He smiled and said, “I thought that was the first question you were supposed to ask. Well, where was I? I worked until about 1900 hours, then attended a going-away party for an officer in the grill at the O Club. I excused myself early and was home by 2200 hours. I did some paperwork, made some calls, and Mrs. Fowler and I retired at 2300 hours.”

It would be silly of me to ask him if Mrs. Fowler would verify that, so I asked instead, “And nothing unusual happened during the night?”

“No.”

“And you awakened at what time?”

“At 0600 hours.”

“And then?”

“Then I showered, got dressed, and was at work at about 0730 hours.” He added, “Which is where I should be now.”

“And you called Captain Campbell’s house at about 0800 hours and left a message on her answering machine.”

“Correct. General Campbell called me from his home and asked me to do that.”

“He didn’t want to call her himself?”

“He was annoyed and he knew Mrs. Campbell was disappointed, so he asked me to place the call.”

“I see. As it happens, however, we were in her house before 0800, and when we got there, the message was already on the machine.”

There was what you call a moment of silence, and in microseconds, Colonel Fowler was going to have to guess if I was bluffing, which I wasn’t, or if he had a better story. He looked me in the eye and said, “Then my time is wrong. It must have been earlier. What time were you in her home?”

“I’ll have to check my notes. Can I assume you didn’t call her before 0700 hours to say she was late for a 0700-hour breakfast?”

“That would be a logical assumption, Mr. Brenner, though I’ve often called her prior to such an appointment to remind her.”

“But on this occasion, you said, ‘Ann, you were supposed to stop by the general’s house this morning.’ Then you said something about breakfast, followed by, ‘You’re probably sleeping now.’ So if she got off duty at, let’s say, 0700, and you called at, say, 0730 hours, she’d barely be home, let alone asleep.”

“That’s true… I suppose I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I may have forgotten she was on duty, and I meant that she was probably not awake yet.”

“But you mentioned duty in your message. The whole sentence was, ‘You were supposed to stop by the general’s house this morning after you got off duty.’ ”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, put it down to my error in times. I may have called as early as 0730. I know I called right after the general called me. Captain Campbell apparently agreed to meet her parents at 0700 hours, and though she would normally have been relieved at about that time by the officer designated to arrive at 0700 for work, it wouldn’t have been unusual for her to leave early and leave the duty sergeant in charge until relieved.” He added, “Are you having a problem with this, Mr. Brenner?”

“No problem.” Not for me; big problem for you. I asked, “Considering that Captain Campbell and her father were not on good terms, why was she having breakfast with him?”

“Well, they did dine together now and then. I told you, she saw her mother fairly often.”

“Could this breakfast meeting have been for the purpose of Ann Campbell delivering her answer to the general’s ultimatum?”

Fowler considered a moment, then replied, “Yes, it could have been.”

“Do you find it curious that only hours before she had to reply to his ultimatum, she was found dead? Do you think there’s any connection?”

“No, I think it’s coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Let me ask you this, Colonel: is there anything further that General Campbell required of his daughter as part of his ultimatum?”

“Such as what?”

“Well, such as names. Names of the men on post she’d slept with. Was General Campbell going to make a clean sweep?”

Colonel Fowler thought about that, then replied, “That’s entirely possible. But Ann Campbell didn’t care who knew and would have been delighted to tell her father.”

“But the married officers who she slept with cared very much and would not have been as delighted.”

“I’m sure they did care,” Fowler replied. “But most, if not all, of them realized they couldn’t count on her discretion.” He said, “You know, Mr. Brenner, most married men have ambivalent feelings about sexual indiscretions.” He looked at Cynthia, then continued, “On the one hand, they are terrified of being found out by their wives or families, or certain friends or superiors. On the other hand, they are proud of their exploits and actually brag about their conquests. When the conquest is the beautiful daughter of their boss, they can barely contain themselves and tend to shoot their mouths off. Believe me, we’ve all been there.”

I smiled. “Indeed we have, Colonel.” I added, “But talk is one thing; photos, lists, and affidavits are another. What I’m suggesting is that somehow, perhaps through Ann Campbell herself, some of her lovers learned that General Campbell had had enough and was demanding from his daughter a full accounting of her seductions. Someone may have decided that it was time to get rid of the evidence. To get rid of Ann Campbell.”

Fowler nodded. “That thought crossed my mind. In fact, I never thought it was a total stranger who killed her. But can you explain to me why someone who wanted to shut her up would kill her that way and draw attention to the sexual nature of the act and of the victim?”

Good question. I replied, “It may have been a cover to conceal the nature of the act. The perpetrator needed to kill her but added the rape to confuse the investigation. I’ve had two husbands who murdered their wives that way to make it look like a stranger did it.”

Fowler commented, “This is your area of expertise, not mine. I see your point, but how many men would actually murder a woman just to shut her up? It’s a lot less risky to face a court-martial for actions unbecoming an officer than to face a court-martial for murder.”

“I agree, Colonel, but then, we’re rational men. In the irrational world, one of the prime motivators for homicide is to avoid disgrace and humiliation. Says so in the manual.”

“Well, again, that’s your area of experience, not mine.”

“But think about who among Ann Campbell’s lovers might consider committing murder to avoid disgrace, divorce, court-martial, and dismissal from the service.”

“Mr. Brenner, your prime suspect, Colonel Moore, was not involved with her sexually from what I hear. So he had no obvious reason for shutting her up. But he may have had many other reasons for raping her and killing her. So you ought to concentrate on his motivations if that’s all that is keeping you from arresting him.”

“I’m certainly following that avenue as well, Colonel. I like to conduct homicide investigations like infantry and armor commanders conduct a campaign—multiple avenues of advance—a feint, a probing attack, a main thrust, then a breakthrough and encirclement.” I added, “Surround ’em and pound ’em.”

He smiled wryly, as I knew he would, and said, “That’s a good way to squander your resources and to lose the initiative. Go right for the kill, Mr. Brenner, and leave the fancy stuff for the chalkboard in the tactics classroom.”

“Well, maybe you’re right, Colonel.” I asked him, “Did you happen to see the duty sergeant—Sergeant St. John—when you got to work that morning?”

“No. In fact, I heard later that a corporal of the guard was actually holding down the fort, so to speak, when the first officer arrived, and that caused a big stink. The corporal said that the duty sergeant left hours before and never returned, and he had no idea where the sergeant was or where the duty officer was. But I didn’t know that because no one brought it to my attention. Major Sanders, a staff officer, made the decision to call the MPs, and they informed him that the duty sergeant, St. John, was in their custody, though they wouldn’t say why. I learned of all this at about 0900 hours and I reported it to General Campbell, who told me to follow up on it.”

“And no one thought to ask where Captain Campbell had disappeared to?”

“No… In retrospect, it all ties together. But that morning it just seemed to me that Captain Campbell had left early, put the duty sergeant in charge, and he put a corporal of the guard in charge and took the opportunity to go somewhere—perhaps home to spy on his wife. That’s all too common—a man on duty gets it in his head that his wife is being unfaithful, then sneaks off duty and checks out his house. It’s a problem of military life.”

“Yes, I’ve had two homicides and one maiming that began that way.”

“So you understand. Well, that’s one of the things that occurred to me. But what I knew is that St. John ran afoul of the MPs and never made it back to headquarters. I didn’t push the inquiry because it was obviously Captain Campbell’s early departure that led to St. John’s dereliction of duty, and I knew that it would sort itself out. The last thing anyone thought is that St. John’s apparent arrest had anything to do with what we discovered later was the actual sequence of events.”

Sounded solid to me. But of course if I squeezed it, it had some soft spots. I reminded him, “You said you worked late at headquarters the evening before.”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Captain Campbell when she reported in for duty that evening?”

“No. My office is on the first floor, next to the general’s. The duty officer and sergeant use the large clerk-typist area on the second floor. They just pick up the logbook and any special orders from a designated officer, then choose any desk and make themselves comfortable for the night. I don’t normally see any duty officer reporting in.” He asked, “Is that satisfactory, Mr. Brenner?”

“It’s reasonable, sir. I don’t know if it’s satisfactory until I can cross-check it. This is my job, Colonel, and I can’t do it any other way.”

“I’m sure you have some latitude, Mr. Brenner.”

“Just a tiny bit. An inch to the left, an inch to the right. More than that and I’m free-falling into the jaws of my boss, Colonel Hellmann, who eats warrant officers who are afraid to ask questions of superior officers.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll tell him you did a splendid job and showed no fear whatsoever.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Do you enjoy this?”

“I used to. I’m not enjoying it today. Or yesterday.”

“Then we have something in common.”

“I hope so.”

We all sat a minute. My coffee was cold, but I didn’t care. Finally, I asked him, “Colonel, could you arrange an appointment for us to speak with Mrs. Campbell today?”

“I’ll do my best.”

I said to him, “If she’s as good a military wife as you describe, she’ll understand the necessity.” I added, “And we would like to see General Campbell today as well.”

“I’ll arrange it. Where can I contact you?”

“I’m afraid we’ll be all over the post today. Just leave a message at the provost office. Where can I contact you?”

“At Post Headquarters.”

“Are the funeral arrangements complete?”

“Yes. The body will be in the post chapel after retreat tonight, and also tomorrow morning, for those who wish to pay their last respects. At 1100 hours tomorrow, there will be a service in the chapel, then the body will be taken in a procession to Jordan Field for the ceremony, then placed aboard an aircraft and transported to Michigan for interment in the Campbell family plot.”

“I see.” Career Army officers usually have a will on file with the Army, and often there will be burial instructions included, so I asked Colonel Fowler, “Is that the wish of the deceased?”

“Does that question relate to the homicide investigation?”

“I suppose the date of the will and the date of the burial instructions would relate to this investigation.”

“The will and the burial instructions were updated a week before Captain Campbell left for the Gulf, which would not be unusual. For your information, she asked to be buried in the family plot, and the only beneficiary of her will is her brother, John.”

“Thank you.” On that note of finality, I said, “You’ve been most cooperative, Colonel, and we appreciate it.” Despite your trying to blow a little smoke up our asses.

Superior officers sit first and stand first, so I waited for him to realize I was finished, and stand, but instead he asked me, “Did you find anything in her house that would be damaging to her or anyone here on post?”

My turn to be coy, so I asked, “Such as?”

“Well… diaries, photos, letters, a list of her conquests. You know what I mean.”

I replied, “My maiden aunt could have spent a week alone in Captain Campbell’s house and not found anything she would have disapproved of, including the music.” Which was true because Aunt Jean, snoop that she was, had no spatial perception.

