The General's Daughter

“No, but I don’t want you shooting off your wiseass mouth to my wife and boy.”

I stood and looked out the window. The reporters were still there, but a cordon of MPs had now moved them back about fifty meters to the road in front of the building so that people could come and go without being harassed. I thought about what I was about to enter into with Chief Yardley. Destroying evidence could get me a few years in Kansas. On the other hand, destroying lives is not part of my job. I turned and walked toward Yardley. “Done deal.”

He stood and we shook. I said, “You throw everything in a dump truck, including the furniture, sheets, carpet, videotapes, photos, whips and chains, and all that stuff, and bring everything to the town incinerator.”

“When?”

“After I make an arrest.”

“When’s that gonna be?”

“Soon.”

“Yeah? You want to tell me about that?”

“No.”

“You know, dealin’ with you is like jerkin’ off with sandpaper.”

“Thank you.” I handed him the computer printouts and said, “When we burn the stuff, I’ll have this deleted from the computer. You can watch.”

“Yeah. Now you’re blowin’ sunshine up my ass. Well, I’m gonna trust you, son, ’cause you’re an officer and a gentleman. But if you fuck me, I’ll kill you as God is my witness.”

“I think I understand that. And I make you the same promise. Have your first good night’s sleep tonight. It’s almost finished.”

We walked out into the corridor and back toward the office. On the way, I said to him, “Have my personal luggage delivered to the visiting officers’ quarters, okay, Burt?”

“Sure thing, son.”

Cynthia and Wes Yardley were sitting at the desks and stopped talking as we entered.

Burt said, “Hey, we interruptin’ somethin’?” He laughed.

Cynthia gave Burt a look that seemed to say, “You’re a jackass.”

Wes stood and ambled to the door. He looked at the papers in his father’s hand and asked, “What’s that?”

“Uh… just some Army crap I got to read.” He looked at Cynthia and touched his hat. “A pleasure as always, ma’am.” He said to me, “Keep me informed.” He and his son left.

Cynthia asked, “Did Baker find you?”

“Yes.”

“Hot stuff?”

“Burt found it a little embarrassing.” I told her most of what transpired and said to her, “The incriminating photos and other evidence in Ann Campbell’s fun room will be disposed of, but the less you know about it, the better.”

“Don’t be protective, Paul. I don’t like that.”

“I’d do the same for any officer. You’re going to be questioned under oath someday, and you don’t have to lie.”

“We’ll discuss this another time. Meanwhile, Wes Yardley turns out to be a little less macho than he appears.”

“They all are.”

“Right. He’s quite upset over Ann Campbell’s death, and has been turning Midland upside down trying to find who did it.”

“Good. Did you get the feeling that he thought Ann Campbell was his personal property?”

“Sort of. I asked him if she was allowed to date other men, and he said he only allowed her to have dinner, drinks, and such, on official occasions on post. He never wanted to escort her to any of those things, so he was good enough to permit her to do what she had to do with the asshole officers. Quote, unquote.”

“There’s a man after my own heart.”

“Right. But people can’t be watched all the time, and where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Correct. So he had no idea, obviously, that she was furthering her career in nontraditional ways.”

“I very much doubt it.”

“And if he found out that his father was sharing the honey, he’d be annoyed.”

“To say the very least.”

“Good. I’ve never had my hands around so many balls.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Not me. I’m just doing my job.”

“Do you want a sandwich?”

“You buying?”

“Sure.” She stood. “I need some air. I’ll run over to the O Club.”

“Cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.”

“Tidy up this place while I’m gone.” She left.

I called Baker on the intercom, and she reported. I gave her my handwritten note regarding Dalbert Elkins and asked her to type it.

She said to me, “Would you recommend me for CID School?”

“It’s not as much fun as it looks, Baker.”

“I really want to be a criminal investigator.”

“Why?”

‘It’s exciting.”

“Why don’t you talk to Ms. Sunhill about it?”

“I did, when she was here yesterday. She said it was fun and exciting, lots of travel, and you meet interesting people.”

“Right, and you arrest them.”

“She said she met you in Brussels. That sounds romantic.” I didn’t reply.

“She said she’s got orders for a permanent duty station in Panama when she’s finished here.”

“Would you get me some fresh coffee?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all.”