Colonel Fowler stood, and we stood as well. He informed me, “Then you’ve missed something. Ann Campbell documented everything. It was her training as a psychologist, and undoubtedly her desire as a corrupter, not to rely on fleeting memories of her rolls in the hay out in some motel or in someone’s office on post after hours. Look harder.”

“Yes, sir.” I must admit, I didn’t like hearing these kinds of remarks about Ann Campbell from Kent or Fowler. Ann Campbell had become more than a murder victim to me, obviously. I would probably find her murderer, but someone had to find why she did what she did, and someone had to explain that to people like Fowler, Kent, and everyone else. Ann Campbell’s life needed no apology, no pity; it needed a rational explanation, and maybe a vindication.

Colonel Fowler escorted us to the front door, probably wishing he hadn’t been on the telephone before so he could have escorted us in without Mrs. Fowler’s assistance. At the door we shook hands, and I said to him, “By the way, we never found Captain Campbell’s West Point ring. Was she in the habit of wearing it?”

He thought a moment and replied, “I never noticed.”

“There was a tan line where the ring had been.”

“Then I suppose she wore it.”

I said to him, “You know, Colonel, if I were a general, I’d want you for my adjutant.”

“If you were a general, Mr. Brenner, you’d need me for your adjutant. Good morning.” The green door closed and we walked down the path to the street.

Cynthia said, “We keep getting to the threshold of the great secret of Ann and Daddy, then we hit a wall.”

“True.” Despite the mixed metaphor. “But we know there is a secret, and we know that the stuff about imagined injustices and irrational anger toward her father is not cutting it. At least not for me.”

Cynthia opened her door. “Me neither.”

I slid into the passenger seat and said, “Colonel Fowler’s wife had that look. You know that look?”

“Indeed I do.”

“And Colonel Fowler needs a better watch.”

“Indeed he does.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Breakfast or Psy-Ops School?” Cynthia asked.

“Psy-Ops School. We’ll eat Colonel Moore for breakfast.”

Each house on Bethany Hill had a regulation white sign with black lettering displayed on a post near the driveway, and, about five houses from Colonel Fowler’s house, I saw a sign that said, “Colonel & Mrs. Kent.” I pointed it out to Cynthia and commented, “I wonder where Bill Kent will be living next month?”

“I hope it’s not Leavenworth, Kansas. I feel sorry for him.”

“People make their own bad luck.”

“Be a little compassionate, Paul.”

“Okay. Considering the extent of the corruption here, there will be a rash of sudden resignations, retirements, and transfers, maybe a few divorces, but, with luck, no courts-martial for actions unbecoming an officer.” I added, “They’d need a whole cell block at Leavenworth for Ann Campbell’s lovers. Can you picture that? About two dozen ex-officers sitting around in their cells—”

“I think you got off the compassionate track.”

“Right. Sorry.”

We left Bethany Hill and mingled with the early morning traffic of the main post—POVs and troop carriers, school buses and delivery trucks, humvees and staff cars, as well as soldiers marching or running in formation; thousands of men and women on the move, similar to, but profoundly different from, any small town at eight A.M. Stateside garrison duty in times of peace is, at best, boring, but in times of war a place like Fort Hadley is preferable to the front lines, but barely.

Cynthia commented, “Some people have trouble with time perception. I came close to buying Colonel Fowler’s sequence of events, though it was cutting it close, timewise.”

“Actually, I think he made the call much earlier.”

“But think of what you’re saying, Paul.”

“I’m saying he knew she was dead earlier, but he had to make that call to establish that he believed she was alive and late for her appointment. What he didn’t know is that we would be at the deceased’s house that early.”

“That’s one explanation, but how did he know she was dead?”

“There are only three ways: someone told him, or he discovered the body somehow, or he killed her.”

Cynthia replied, “He did not kill her.”

I glanced at her. “You like the guy.”

“I do. But beyond that, he is not a killer.”

“Everyone is a killer, Cynthia.”

“Not true.”

“Well, but you can see his motive.”

“Yes. His motive would be to protect the general and get rid of a source of corruption on post.”

I nodded. “That’s the sort of altruistic motive that, in a man like Colonel Fowler, might trigger murder. But he may also have had a more personal motive.”

“Maybe.” Cynthia turned onto the road that led to the Psy-Ops School.

I commented, “If we didn’t have Colonel Moore by his curly hairs, I’d put Colonel Fowler near the top of the list, based on that telephone call alone, not to mention the look on Mrs. Fowler’s face.”

“Maybe.” She asked, “How far are we going with Moore?”

“To the threshold.”

“You don’t think it’s time to talk to him about his hair, fingerprints, and tire marks?”

“Not necessary. We worked hard for that and we’re not sharing it with him. I want him to dig a deeper hole for himself with his mouth.”

Cynthia passed a sign that said, “Authorized Personnel Only.” There was no MP booth, but I could see the roving MP humvee up ahead.

We parked outside the Psy-Ops headquarters building. The sign in front of the building said, “Cadre Parking Only,” and I saw the gray Ford Fairlane that presumably belonged to Colonel Moore.

We went inside the building, where a sergeant sat at a desk in the otherwise bare lobby. He stood and said, “Can I help you?”

I showed him my ID and said, “Please take us to Colonel Moore’s office.”

“I’ll ring him, Chief,” he replied, using the informal form of address for a warrant officer. I don’t like “Chief,” and I said to him, “I guess you didn’t hear me, Sarge. Take us to his office.”

“Yes, sir. Follow me.”

We walked down a long corridor of concrete-block walls, painted a sort of slime-mold green. The floor wasn’t even tiled, but was poured concrete, painted deck gray. Solid steel doors, all open, were spaced every twelve feet or so, and I could see into the small offices: lieutenants and captains, probably all psychologists, laboring away at gray steel desks. I said to Cynthia, “Forget Nietzsche. This is Kafka territory.”

The sergeant glanced at me, but said nothing.

I asked him, “How long has the colonel been in?”

“Only about ten minutes.”

“Is that his gray Ford Fairlane out front?”

“Yes, sir. Is this about the Campbell murder?”

“It’s not about a parking ticket.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s Captain Campbell’s office?”

“Just to the right of Colonel Moore’s office.” He added, “It’s empty”

We reached the end of the hallway, which dead-ended at a closed door marked “Colonel Moore.”

The sergeant asked us, “Should I announce you?”

“No. That will be all, Sergeant.”

He hesitated, then said, “I…”

‘Yes?’

“I hope to God you find the guy who did it.” He turned and walked back down the long corridor.

The last door on the right was also closed and the sign on it said, “Captain Campbell.” Cynthia opened the door and we went inside.

Indeed, the office was bare, except that on the floor lay a bouquet of flowers. There was no note.

We left the office and walked the few steps to Colonel Moore’s door. I knocked, and Moore called out, “Come in, come in.”

Cynthia and I entered. Colonel Moore was hunched over his desk and did not look up. The office was big, but as drab as the others we’d passed. There were file cabinets against the right-hand wall, a small conference table near the lefthand wall, and an open steel locker in the corner, where Colonel Moore had hung his jacket. A floor fan swept the room, rustling papers taped to the block wall. Beside Moore’s desk was the ultimate government status symbol: a paper shredder.

Colonel Moore glanced up. “What is it—? Oh…” He sort of looked around, as if he were trying to figure out how we got there.

I said, “We’re sorry to drop in like this, Colonel, but we were in the neighborhood. May we sit?”

“Yes, all right.” He motioned to the two chairs opposite his desk. “I’d really appreciate it if you make an appointment next time.”

“Yes, sir. The next time we’ll make an appointment for you to come to the provost marshal’s building.”

“Just let me know.”

Like many scientific and academic types, Colonel Moore seemed to miss the subtleties of the organizational world around him. I don’t think he would have gotten it even if I’d said, “The next time we talk, it will be at police headquarters.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well,” I said, “I’d like you to assure me again that you were home on the evening of the tragedy.”

“All right. I was home from about 1900 hours until I left for work at about 0730 hours.”

Which was about the time Cynthia and I had gotten to Victory Gardens. I asked him, “You live alone?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can anyone verify that you were home?”

“No.”

“You placed a call to Post Headquarters at 2300 hours and spoke to Captain Campbell. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“The conversation had to do with work?”

“That’s right.”

“You called her again at about noon at home and left a message on her answering machine.”

“Yes.”

“But you’d been trying to call her earlier, and her phone was out of order.”

“That’s right.”

“What were you calling her about?”

“Just what I said on the message—the MPs came and completely emptied her office. I argued with them because there was classified material in her files, but they wouldn’t listen.” He added, “The Army is run like a police state. Do you realize they don’t even need a search warrant to do that?”

“Colonel, if this was IBM corporate headquarters, the security guards could do the same thing on orders from a ranking officer of the company. Everything and everyone here belongs to Uncle Sam. You have certain constitutional rights regarding a criminal investigation, but I don’t suggest you try to exercise any of them unless I put the cuffs on you right now and take you to jail. Then everyone, myself included, will see that your rights are protected. So are you in a cooperative frame of mind this morning, Colonel?”

“No. But I’ll cooperate with you under duress and protest.”

“Good.” I looked around the office again. On the top shelf of the open steel locker was a toilet kit from which, I assumed, the hairbrush had been taken, and I wondered if Moore had noticed.

I looked in the receptacle of his paper shredder, but it was empty, which was good. Moore was not stupid and neither was he the benign absentminded professor type; he was, in fact, as I said, somewhat sinister-looking and cunning. But he had an arrogant carelessness about him so that, if I had seen a sledgehammer and tent pegs on his desk, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.

“Mr. Brenner? I’m very busy this morning.”

“Right. You said you would assist us in certain psychological insights into Captain Campbell’s personality.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, first, why did she hate her father?”

He looked at me for a long moment and observed, “I see you’ve learned a few things since our last conversation.”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Sunhill and I go round and round and talk to people, and each person tells us a little something, then we go back and reinterview people, and, in a few days, we know what to ask and who to ask, and by and by we know the good guys from the bad guys, and we arrest the bad guys. It’s kind of simple compared to psychological warfare.”

“You’re too modest.”

“Why did she hate her father?”

He took a deep breath, sat back, and said, “Let me begin by saying that I believe General Campbell has what is called an obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. That is to say, he is full of himself, domineering, can’t tolerate criticism, is a perfectionist, has trouble showing affection, but is totally competent and functional.”

“You’ve described ninety percent of the generals in the Army. So what?”

“Well, but Ann Campbell was not much different, which is not unusual considering they are related. So, two like personalities grow up in the same house, one an older male, the father, the other a younger female, the daughter. The potential for problems was there.”

“So this problem goes back to her unhappy childhood.”

“Not actually. It starts off well. Ann saw herself in her father and liked what she saw, and her father saw himself in his daughter and was equally pleased. In fact, Ann described to me a happy childhood and a close relationship with her father.”

“Then it went bad?”

“Yes. It has to. When the child is young, the child wants to win the father’s approval. The father sees no threat to his dominance and thinks of the son or daughter as a chip off the old block, to use an expression. But by adolescence, they both begin to see traits in the other that they don’t like. The irony is that these are their own worst traits, but people cannot be objective about themselves. Also, they begin to vie for dominance, and begin to voice criticisms of the other person. Since neither can tolerate criticism, and since both are in fact probably competent and high achievers, the sparks start to fly.”

“Are we speaking in general terms,” I asked, “or specifically about General and Captain Campbell, father and daughter?”

He hesitated a moment, probably out of a deeply ingrained habit against revealing privileged information. He said, “I may speak in generalities, but you should make your own conclusions.”

“Well,” I replied, “if Ms. Sunhill and I are asking specific questions, and you’re giving general answers, we may be misled. We’re a little dense.”

“I don’t think so, and you can’t fool me into thinking you are.”

“All right, down to cases.” I said to him, “We were told that Ann felt she was in competition with her father, realized she could not compete in that world, and rather than opting out, she began a campaign of sabotage against him.”

“Who told you that?”

“I got it from someone who got it from a psychologist.”

“Well, the psychologist is wrong. An obsessive-compulsive personality always believes they can compete and will go head-to-head with a domineering figure.”

“So, that wasn’t the actual cause of Ann Campbell’s hate of her father? They didn’t mind the head-butting.”

“Correct. The actual reason for her deep hate of her father was betrayal.”

“Betrayal?”

“Yes. Ann Campbell would not develop an irrational hate of her father because of rivalry, jealousy, or feelings of inadequacy. Despite their growing competitiveness, which was not necessarily bad, she in fact loved her father very much right up until the point he betrayed her. And that betrayal was so great, so total, and so traumatic that it nearly destroyed her. The man she loved, admired, and trusted above all others betrayed her and broke her heart.” He added, “Is that specific enough for you?”

After a few seconds of silence, Cynthia leaned forward in her seat and asked, “How did he betray her?”

Moore did not reply, but just looked at us.

Cynthia asked, “Did he rape her?”

Moore shook his head.

“Then what?”

Moore replied, “It really doesn’t matter what specifically it was. It only matters to the subject that the betrayal was total and unforgivable.”

I said, “Colonel, don’t fuck with us. What did he do to her?”

Moore seemed a little taken aback, then recovered and said, “I don’t know.”

Cynthia pointed out, “But you know it wasn’t rape and incest.”

“Yes. I know that because she volunteered that. When we discussed her case, she only referred to this event as the betrayal.”

“So,” I said sarcastically, “it may be that he forgot to buy her a birthday present.”

Colonel Moore looked annoyed, which was my purpose in being sarcastic. He said, “No, Mr. Brenner, it’s not usually something so trivial. But you can understand, I hope, that when you love and trust someone unconditionally, and that person betrays you in some fundamental and premeditated way—not a forgetful or thoughtless way, such as you suggested, but in a profoundly personal and self-serving way—then you can never forgive that person.” He added, “A classic example is a loving wife who idolizes her husband and discovers he’s having an intense affair with another woman.”

Cynthia and I thought about this a moment, and I suppose a few personal thoughts ran through our minds, and neither of us spoke.

Finally, Moore said, “Here’s a more relevant example for you: An adolescent or young adult female loves and worships her father. Then one day she overhears him speaking to one of his friends or professional associates, and the father says of his daughter, ‘Jane is a very weird girl, she’s a stay-at-home, hangs around me too much, fantasizes about boys but is never going to have a date because she’s awkward and very plain. I wish she’d get out of the house once in a while, or go find her own place to live.’ ” He looked at us. “Would that devastate a young woman who idolized her father? Would that break her heart?”

No doubt about it. It broke my heart hearing it, and I’m not even sensitive. I said, “Do you think it was something like that?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you don’t know what it was. Why wouldn’t she tell you?”

“Often, the subject can’t bear to discuss it because to tell the therapist invites judgment or evaluation, which is not what the subject usually wants. The subject knows that the betrayal might not seem so total to an objective listener. Though sometimes the betrayal is enormous by any conventional standards—such as incest. It wasn’t that, but I believe it was terrible by any standards.”

I nodded as though I were following all of this, and I suppose I was. But the question remained, and I asked it. “Can you take a guess at what it was?”

“No, and I don’t have to know what her father did to her—I had only to know that he did it, and that it was traumatic. A complete breach of trust after which nothing was ever the same between them.”

I tried to apply my own standards to this statement, but I couldn’t. In my job, you must know who, what, where, when, how, and why. Maybe Moore knew at least when, so I asked him, “When? When did this happen?”

He replied, “About ten years ago.”

“She was at West Point about ten years ago.”

“That’s correct. It happened to her in her second year at West Point.”

“I see.”

Cynthia asked, “And when did she begin to seek revenge? Not immediately.”

“No, not immediately. She went through the expected stages of shock, denial, then feelings of depression, and finally anger. It wasn’t until about six years ago that she decided she had to seek revenge rather than try to cope with it. She, in fact, became somewhat unstable, then obsessed with her theory that only revenge could make things right.”

I asked, “And who put her on that path? You or Friedrich Nietzsche?”

“I refuse to take any responsibility for her campaign against her father, Mr. Brenner. As a professional, I did my job by listening.”

Cynthia observed, “She might as well have spoken to a canary, then. Didn’t you advise her that this was destructive?”

“Yes, of course. Clinically, she was doing the wrong thing, and I told her that. But I never promoted it, as Mr. Brenner just suggested.”

I said, “If her campaign of revenge had been directed toward you, then you’d have been a little less clinically aloof.”

He stared at me and said, “Understand, please, that sometimes the subject does not want to begin the healing process in a therapeutic way, but wants to hold the grudge and settle the score in his or her own way, usually in a like manner—you betrayed me, I’ll betray you. You seduced my wife, I’ll seduce your wife. Usually, to try to exact a revenge that is similar to the original crime is not realistic or possible. Sometimes it is. Conventional psychology will say that this is not healthy, but the average layperson knows that revenge can be cathartic and therapeutic. The problem is that revenge takes its own mental toll, and the avenger becomes the persecutor.”

I said to him, “I understand what you’re saying, Colonel Moore, though I’m wondering why you persist in speaking in clinical and general terms. Is that your way of distancing yourself from this tragedy? Your way of avoiding any personal responsibility?”

He didn’t like that at all and replied, “I resent the implication that I failed to try to help her, or that I encouraged her behavior.”

“Resent it or not,” I informed him, “it seems to be a strong suspicion in some quarters.”

“What do you expect from—” He shrugged and said, “Neither I, nor my work here, nor this school, nor my relationship with Ann Campbell, was very much appreciated or understood on this post.”

I said, “I can relate to that. You know, I’ve seen some of Captain Campbell’s video lectures, and I think you people are performing some vital functions. But maybe you were straying into areas that made people nervous.”

“Everything we do here is sanctioned by higher command.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But I think Ann Campbell took some of it out of the classroom and tried it on her own battlefield.”

Moore didn’t respond to that.

I asked him, “Do you know why Ann Campbell kept files of therapy sessions with criminals? Sex offenders?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “I don’t know that she did. But if she did, it was a private pursuit. There’s hardly a psychologist here who doesn’t have an outside project or interest. Most times it has something to do with a Ph.D. program.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Cynthia asked him, “How did you feel about her having sexual relations with multiple partners?”

He didn’t reply at first, then said, “Well… I… Who told you that?”

Cynthia said, “Everybody but you.”

“You never asked.”

“I’m asking now. How did you personally feel about her having sexual relations with men she didn’t care about just to get at her father?”

He coughed into his hand, then replied, “Well… I thought it was not wise, especially for the reasons she was doing it—”

“Were you jealous?”

“Of course not. I—”

Cynthia interrupted him again. “Did you feel betrayed?”

“Certainly not. We had a good, platonic, intellectual, and trusting relationship.”

I wanted to ask him if that included staking her out naked on the ground, but I had to know why he did it. Actually, I thought I knew why now. And, beyond finding the killer, I could see now, based on what Moore had said so far about betrayal, that Ann Campbell’s life and unhappiness needed to be understood.

I took a shot in the dark and said to him, “I understand that when you and Captain Campbell were in the Gulf, you proposed a psy-ops program called Operation Bonkers.”

He replied, “I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Captain Campbell had great faith in the power of sex as a means to achieve apparently unrelated goals. Correct?”

“I… Yes, she did.”

“As I said, I’ve seen her psy-ops lecture series on video, and I can see where she was coming from. Now, while I don’t deny the power of sex, I see it as a force for good, as an expression of love and caring. But somehow, Ann Campbell got it wrong. Would you agree with that?”

He may have, but he replied, “Sex is neither good nor bad in itself. But it is true that some people—mostly women—use it as a tool, a weapon, to achieve their goals.”

I turned to Cynthia. “Do you agree with that?”

She seemed a little annoyed, though I don’t know whom she was annoyed at. She replied, however, “I agree that some women use sex, sometimes, as a weapon, but that is understood to be unacceptable behavior. In the case of Ann Campbell, she may have seen sex as her only weapon against some injustice, or against her feelings of powerlessness. I think, Colonel Moore, if you knew she was doing that, it was your ethical duty, not to mention your duty as her commanding officer, to try to stop it.”

Moore sort of stared at Cynthia with those beady little eyes and said, “I was not in a position to stop anything.”

“Why not?” she shot back. “Are you an officer or a cabin boy? Were you her friend or not? And surely, since you weren’t seduced by her charms, you could have reasoned with her. Or did you find her sexual experiments interesting in a clinical way? Or perhaps you were titillated by the knowledge that she had sex with multiple partners?”

Moore looked at me and said, “I refuse to answer that or to speak to this woman.”

I informed him, “You can’t stand behind the Fifth Amendment until we read you your rights as an accused, which I have no intention of doing at this time. It’s frustrating, I know. But we’ll let the question pass for now, and I promise you that Ms. Sunhill will try to phrase her questions so that you don’t mistake them for insubordination.”