She left.

Panama.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

Colonel Fowler called at 1645 hours and I took the call, telling Cynthia to pick up the other line and listen.

Colonel Fowler said, “My wife is available at 1730 hours, at home, Mrs. Campbell at 1800 hours, at Beaumont House, and the general will see you at his office at Post Headquarters at 1830 hours, sharp.”

I commented, “That’s cutting the interviews close.”

“Actually,” he replied, “it’s cutting them short.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“The three parties you wish to speak to are under a great deal of stress, Mr. Brenner.”

“So am I, but I thank you.”

“Mr. Brenner, has it occurred to you that you may be upsetting people?”

“It has occurred to me.”

“The funeral, as I said, is tomorrow morning. Why don’t you and Ms. Sunhill brief the FBI people, attend the funeral if you wish, then leave. The investigation will proceed nicely without you, and the murderer will be brought to justice in good time. This is not a timed exercise.”

“Well, it wasn’t, but the idiots in Washington made it one.”

“Mr. Brenner, from the very beginning, you chose to charge through here like Grant took Richmond, with no regard to protocol or other people’s sensibilities.”

“That’s how Grant took Richmond, Colonel.”

“And they are still pissed-off at Grant in Richmond.”

“Right. Colonel, I knew from the beginning that this case would be pulled away from me, from the CID. The Pentagon and the White House did the politically correct thing, and God bless civilian control of the military. But if I have about twenty hours left, I’ll use it my way.”

“As you wish.”

“Trust me to conclude this case in a way that will not bring discredit on the Army. Don’t trust the FBI or the Attorney General’s Office to do that.”

“I won’t comment on that.”

“Best that you don’t.”

“On another topic, Mr. Brenner, your request to seize the contents of Colonel Moore’s office has gone all the way to the Pentagon, and they turned it down for national security reasons.”

“That’s the very best of reasons, sir. But it’s odd that the people in Washington want me to arrest Colonel Moore for murder, but I can’t get permission to examine his files.”

“That’s what happens when you ask. You know that.”

“Indeed I do. That’s the last time I go through channels.”

“That’s your call. But the Pentagon did say that if you arrest Colonel Moore at this time, they will fly someone down here with the necessary clearance and authority to assist you in going through the files on a selective basis. But it can’t be a fishing expedition. You must know what you’re looking for.”

“Right. I’ve been that route before. If I knew what the hell I was looking for, I probably wouldn’t need it.”

“Well, that’s the best I could do. What clearance do you have?”

“Oh, about five foot eleven.” He didn’t laugh, so I said, “Secret clearance.”

“All right, I’ll pass that on. Meantime, the Psy-Ops School is sending people down to Jordan Field to collect the contents of Captain Campbell’s office and return everything to the school. You and Colonel Kent will not be charged with a crime for removing the contents, but letters of reprimand have been put in your files.” He added, “You must obey the law like the rest of us.”

“Well, I usually do when I know what it is.”

“You don’t confiscate classified material without proper authorization.”

“Someone’s trying to sandbag me, Colonel.”

“Not only that, someone’s trying to screw you. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve made inquiries about Captain Campbell’s time at West Point. Correct?”

“That’s correct. Did I ask the wrong question?”

“Apparently.”

I glanced at Cynthia and inquired of Colonel Fowler, “Can you tell me anything about that, Colonel?”

“I know nothing about it, except that they’re asking me why you’re asking.”

“Who are they?”

“I can’t say. But you hit a nerve, Mr. Brenner.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to help me, Colonel.”

“Upon consideration, you and Ms. Sunhill may be the best people for this job. But you won’t conclude this case in time, so I’m advising you to protect yourselves.” He added, “Lay low.”

“Ms. Sunhill and I are not criminals. We are criminal investigators.”

“The letter of reprimand was a warning shot. The next shot is aimed for the heart.”

“Right, but I’m firing it.”

“You’re a damned fool. We need more people like you.” He added, “Be sure your partner understands what she’s getting into.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I, but you definitely asked the wrong question about West Point. Good day.” He hung up.

I looked at Cynthia. “My goodness.”

She said, “We definitely asked the right question about West Point.”

“Apparently.” I called Jordan Field and got Grace Dixon on the line. “Grace, I just got a tip that there are people en route to your location from the Psy-Ops School to reclaim Captain Campbell’s files, and I’m sure that includes her computer.”