Colonel Moore seemed to see no advantage in keeping up the moral indignation routine, so he nodded and sat back in his chair. The body language said, “You’re both beneath my contempt. Fire away.”

Cynthia got herself under control, and, in a nonadversarial tone of voice, asked him, “When would Ann Campbell have considered the score even?”

Moore didn’t look at Cynthia or at me, but replied in a toneless, professional voice, “Unfortunately, only she knew that. Apparently, what she was doing to him was not enough to satisfy her. Part of the problem was General Campbell himself.” Moore smiled, but it was more of a sneer, and said, “This is a general who will not admit he’s being damaged, let alone admit he’s beaten and raise the white flag. To the best of my knowledge, he never asked for a cease-fire, to continue the military metaphor, nor did he ever ask for peace talks. He apparently felt that whatever he had done to her was canceled out by what she was doing to him.”

“In other words,” Cynthia said, “they were too stubborn to negotiate. He never apologized for his initial betrayal.”

“Well, he did, in a manner of speaking, but you can guess what sort of apology you’d get from such a man.”

Cynthia observed, “It’s too bad so many innocent people had to be hurt while these two fought it out.”

Moore replied, with some surprisingly normal insight, “That’s life, that’s war. When has it been any different?”

Indeed so, I thought. Or, as Plato said, “Only the dead have seen an end to war.”

Cynthia asked Colonel Moore, “When you left home on the morning of the murder, did you notice that Ann Campbell’s car was not in front of her house?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I may have. Subconsciously.”

“Don’t you normally take note of her car?”

“No.”

“So you don’t ever know if your subordinate, neighbor, and friend is still home or on her way to the office.”

“Well, I suppose on most mornings I do.”

“Did you ever share a ride?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you know that Captain Campbell had an appointment for breakfast with her parents that morning?”

“No… well, yes, now that you mention it. She did tell me that.”

“What was the purpose of this breakfast meeting?”

“Purpose?”

“Did the Campbells often get together to enjoy one another’s company?”

“I suppose not.”

Cynthia said, “It’s my understanding, Colonel, that General Campbell gave his daughter an ultimatum regarding her behavior, and that Ann Campbell’s reply to that ultimatum was to be given at that breakfast. Correct?”

Colonel Moore for the first time looked a bit uneasy, probably wondering how much we knew and from whom we knew it.

“Correct?”

“I… She did tell me that her father wanted to resolve this problem.”

Cynthia was getting herself worked up again and said sharply, “Colonel, either she did or didn’t tell you all about this. Either she did or didn’t use words like ultimatum, court-martial, ordered therapy, and resignation from the service. Did she or didn’t she confide completely in you, and did she or didn’t she ask your advice?”

Colonel Moore was clearly angry again at Cynthia’s tone, but he was also uneasy about this particular question, which had obviously touched on something that frightened him. He must have decided that we could not possibly know enough to hammer him on this, so he replied, “I’ve told you all I know. She never told me what he proposed, and she never asked my advice. I told you, as her therapist I listened, kept my questions to a minimum, and only gave advice when asked.”

Cynthia replied, “I don’t believe any man is capable of that amount of self-restraint with a woman he’s known for six years.”

“Then you don’t understand therapy, Ms. Sunhill. I certainly offered advice in terms of her career, assignments, and such, and even personal advice regarding living quarters, vacations, and so forth. But the problems with her family were only discussed in therapy sessions—these were compartmentalized discussions that never spilled over into work or leisure time. This was our firm understanding and we never deviated from it. Medical doctors, for instance, don’t appreciate friends asking them for a diagnosis on the golf course, and attorneys have similar rules about legal advice in bars. Mental health workers are no different.”

Cynthia replied, “Thank you for that information, Colonel. I see you’ve thought about it. Am I to assume, then, that the deceased never had the opportunity to arrange a formal session with you to discuss this ultimatum and deadline?”

“That’s correct.”

“So, after all these years, when this heartache, misery, and anger are about to come to a head, one or both of you was too busy to talk about it.”

“It was Ann herself who decided not to discuss it with me. We did, however, decide to meet after she’d spoken to her father. In fact, we were to meet yesterday afternoon.”

Cynthia said, “I don’t believe you, Colonel. I think there is a connection between the general’s ultimatum and what happened to her, and you know what that connection is.”

Colonel Moore stood. “I will not be called a liar.”

Cynthia stood also and they glared at each other. Cynthia said, “We already know you’re a liar.”

Which was true. We knew that Moore had been on rifle range six with Ann Campbell, and I think Moore now realized we knew this. How else could we get away with abusing a full colonel? But we were about half a step over the threshold now, and that was far enough. I stood also. “Thank you for your time, Colonel. Don’t bother to complain to Colonel Kent about us. One all-inclusive complaint is good enough for a week or so.” I added, “I’m posting an MP at your door, sir, and if you attempt to shred any papers or carry anything out of here with you, you’ll be placed under restraint and confined to post.”

The man was shaking now, but I couldn’t tell if it was from fright or rage, and I didn’t care. He said, “I’m going to bring formal charges against both of you.”

“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. We are your last best hope to avoid a noose—or is it a firing squad? I have to check. They just don’t execute enough people for me to remember how they do it. But anyway, don’t piss me off. You know what I’m talking about. Good day, Colonel.”

And we left him standing there, contemplating his options, which definitely didn’t include pissing me off.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Cynthia parked in the provost marshal’s parking field a few spaces away from my Blazer. As we started toward the provost building, we saw three news vans and a group of people outside who were obviously journalists. They saw us coming, and we must have fit someone’s description of the detectives in charge, because they moved toward us like a cloud of locusts. As I said, Hadley is an open post, so you can’t keep the taxpaying citizens out, and you normally don’t want to, but I didn’t need this.

The first reporter to reach us, a well-dressed young man with coiffed hair, had a microphone, and the grubbier ones around him had pencils and pads. I was aware of cameras turned on us. The coiffed one asked me, “Are you Warrant Officer Brenner?” then put the microphone under my nose.

“No, sir,” I replied, “I’m here to service the Coke machine.” We kept walking, but this great cloud engulfed us as we continued toward the front doors.

A female reporter asked Cynthia, “Are you Warrant Officer Sunhill?”

“No, ma’am, I’m with the Coke guy.”

But they weren’t buying it, and the questions rained out of this cloud until we finally got to the steps of the provost building, where two huge MPs stood guard with M-16 rifles. I climbed the steps and turned to the crowd, who could go no further, and said, “Good morning.”

The crowd of journalists became quiet, and I saw now three TV cameras and about a dozen photographers snapping away. I said, “The investigation into the death of Captain Ann Campbell is continuing. We have several leads, but no suspects. However, all the available resources of Fort Hadley, the Army Criminal Investigation Division, and the local civilian police have been mobilized, and we are working on the case in close cooperation. We will schedule a news conference in the near future.” Bullshit.

Boom! The storm of questions broke, and I could hear a few of them: “Wasn’t she raped, too?” “Was she found tied up and naked?” “Was she strangled?” “Who do you think did it?” “Isn’t this the second rape here within a week?” And interestingly, “Have you questioned her boyfriend, the chief of police’s son?” and so on.

I replied, “All your questions will be answered at the news conference.”

Cynthia and I went inside the building, where we bumped into Colonel Kent, who looked unhappy and agitated. He said, “I can’t get them to leave.”

“No, you can’t. That’s what I love about this country.”

“But they’re confined to main post, but that includes Beaumont House, and I had to put a dozen MPs there. They can’t go out to the rifle ranges or Jordan Field—I have MPs on the road. But they’re snooping around all over the damn place.”

“Maybe they’ll have better luck than we did.”

“I don’t like this.” He asked me, “Anything new?”

“We spoke to Colonel Fowler and Colonel Moore. I’d like you to send two MPs to Colonel Moore’s office, ASAP, and baby-sit him. He may not use his shredder, and he may not take anything from his office.”

“Okay. I’ll get on that.” He asked, “Are you going to arrest Moore?”

I replied, “We’re still trying to get a psychological autopsy of the deceased from him.”

“Who cares?”

“Well,” I replied, “Ms. Sunhill and I do.”

“Why? What does that have to do with Colonel Moore?”

“Well, the more I learn, the less motivation I can find for Colonel Moore to kill his subordinate. On the other hand, I see that other people could have strong motives.”

Kent looked exasperated, and he said, “Paul, I understand what you’re doing up to a point, and so will everyone else. But you’ve passed that point, and if you don’t arrest Moore now and he turns out to be the killer, and the FBI arrests him, then you look really stupid.”

“I know that, Bill. But if I do arrest him and he’s not the killer, I look worse than stupid.”

“Show some balls.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey! You’re speaking to a superior officer.”

“Fuck you, sir.” I turned and walked down the hall toward our office. Cynthia followed, but Kent did not.

In our office, we were greeted by a stack of white telephone messages, a pile of reports from forensic and the coroner, and other pieces of paper that appeared to be “read and initial” internal memos, half of which didn’t concern me. The Army could screw up your pay records, send your furniture to Alaska and your family to Japan, and lose all track of your leave time—but if you reported into someplace on temporary duty, you immediately got on the distribution list for bullshit memos even if you were working undercover with an assumed identity in a borrowed office.

Cynthia commented, “That wasn’t a smart thing to do.”

“You mean him telling me to show some balls? No, it wasn’t.”

“Well, that wasn’t smart of him, either. But I mean you telling him, quote, fuck you, unquote.”

“No problem.” I leafed through the stack of telephone messages.

Cynthia stayed silent a moment, then said, “Well, but he did do something wrong, didn’t he?”

“You got that right. And he knows it.”

“Still… you don’t have to rub his face in it. If nothing else, we need him even if he is damaged goods.”

I looked up from the phone messages and said, “I don’t have a lot of compassion for an officer who breaks a trust.”

“Except if her name is Ann Campbell.”

I refused to respond to that.

“Anyway, how about some coffee and donuts?”

“Sounds good.”

Cynthia pushed the intercom button and asked for Specialist Baker to report.

I sat down and opened Ann Campbell’s medical file, which was exceedingly thin for her years in service, leading me to believe that she used civilian doctors. There was, however, a gynecological report dating back to her entrance physical at West Point, and a doctor had noted, “H. imperforatus.” I showed it to Cynthia and asked, “Does that mean an intact hymen?”

“Yes, intact and without any opening. But it is not absolute evidence of virginity, though it’s very likely that nothing very big ever got that far.”

“So we can rule out her father raping her when she was a young girl.”

“Well, pretty much. But we can’t rule out other forms of sex abuse.” She added, “But what Colonel Moore said seemed to have the ring of truth. Whatever her father did to her, he did it to her in her second year at West Point, and I doubt if he could rape his twenty-year-old daughter at West Point… but it’s interesting that she was probably a virgin when she got there. Any other gynecological reports in there?”

I looked but saw none. I said, “They are strangely missing. I suspect she used private doctors whenever she could.”

“Right. You don’t go that long without seeing a gynecologist.” She thought a moment, then said, “Why do I think that whatever happened to her at West Point was sexual?”

“Because it fits. Something to do with an eye for an eye.”

“We know it had to do with her father… maybe he forced her on some superior officer, or maybe…”

“Right. We’re getting close. But let’s wait until we know more.” I gave the medical file to Cynthia and said, “Read the psychiatrist’s report in the back of the file.”

Specialist Baker came in and I introduced her to Cynthia, but they’d already met. I asked Baker, “What do you think?”

“Sir?”

“Who did it?”

She shrugged.

Cynthia looked up from the file and asked Baker, “A boyfriend or a stranger?”

She thought a moment and replied, “A boyfriend.” Baker added, “But she had lots of them.”

“Really?” I asked her, “Did anyone here in the provost office or anyone else ask you to give them any information on this case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Well, I’ve been taking calls for both of you all yesterday and this morning, and everyone keeps asking questions. A Colonel Moore, the victim’s boss, plus Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant, Major Bowes, the CID commander, Police Chief Yardley from Midland, and a whole bunch of other people, including reporters. I wrote all the calls down on the slips.”

“And they were all nosy?”

“Yes, sir. But I just told them to speak to either of you.”

“Okay. Tell me, did anyone here in the provost marshal’s office say anything to you that we should know about?”

Specialist Baker understood the question, wrestled with it, and finally said, “There’s a lot of talk going around here, a lot of rumors, gossip, and things that may or may not be true.”

“Right. I figured that out already, Baker. This is privileged information, and I’ll guarantee you not only anonymity but a transfer to anyplace in the universe you want to go. Hawaii, Japan, Germany, California. You name it. Okay?”

“Yes, sir…”

“Tell me first about Colonel Kent. What’s the news around the office?”

She cleared her throat and said, “Well… there were always rumors that Colonel Kent and Captain Campbell were…”

“Fucking. We know that. What else?”

“Well… that’s about it.”

“How long have you been stationed here?”

“Only a few months.”

“Do you think he was in love with her?”

She shrugged. “Nobody said that. I mean, you couldn’t tell because they’d be real cool when they were together. But you could sort of tell something was going on.”

“She’d come here to his office?”

“Sometimes, usually during the day. At night, he’d go to her office. The MP patrols would see his car heading to the Psy-Ops School, and they’d radio a niner-niner—you know, all points—and say something like ‘Randy Six is inbound to Honey One.’ It was sort of a joke, you know, but Colonel Kent monitored his own car radio, for sure, and he figured out that these made-up call signs referred to him and Captain Campbell, but the callers never ID’ed themselves and always disguised their voice, so he couldn’t do anything about it. I don’t think he would have done anything anyway, because that would just make the rumors worse.” She added, “You can’t get away with much on a small base, and with the MPs, they see a lot of what’s going on like that, but if it’s not against the law, or against regulations, they don’t make too much of it, especially if it has to do with ranking officers.” She added, “Especially if it’s the boss.”

Well, I was glad I asked. I had another question. “Baker, Captain Campbell was the post duty officer on the night she was murdered. You know that?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Colonel Kent’s habit to work late on those nights when Captain Campbell had night duty?”

“Well… that’s what I hear.”

“Do you know if Colonel Kent was here on the night she was murdered?”

“He was. I wasn’t here, but the word going around is that he left the office about 1800 hours and returned about 2100 hours, then worked until about midnight, then left. The personnel who were on duty said he was spotted in his staff car cruising past the Post Headquarters, then he went up to Bethany Hill where he lives.”

“I see. And was it common knowledge that Mrs. Kent was out of town?”

“Yes, sir, it was.”

“And I assume at least one MP patrol cruises Bethany Hill each evening.”

“Yes, sir. At least one each night.”

“And what was the word on Randy Six that night?”

She suppressed a smile. “Well… no visitors, and no one saw his staff car leave the driveway all night. But he could have left in his POV and no one noticed.”

Or he could have used his wife’s car, though I didn’t see any car in his driveway when I drove past this morning. But there was a garage out to the rear of the property. I said to Baker, “You understand the nature of these questions?”

“Oh, yes.”

“This will not become part of the office conversations.”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, thanks. Have someone send in coffee and donuts or something.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned and left.

Cynthia and I sat in silence a moment, then she said, “That was a good idea.”

“Thanks, but I can’t place a lot of confidence in office scuttlebutt.”

“But this is MP Headquarters.”

“True.” I said, “You see why I’m annoyed at Kent. The stupid bastard has become a laughingstock in his own command.”

“I see that.”

“I mean, forget morality if you want. You never, never diddle where you work. People laugh.”

“I’ll bet they laughed at us in Brussels and Falls Church.”

“I’m certain they did.”

“How embarrassing.”

“Right. I hope you learned your lesson.”

She smiled, then looked at me. “What were you trying to establish with Baker? That Kent is the butt of office jokes?”

I shrugged.

She said, “The distance from Bethany Hill to rifle range six is about five or six miles. You could drive there in under ten minutes, even if you did the last few miles without lights, because there was bright moonlight that night.”

“The thought had occurred to me. And you could drive from Beaumont House to range six in a little over ten minutes, if you pushed it.”

She nodded. “Facts to keep in mind.” She looked at the medical file in front of her and said, “What do you make of this psychiatrist’s report?”

I replied, “Ann Campbell had suffered some sort of trauma and wasn’t sharing it with anyone. What do you think?”

“Same. There’s not much to go on in this report, but I’d guess that the problem was not stress or fatigue, but a single event that traumatized her and led somehow to her betrayal by her father. In other words, Daddy was not there for her when whatever happened, happened. Does that all fit?”

“Seems to.” I thought a moment, then said, “I keep thinking that it’s sexual, and that it’s something to do with a guy who had one or two more stars than Daddy, and that Daddy backed off and convinced his daughter to do the same.”

“Something like that.”

I added, “We have to get her service academy file, but I would not be at all surprised if we found it contained nothing relevant to what Moore said.”

The coffee came in a big stainless-steel galley pitcher, with a plastic tray of donuts, cold, stale, and greasy. Cynthia and I dug in and talked awhile.

The phone had been ringing almost constantly, but Specialist Baker or someone else had been picking up. This time, however, when the phone rang, the intercom buzzed, and Specialist Baker said, “Colonel Hellmann.”

“I’ll take it.” I put the phone on two-way speaker so Cynthia could hear and speak, and said into the microphone, “Brenner and Sunhill, sir.”

“Ah, we speak of little else here.”

Karl actually sounded light this morning, which throws me off a bit. I replied, “Is that so?”

“It is. Are you both well?”

Cynthia replied, “Very well, Colonel.”

“Good. I’ve received some complaints about your behavior.”

I replied, “Then you know we’re doing our job.”

He replied, “I know you’re starting to annoy people, which is sometimes an indication that you’re doing a good job. But I called to see if you know that the case is being taken out of your hands.”

“Yes, sir, we know.”

“I did what I could to keep it a CID matter, but the FBI has more influence than I do.”

“We may have this case completed soon, anyway,” I assured him.

“Really? Well, I hope you can wrap it up within the next fifteen minutes, because the FBI has jumped the gun and the task force has already arrived at Fort Hadley.”

“They should stay out of our way until 1200 hours tomorrow.”

“They should, but you’ll trip over a few of them.”

I said, “I get the impression you’re relieved to be out of this.”

“What gives you that impression, Mr. Brenner?”

“Your tone of voice, sir. You sound happy.”

There was a pause, then he said, “You should be happy, too. Nothing good could come of this case for you or for the CID.”

“That’s not how I decide what cases to take.” Actually, it was, sometimes. But sometimes you took a case because you felt it was your duty to do so, or because you felt a personal attachment to it, or simply because you wanted to be the person to catch a particularly nasty bad guy. I informed Karl, “I’m going to solve the case and bring credit and glory on all of us.”

“Well, I respect that, Paul. I do. On the other hand, the potential for discredit and disaster is great.” He added, “The FBI has given us an out. The idiots want the case.”

“So do the two idiots here.”

Karl changed the subject and said, “Forensic tells me you have a suspect. A Colonel Moore.”

“We have an individual who was at the scene of the crime. He is a suspect, yes.”

“But you haven’t arrested him.”

“No, sir.”

“They want you to.”

“Who are they?”

“You know. Well, do what you think best. I never interfere.”

“Hardly ever.”

“Any more suspects?”

“No, sir, but I was just about to dial 1-800-SUSPECT when you called.”

Silence, then, “Ms. Sunhill, in your report you said the rape may have in fact been a consensual act.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So that might indicate that the perpetrator was a friend. Wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But not her superior officer, Colonel Moore, who was apparently at the scene?”

Cynthia glanced at me, then replied, “It’s become very complex, Colonel.” She added, “Captain Campbell had many boyfriends.”

“Yes, I’m hearing that.” He added, in a rare moment of comprehension, “It’s a mess out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hellmann said, “Paul, you haven’t made contact with Major Bowes yet.”

“No, Colonel. Major Bowes may be part of the problem here. That’s only hearsay, but you might think about calling him back to Falls Church for a chat.”

“I see.” He stayed silent a moment, then said, “The CID doesn’t need that.”

“No.”

“Are you engaging in damage control?”

“No,” I replied, “that’s not my job.” I added with some satisfaction, “I think I mentioned to you that this was going to be a sensitive case.”

Silence, then, “I only care about the reputation of my officers.”

“Then get Bowes out of here.”

“All right. Can you fax me a report before 1800 hours?”

“No, Colonel, there will be no further reports. We’re extremely busy trying to find a murderer. We’ll report to you in person as soon as they boot us out of here.”

“Understood. Is there anything here we can do for you?”

Cynthia replied, “Yes, sir. We have some information that Captain Campbell and her father had a serious falling-out while she was in her second year at West Point. Whatever happened then is possibly related to this case. It’s possible that what happened may have been public, or at least well known at the academy, or perhaps in the civilian community around West Point.”

“All right, I’ll put some people on it immediately. Academy records, local newspapers, people who were there at the time, and I’ll contact the Criminal Investigation Records Depository in Baltimore. Correct?”

“Yes, sir. And speed is very important,” Cynthia reminded him.

I said to him, “We’re sort of circling around some sensitive issues, Karl, but eventually we have to go right to the heart of the problem. I’m talking about the general.”

“Understood. Do what you have to do. I’m behind you.”

“Right. Do you want to stand in front of me?”

Silence again, then, “I’ll fly down if you wish.”

Cynthia and I glanced at each other, then I said, “We appreciate that, Karl, but if you just hang tough with the boys in the Pentagon, we’d like that.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks.”

He asked, “Are you two working well together?”

Neither Cynthia nor I responded immediately, but then she said, “Very well.”

“Good. There’s nothing like intense heat to forge a strong working team.”

I said to Cynthia so that Karl could hear, “Tell him you apologized to me for Brussels, and that it was all your fault.”

She smiled, then said into the speaker, “That’s correct, Colonel.”

“Noted. I’ll get back to you ASAP with the West Point information if I have any luck.”

“Fine.”

“On another subject, I’m not pleased with your handling of the arms deal case.”

“Then turn it over to the FBI.”

Silence, then, “I have your personnel file in front of me, Paul. You have over twenty years in.”

“I can’t live on full pay. How am I going to live on half pay?”

“I’m concerned for you. I don’t like to lose good men, but I can sense that you’re tired. Do you want a staff job here in Falls Church?”

“You mean in the same building with you?”

“Consider your options.” He added, “I’m here if you just want to talk. Good luck.” He hung up and I shut off the speaker and said to Cynthia, “He sounded almost human.”

“He’s worried, Paul.”

“Well, he should be.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

We spent the next hour going through the paperwork on the desk, returning and making phone calls, including trying to pin down Colonel Fowler regarding the appointments with his wife, Mrs. Campbell, and General Campbell.

I called Grace Dixon, our computer expert, who had flown in from Falls Church and was at Jordan Field trying to get Ann Campbell’s PC to give up its files. “How’s it going, Grace?”

“Going fine now. Some of the computer files were encrypted. We finally found a list of passwords in her home study—inside a cookbook—and I’m pulling up all sorts of things.”

I motioned to Cynthia to pick up the other receiver and said to Grace, “What kinds of things?”

“Some personal letters, a list of people and phone numbers, but the major entry is a diary. Pretty steamy stuff, Paul. Names, dates, places, sexual practices and preferences. I guess that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I guess so. Give me some names, Grace.”

“Okay… hold on… Lieutenant Peter Elby… Colonel William Kent… Major Ted Bowes…” And on she went, reading off about two dozen names, some of which I knew, such as Colonel Michael Weems, the staff judge advocate, Captain Frank Swick, the medical officer, and Major Arnold Eames, the head chaplain, of all people, and some of whom I didn’t know, but they were all military and probably all in some way in the general’s immediate or extended retinue. But then Grace read, “Wes Yardley, Burt Yardley—”

“Burt?”

“Yes. I guess she liked the family.”

Cynthia and I glanced at each other. I said to Grace, “Right… and you didn’t come across the name of Fowler?”

“Not yet.”

“Charles Moore?”

“Yes… but he appears only as someone she has sessions with. I guess he’s a shrink. This diary goes back about two years and begins, ‘Report for duty at Daddy’s fort. Operation Trojan Horse begins.’ ” She added, “This is really crazy stuff, Paul.”

“Give me an example of crazy.”

“Well, I’ll read this… It’s the last entry… Okay, I’m reading from the monitor. It says, ‘14 August—invited Daddy’s new operations officer, Colonel Sam Davis, to stop by my house for a get-acquainted drink. Sam is about fifty, a little heavy but not too bad-looking, married with grown children, one of whom still lives with him on Bethany Hill. He seems to be a devoted family man, and his wife, Sarah, whom I met at the new officer reception, is quite attractive. Sam got to my house at 1900 hours, we had a few stiff drinks in my living room, then I put on some slow music and asked him to help me practice a new dance step. He was nervous, but he’d had enough drinks to give him courage. He was wearing summer greens, but I’d put on a white cotton shift, sans bra, and I was barefoot, and, within a few minutes, we were nuzzling, and the guy had… the guy had…’ ”

“Grace?”

“ ‘Had an erection…’ ”

“Ah-ha, one of those.” Grace Dixon is a middle-aged, matronly woman, a civilian employee with a happy home life, and most of her work is done for the CID’s Contracts Fraud Unit, so it’s usually numbers and double entries that she’s after. This was a real treat for her. But maybe not. “Go on.”

“Okay… where was I?”

“Erection.”

“Yes… ‘and I made sure I brushed it with my fingers, then he finally took the initiative and slipped my shoulder straps off, and I wiggled out of the shift and we danced, with me in my panties. Sam was somewhere between ecstasy and fainting out of fear, but I took him by the hand and led him into the basement. Drinks included, the whole seduction took less than twenty minutes. I showed him into my room in the basement and slipped off my panties…’ ”

“You still there, Grace?”

“Yes… my goodness… is this real or fantasy?”

I replied, “For Sam Davis, it started as adventureland and went right to fantasyland.”

“She takes all these men into the basement. She has some sort of room down there with sexual devices…”

“Really? Go on.”

“Oh… let’s see…” She continued reading from the monitor, “ ‘I put on some music in the room, then knelt down and unzipped his fly. The guy was hard as a rock, and I was afraid he was going to come if I just touched it. I told him he could do anything he wanted to me and told him to look around the room to see what interested him. He was so hot he was just trying to pull his pants off, but I told him I wanted him to stay dressed, to make me his slave, to order me around, to use the strap on me or whatever, but it was his first time and he wasn’t very cooperative about my needs. Finally, he just bent me over the bed, and, with his pants down, he entered me vaginally from behind and came in about two seconds.’ ” Grace said, “Do I hear heavy breathing on the line?”

“That’s Cynthia,” I assured her. “Is that the end of the entry?”

“No, she goes on to say, ‘I took his clothes off, and we showered together. He was anxious to get going and kept apologizing for coming so fast. I made him lie down on the bed naked and put a silly pig mask on his face, then took two shots with a Polaroid and gave one to him, and we joked about it, and he was too polite to ask for the other photo, but you could tell he was nervous about the whole thing. I told him I’d like to see him again and assured him that this was our little secret. He got dressed, and I showed him upstairs to the front door. I was still naked. He looked panicky, like he was afraid to even go outside and be seen leaving my place, and he definitely wasn’t going straight home with his heart still pounding and his knees shaking. Finally, he said that he didn’t want to see me again, and would I mind getting that photo, so I went into my crying routine, and he hugged and kissed me, and I had to wipe lipstick off his face. He left and I watched him from the window, racing to his car and glancing over his shoulder. The next time, I’ll ask him to bring me a case of wine and see how fast he can run up the walk with that in his hands.’ ”

Grace said, “This has got to be made up.”

“Grace, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone, you will not print out a word of anything, and you will guard those computer passwords with your life. Understand?”

“Understand.”

I thought a moment, then said, “Correction. Print out a few Burt Yardley meetings, put them in a sealed envelope, and have them sent to me here, ASAP.”

“Understood.” She said, “There are over thirty different men mentioned here over a two-year period. Do single women sleep with thirty different men in twenty-four months?”

“How would I know?”

“And the way she describes these encounters… my Lord, she’s got a problem—had a problem—with men. I mean, she makes them abuse her, but she’s controlling them and thinking they’re complete fools.”

“She was right about that.” I said to her, “Pull up recent entries for Colonel Weems and Major Bowes and tell me if it’s hot stuff.”

“Okay… hold on…” She said, “Here’s Weems, 31 July, this year… Yes, very steamy stuff. You want me to read it?”

“No, I can’t handle much more. How about Bowes?”

“Right… 4 August, this year… wow! This guy is weird. Who is this?”

“Our local CID man.”

“Oh… no!”

“Yes. Mum’s the word. Speak to you later, Grace.” I hung up.

Cynthia and I sat silently for a moment, then I said, “Well… if I was a married colonel, the general’s new operations officer, and the general’s beautiful daughter invited me over for a drink…”

“Yes?”

“I’d run.”

“Which way?”

I smiled, then said, “Couldn’t he have held out for more than twenty minutes?”

Cynthia commented, “You know, Paul, I understand from my experience in rape cases that some men have difficulty controlling their urges. But you guys should try to think with the big head, not the little head.”

“A rising cock has no conscience, Cynthia.” I added, “In the case of Sam Davis, don’t blame the victim.”

“You’re right. But I think she was a victim, too. This is not about sex.”

“No, it’s not. It’s about Operation Trojan Horse.” I thought a moment, then said, “Well, we can assume that Burt Yardley knows where the basement playroom is.”

“Probably,” Cynthia agreed. “But I doubt that she brought Wes Yardley down there.”

“That’s true. He was the boyfriend. He had no real power, on or off post, and he isn’t married, so he couldn’t be compromised or blackmailed. But I wonder if Wes knew about his old papa dipping into the same honeypot.”

“You have a way with words, Paul.”

Specialist Baker came in and informed us, “Police Chief Yardley and Police Officer Yardley are here to see you.”

I replied, “I’ll let you know when I want to see them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Someone from the CID detachment at Jordan Field will be here shortly with an envelope. Bring it in as soon as it arrives.”

“Yes, sir.” She left.

I said to Cynthia, “We’re going to have to separate Burt and Wes at some point.”

“Right.”

I stood. “I have to go see a buddy of mine in the lockup.” I left the office and followed a maze of intersecting corridors to the holding cells. I found Dalbert Elkins in the same corner cell where I’d put him. He was lying on the cot, reading a hunting and fishing magazine. They hadn’t given him a uniform, and he was still in his shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. I said, “Hello, Dalbert.”

He looked up, then sat up, then stood up. “Oh… hi…”

“They treating you okay, buddy?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean, yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you write a good confession?”

He nodded. He looked less frightened now, and more sulky. It is my policy, shared by most CID criminal investigators, to visit the people you’ve locked up in jail. You make sure the MPs or the stockade guards are not abusing them, which unfortunately happens in military confinement from time to time. You make sure their families are okay, they have some money for sundries, have writing materials and stamps, and you give them a friendly ear. I asked Elkins about all these things, and he assured me he was not being mistreated, and he had everything he needed. I asked him, “You want to stay here, or do you want to go to the stockade?”

“Here.”

“You can play baseball in the stockade.”

“Here.”

“Are you being cooperative with the CID guys?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“Well…”

“You have a right to be represented by counsel. You may have a JAG lawyer at no expense to you, or you may hire a civilian attorney.”

“Well… what do you think?”

“I think if you get a lawyer, you’ll make me very angry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you feel like the dumbest, sorriest son-of-a-bitch who ever lived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to make it right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My name is Warrant Officer Brenner, by the way. I was just kidding about that Sergeant White stuff. If you need anything, or your family wants to contact anyone, you ask for Brenner. If anyone messes you around, you tell them you’re being watched over by Brenner. Okay?”

“Yes, sir… thanks.”

“I won’t be around too much longer, but I’ll get you another CID guy to watch after you. I’ll try to get you out of jail and confined to barracks, but I’m going to tell you, Dalbert, if you run away, I’ll come and find you, and kill you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. If you get me out of here, I’ll stay put. Promise.”

“And if you don’t, I’ll kill you. Promise.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went back to my office, where Cynthia was reading Ann Campbell’s personnel file. I called the local CID and got hold of a Captain Anders. We discussed Dalbert Elkins awhile, and I recommended confinement to barracks. Anders seemed hesitant, but agreed if I would sign a recommendation for release. I said I would and asked to speak to Major Bowes. While I waited, I wondered, Why do I stick my neck out for people I put in jail? I have to find a new line of work, something not so exciting.

As I scribbled out a recommendation for release from confinement, Major Bowes came on the line. “Bowes here.”

“Good morning, Major.”

“What is it, Brenner?”

I’d never worked with or met this guy, and I didn’t know anything about him except that he was commander of the Fort Hadley CID detachment, and that he was a steamy entry in Ann Campbell’s diary.

“Brenner?”

“Yes, sir. I just wanted to touch base with you.”

“This is not a baseball game. What can I do for you?”

“I assume you’re annoyed because I’ve asked that you be kept off this case.”

“You assume right, Mister.”

“Yes, sir. Actually, it was Colonel Kent who decided to use an outside investigator.” And he was probably sorry he’d asked.

“Colonel Kent does not make those kinds of decisions. And you should have paid a courtesy call on me.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been busy. The phone works both ways.”

“Watch yourself, Chief.”

“How is Mrs. Bowes?”

What?”

“Are you married, Major?”

Silence, then, “What kind of question is that?”

“That is an official question, pertaining to the murder investigation. That’s what kind of question it is. Please answer

it.” Silence again, then, “Yes, I’m married.”

“Does Mrs. Bowes know about Captain Campbell?”

“What the hell—?”

Cynthia looked up from what she was doing.

I said to Bowes, “Major, I have proof of your sexual involvement with Ann Campbell, proof that you visited her at her home and had sexual relations with her of an illicit nature in the basement bedroom of her home, and that you engaged in and performed sexual acts that are a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, as well as being against the law in the state of Georgia.” Actually, I didn’t know what was against the law in Georgia, and I didn’t know yet what Bowes and Ann Campbell engaged in, but who cares? Throw enough bullshit and some of it’s going to stick.

Cynthia picked up the phone and listened, but Bowes was not talking.

I waited through the silence, then Bowes said, “I think we should meet.”

“I’m kind of overbooked, Major. Someone from Falls Church will be calling you if they haven’t already. Have a bag packed. Good day.”

“Wait! We should talk about this. Who knows about this? I think I can explain this—”

“Explain the photos I found in her basement.”

“I… I can’t be linked to those photos…”

“The mask didn’t hide your dick or your ass, Major. Maybe I’ll have your wife pick you out of the photos.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“You’re a cop, for Christ’s sake. And an officer. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

After about five seconds, he replied, “I fucked up.”

“You sure did.”

“Can you cover me?”

“I suggest you make a full confession and throw yourself on the mercy of the bosses in Falls Church. Bluff a little, and threaten to go public. Cut a deal, take half pay, and get out.”

“Right. Thanks for nothing.”

“Hey, I didn’t fuck the general’s daughter.”

“You would have.”

“Major, regarding on-the-job sex, the thing to remember is you never get your meat where you get your bread.”

“Depends on the meat.”

“Was it worth it?”

He laughed. “Hell, yeah. I’ll tell you about it someday.”

“I’ll read about it in her diary. Have a good day, Major.” I hung up.

Cynthia put down the phone and said, “Why were you being so hard on him? These men didn’t commit a real crime, Paul.”

“No, but they’re stupid. I’m sick of stupid men.”

“I think you’re jealous.”

“Keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I rubbed my temples. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“Do you want to see the Yardley boys now?”

“No. Fuck ’em. Let them cool their heels.” I picked up the telephone and called the staff judge advocate’s office and asked to speak to Colonel Weems, the commanding officer. I got his clerk-typist, a man who wanted to know my business. I said, “Tell Colonel Weems this has to do with the murder case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cynthia picked up her extension and said to me, “Be nice.”

Colonel Weems got on the line and inquired, “Are you the investigating officer in charge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ve been instructed to draw up a charge sheet against Colonel Charles Moore, and I need some information.”

“Well, here’s your first piece of information, Colonel. Colonel Moore is not to be charged until I say so.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Brenner, but I’ve received these instructions from the Pentagon.”

“I don’t care if you received them from Douglas MacArthur’s ghost.” Army lawyers, even colonels, can be pushed around a little because, like Army doctors, psychologists, and such, their rank is basically a pay grade, and they know they shouldn’t take it too seriously. In fact, they should all be warrant officers, like I am, and they’d be much happier, and so would everyone else. I said to him, “Your name has come up in connection with that of the victim.”

“Excuse me?”

“You married, Colonel?”

“Yes…”

“You want to stay married?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I have information that you were sexually involved with the victim, that you committed offenses under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, to wit: Article 125, unnatural carnal copulation, plus Article 133, conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and Article 134, disorders and neglects to the prejudice of good order and discipline, and conduct of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces.” I asked him, “How’s that, Counselor?”

“That’s not true.”

“Do you know how you can tell when a lawyer is lying? No? His lips move.”

He didn’t appreciate the joke, and said, “You’d better have damn good evidence to back that up.”

Spoken like a true lawyer. I said, “Do you know what three hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean are called? No? A good start.”

“Mr. Brenner—”

“Have you lost any sleep over that basement playroom? I found it, and you’re in a videotape.” Maybe.

“I was never… I…”

“Polaroid photos.”

“I…”

“And in her diary.”

“Oh…”

“Look, Colonel, I don’t care, but you really can’t be involved with this case. Don’t compound your problem. Call the judge advocate general, or better yet, fly to Washington and ask to be relieved of your command. Draw up a charge sheet on yourself or something. Meanwhile, turn this over to someone who kept his dick in his pants. No, better yet, who’s the ranking woman on your staff?”

“Uh… Major Goodwin…”

“She’s in charge of the Campbell case.”

“You can’t give me orders—”

“Colonel, if they could bust officers, you’d be a PFC tomorrow. In any case, by next month you’ll be looking for a job in a small firm, or you’ll be the attorney-in-resident at Leavenworth. Don’t stonewall this. Cut a deal while you can. You may be called as a witness.”

“To what?”

“I’ll think about it. Have a good day.” I hung up.

Cynthia put down the phone and inquired, “Have you caused enough misery for one day?”

“I told them to have a good day.”

“Paul, you’re going a little overboard. I realize you hold most of the cards—”

“I have this post by its collective balls.”

“Right. But you’re exceeding your authority.”

“But not my power.”

“Take it easy. It’s not personal.”

“Okay… I’m just angry. I mean, what the hell is the officer code about? We’ve sworn to do our duty, to uphold high standards of morality, integrity, and ethics, and we’ve agreed that our word is our bond. So now we find out that about thirty guys threw it all away, for what?”

“Pussy.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Right. Pussy. But it was pussy from hell.”

“We’re not so pure, either.”

“We never compromised our duty.”

“This is a murder case, not an ethics inquiry. One thing at a time.”

“Right. Send in the clowns.”

Cynthia called Baker on the intercom and said, “Send in the… civilian gentlemen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cynthia said to me, “Now calm down.”

“I’m not angry at those bozos. They’re civilians.”

The door opened, and Specialist Baker announced, “Chief Yardley and Officer Yardley.”

Cvnthia and I stood as the Yardlevs, dressed in tan uniforms, came into the office. Burt Yardley said, “Don’t appreciate bein’ kept waitin’. But we’ll let that slide.” He looked around the small room and commented, “Hell, I got holdin’ cells bigger an’ nicer than this.”

“So do we,” I informed him. “I’ll show you one.”

He laughed and said, “This here’s my son Wes. Wes, meet Miss Sunhill and Mr. Brenner.”

Wes Yardley was a tall, extremely lean man of about twenty-five, with long swept-back hair that would have gotten him in trouble on most police forces, except the one he was on. We didn’t shake hands, but he did touch his cowboy hat and nod to Cynthia.

The southern male doesn’t usually remove his hat indoors when he’s calling on inferiors or peers, because to arrive with his hat literally in his hand is to admit he’s in the presence of social superiors. It all goes back to plantation houses, gentlemen, sharecroppers, slaves, white trash, good families and bad families, and so on. I don’t quite get it, but the Army is heavy on hat rules, too, so I respect the local customs.

Lacking enough chairs, we all remained standing. Burt Yardley said to me, “Hey, I got all your stuff packed nice and neat in my office. You come on down and pick it up any ol’ time.”

“That’s very good of you.”

Wes sort of smirked, and I wanted to bury my fist in his bony face. The guy looked hyperactive, sort of jiggling around, like he was born with two thyroids.

I said to Burt, “Did you bring the government property with you?”

“Sure did. Don’t need no trouble with the government. I gave it all to your little girl out there. That’s sort of a peace offering, Paul. Can I call you Paul?”

“Sure thing, Burt.”

“Good. And I’m thinkin’ about lettin’ you into the deceased’s house.”

“I’m real pleased, Burt.”

“Now, you want to talk to my son about this business?” He looked at Wes and said, “Tell these people everything you know about that girl.”

Cynthia said, “She was a woman, an officer in the United States Army. Specialist Baker is also a woman, a soldier in the United States Army.”

Burt did a little bow and touched his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

I really felt like pulling my Glock on these two yahoos, and I would have painted them red in a heartbeat, except that I had a short deadline on this case.

Anyway, Wes started his spiel. “Yeah, I was seein’ Ann now and then, but I seen other women, too, and she was seein’ other men, and neither of us took it real personal. The night she was killed, I was ridin’ patrol in North Midland, midnight-to-eight shift, and I got about a dozen people who seen me, includin’ my partner and gas station guys, 7-Eleven guys, and like that. So that’s all you got to know.”

“Thank you, Officer Yardley.”

No one spoke for a few seconds, then Cynthia asked Wes, “Are you upset over Ann Campbell’s death?”

He seemed to think that over, then replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

I asked him, “Can I get you a sedative or something?”

Burt laughed and said to his son, “Forgot to tell you, boy, this here guy’s real funny.”

I said to Burt, “I’d like to speak to you alone.”

“Anything you got to say, you can say in front of my boy.”

“Not everything, Chief.”

He looked at me a moment. “Well…” He said to his son, “I’m gonna leave you alone with this young lady, Wes, and you behave now.” He laughed. “She don’t know what a mover you are. Probably thinks you just fell off the turnip truck.”

On that note, Burt and I left the office, and I found an empty interview room. We sat across a long table, and Burt said, “Damned reporters out there are gettin’ too damn nosy. Startin’ to ask about these rumors that the general’s daughter got around. Understand?”

I didn’t recall a single question of that nature from the press, but I said, “Law officers don’t engage in speculation in front of the press.”

“Hell, no. Me and the general get along fine, and I wouldn’t want to see his girl talked about after she’s dead.”

“If you’re leading up to something, Chief, spit it out.”

“Well, it occurs to me that maybe people think the Army CID pulled a fast one on me, and when y’all catch this guy, my organization won’t get no credit.”

Double negatives annoy me, but Burt Yardley annoyed me more. I said, “Rest assured, Chief, your department will get all the credit it deserves.”

He laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of, son. We need to get involved in this here case.”

“Take it up with the FBI. They’re in charge as of tomorrow.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Sure is.”

“Okay. Meantime, you write a nice report sayin’ how the Midland police helped you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re runnin’ around talkin’ about subpoena’n’ my records, because the goddamn reporters are askin’ questions about my boy’s involvement with the deceased, because you’re startin’ to make me look like a damn fool ‘cause I don’t know shit, and because you goddamn well need me.” He added, “You’re goin’ to make things right.”

The man was obviously annoyed, and I really couldn’t blame him. There is a strange symbiotic relationship between an Army post and the local community, especially in the South. At its worst, the relationship seems like one of an army of occupation ensconced in the defeated old Dixieland. At its best, the locals realize that most of the officers and enlisted personnel are southerners themselves, and the post is no more intrusive than a big auto factory. But big auto factories don’t have their own laws and customs, so the reality is somewhere in between. Anyway, in the spirit of cooperation, I said to Burt Yardley, “I’ll introduce you to the FBI man in charge when I know who it is and give him a glowing report of your assistance and accomplishments.”

“That’s real decent of you, Paul. You write somethin’ out, too. Bill Kent’s doin’ that right now. Why don’t we call him in here, and we’ll have that big sit-down your little assistant there talked about.”

“I don’t have a lot of time for big sit-downs, Chief. You’ll be involved in the continuing investigation to the fullest extent possible. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why do I think you’re bullshittin’ me, Paul?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you why. ’Cause you don’t think I got one goddamn thing you want, and you don’t give nothin’ for nothin’. Fact is, I think I got what you need to wrap up this here case.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Sure is. I found some evidence in the deceased’s house that you overlooked, son. But it’s goin’ to take a lot of work between us to sort it out.”

“Right. You mean the stuff in the basement bedroom.”

His eyes got wide, and he didn’t speak for a second, which was a treat, but then he said, “Why’d you leave all that shit there?”

“I thought you were too stupid to find it.”

He laughed. “Now who’s stupid?”

“But I didn’t leave it all. We carried some bags of photos and videotapes out of there.” I didn’t, but I should have.

He regarded me closely for a moment, and I could tell he was not real happy with that possibility. He said, “Well, ain’t you a smart boy.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Where’s that stuff?”

“In my trailer. You missed it.”

“Don’t mess with me, son. There ain’t nothin’ in that trailer.”

“Why do you care where the stuff is?”

“ ’Cause it’s my stuff.”

“Wrong.”

He cleared his throat and said, “There’s some dumb-ass guys who got a shitload of explainin’ to do when I do fingerprints in that there room, and when we match those pictures and those movie tapes to their buck-naked bodies.”

“Right. Including you.”

He stared at me, and I stared back. Finally, he said, “I don’t bluff real easy.”

“You see, Chief, I think that Wes and Ann had more going for them than Wes is letting on. They weren’t the happiest couple who ever came down the pike, but they did go out for almost two years, and my information says they were hot and heavy. Now the question I have for you is this—did your son know you were fucking his girlfriend?”

Chief Yardley seemed to be mulling over his answer, so, to fill the silence, I asked, “And did Mrs. Yardley know you were fucking the general’s daughter? Hey, I wouldn’t want to have dinner at your house tonight, Burt.”

The chief was still mulling, so I said, “You didn’t find that room by accident, but that’s what you told Wes. Maybe Wes knew that his girlfriend dated on the side now and then, but when he screwed her, he did it in her bedroom, because if he’d seen that room downstairs, he’d have beat the shit out of her and left her like any good gentleman of the South. You, on the other hand, knew all about her but never told your son, because Ann Campbell told you you’d better not. She liked Wes. You were just someone she screwed because you had influence over Wes, and because you could fix things for her in town if she ever needed anything fixed. You were kind of an afterthought, extra insurance, and maybe you came through for her a few times. So, anyway, you and Wes have more in common than blood, and Ann Campbell made your life exciting and damned scary. She told you at some point that if you broke into her place and took that stuff, it didn’t matter, because she had copies of the photos and videotapes someplace else. It wouldn’t be too hard to identify your fat ass in those pictures. So you get to thinking about your wife, your son, your other sons, your standing in the community, your pastor and Sunday church socials, your thirty years on the force to get to the top, and one day, you decide to get rid of this time bomb.” I looked at him and said, “Correct?”

Yardley’s ruddy face had not gone pale, but it had gone redder. Finally, he said, “I wasn’t dumb enough to have my picture taken.”

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure your voice isn’t on an audiotape?”

“That ain’t good enough.”

“It’s good enough to smear your name like shit on the mayor’s new carpet.”

We both sat awhile, like two checker players trying to see three moves down the road. Yardley nodded to himself, then looked me in the eye. “I thought about killing her once or twice.”

“No kidding?”

“But I couldn’t bring myself to kill a woman for somethin’ stupid that I did.”

“Chivalry is not dead.”

“Yeah… anyway, I was in Atlanta overnight on business when it happened. Got lots of witnesses.”

“Good. I’ll talk to them.”

“You go right ahead and make a fool out of yourself.”

“I’m not the one with a motive for murder.” Actually, I didn’t think Burt Yardley was the murderer, but people get nervous when you tell them you have to check out their alibis. It’s embarrassing and causes all sorts of awkwardness. That’s why cops do it to people that are holding back, and who piss them off.

Yardley said, “You can take your motives, put a light coat of oil on them, and shove ’em up your butt. But I might be interested in what you got regardin’ me and the deceased.”

“Might you? Well, I might have a photo of you when you were sleeping in her bed.”

“Then again, you might not.”

“Then again, how did I connect your fat ass to that room?”

“Well, that’s the question, ain’t it, son?” He slid back his chair as though to leave and said, “You’re blowin’ smoke up my ass. I ain’t got no time for this.”

There was a knock on the door and it opened. Specialist Baker handed me a sealed transmittal envelope and left. I opened the envelope, which contained about a dozen sheets of typed paper. Without a preamble to cushion the blow, I took a page at random and read aloud, “ ‘22 April—Burt Yardley stopped by about 2100 hours. I was busy with reports, but he wanted to go downstairs. Thank God this guy needs it only about once a month. We went down into the basement, and he ordered me to strip for a search. I think he strip-searches every female he has half a reason to. So I stripped in front of him while he stood there with his hands on his hips and watched, then he ordered me to turn around, bend over, and spread my cheeks, which I did. He put his finger in my anus and told me he was looking for drugs or poison or secret messages. Then he made me lie on the gurney for a vaginal search, and—’ ”

“Okay, son.”

I looked up from the page. “Does that ring a bell, Chief?”

“Uh… not right off.” He asked, “Where’d you get that?”

“Her computer.”

“Don’t sound like admissible evidence to me.”

“Well, in test cases, it’s been ruled admissible.”

“Could be all female craziness. You know, like some dumb make-believe.”

“Could be. I’ll turn it over to the JAG and to the Georgia attorney general for evaluation by legal and mental health professionals. Maybe you’ll be cleared.”

“Cleared of what? Even if every goddamn word is true, I didn’t break no laws.”

“I’m not an expert on Georgia sodomy laws. But I think you may have broken your marriage vows.”

“Oh, can that shit, son. You’re a man. Act like a goddamn man. Think like a goddamn man. You some kind of queer or what? You married?”

I ignored him and flipped through the pages. “My goodness, Burt… you used your flashlight to look up her… and here you use your nightstick to… and yourpistol? This is really gross. You’ve got this fetish about long, hard objects, I see. But I don’t seem to see where your own object gets long or hard…”

Burt stood. “You keep a close eye on your ass, boy, because it’s mine if you stick it anyplace off this post.” He went to the door, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, so I paid no attention. He came back to the table, took the chair beside me, and spun it around, then sat on it and leaned toward me. I’m not sure what the reversed chair symbolizes beyond the obvious fact that it’s the opposite of sitting down and relaxing. Maybe it’s protective, maybe aggressive, but whatever it is, it’s annoying. I stood, and sat on the table. “Okay, Burt, what I want from you is every damned piece of evidence you took out of that room.”

“No way.”

“Then I’ll send copies of these diary pages to everyone in the Midland phone book.”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

We were getting somewhere now, so I said, “We’ll swap evidence.”

“Hell, no. I got enough stuff to fuck up most of the top boys on this here post. You want that to happen?”

“You’ve only got masked photos. I have the diary.”

“I got goddamned fingerprints all over the place down there. We’re gonna run those through the FBI and the Army.”

“Are the contents still in the room?”

“My business.”

“Okay, how about a bonfire? We’ll use these pages of your sexual perversions to start it. Probably won’t even need a match.”

He thought a minute. “Can I trust you?”

“My word as an officer.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I trustyou?”