“I know. They’re already here.”

“Damn it!”

“No problem. After I spoke to you, I copied everything onto a floppy disk.” She added, “They’re taking the computer now, but I don’t think anyone could come up with the passwords to access those files.”

“Nice going, Grace.” I asked, “What are the passwords?”

“There are three: one for the personal letters, one for the list of boyfriends’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers, and one for the diary.” She continued, “The password for the letters is ‘Naughty Notes,’ for the boyfriends’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers, she used the words ‘Daddy’s Friends,’ and the password for the diary is ‘Trojan Horse.’ ”

“Okay… hold on to that disk.”

“It’s close to my heart.”

“Good. Sleep with it tonight. Talk to you later.” I hung up, called Falls Church, and got through to Karl. I said to him, “I’m hearing that my inquiry about West Point got some people angry, upset, or scared.”

“Who told you that?”

“The question is, What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

I said to him, “This is important.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“Tell me what you’ve done.”

“Mister Brenner, I don’t report to you.”

“Right. But I’ve asked you to use your resources to get me a piece of information.”

“I’ll call you when I have something.”

Cynthia pushed a note toward me that read: Tapped? I nodded. Karl definitely sounded weird. I asked him, “Did they get to you, Karl?”

After a few seconds, he said, “All the doors slammed in my face. Proceed with the case without this information. I’ve been assured you don’t need it.”

“All right. Thanks very much for trying.”

“I’ll see you here tomorrow or the next day.”

“Fine. Since you’re not busy with my request, perhaps you can arrange a thirty-day administrative leave for me and Ms. Sunhill, and a confirmed MAC flight to a place of my choice.”

“The Pentagon would like nothing better.”

“And get that fucking letter of reprimand out of my file.” I hung up.

Cynthia said, “What the hell is going on here?”

“I think we opened a Pandora’s box, took out a can of worms, and threw it at a hornet’s nest.”

“You can say that again.”

But I didn’t. I said, “We’ve been cut loose.” I thought a moment, then added, “But I think we can go it alone.”

“I guess we have no choice. But I still want to know about West Point.”

“Karl has assured us it’s not important to the case.”

Cynthia stayed silent a moment, then said, “Karl disappoints me. I never thought he’d back off from a criminal investigation like that.”

“Me neither.”

We spoke for a few minutes trying to figure out where to go regarding the West Point inquiry. I looked at my watch. “Well, let’s get to Bethany Hill.” We got up to leave, but there was a knock on the door, and Specialist Baker came in with a sheet of paper in her hand. She sat at my desk and glanced at the paper.

I said to her, sarcastically, “Have a seat, Baker.”

She looked up at us and said in an assured tone of voice, “Actually, I’m Warrant Officer Kiefer from the CID. I’ve been here about two months on undercover assignment for Colonel Hellmann. I’ve been investigating charges of improper conduct in the traffic enforcement section—petty stuff, nothing to do with Colonel Kent or any of that. Colonel Hellmann told me to get myself assigned as your clerk-typist.” She looked at us. “So I did.”

Cynthia said, “Are you serious? You’ve been spying on us for Colonel Hellmann?”

“Not spying, just helping. It’s done all the time.”

I replied, “It is, but I’m still pissed-off.”

Specialist Baker, a.k.a. Warrant Officer Kiefer, said, “I don’t blame you, but this case is explosive, and Colonel Hellmann was concerned.”

I said, “Colonel Hellmann just took a dive on us.”

She didn’t respond to that, but said, “In the two months I’ve been here, I’ve heard those rumors about Colonel Kent and Captain Campbell that I told you about. That’s all true, but I never wrote him up because I don’t like doing that to people. I couldn’t see one incident where he compromised his duties, and all I had was office gossip anyway. But now I suppose that’s all relevant.”

Cynthia replied, “Relevant, but maybe not evidence of anything except stupidity.”

Ms. Kiefer shrugged. She handed me a sheet of paper and said, “I got a call from Falls Church a few minutes ago telling me to identify myself to you, and instructing me to stand by the fax machine. That’s what came across.”

I looked at the fax sheet, which was addressed to me and Sunhill, via Kiefer, eyes only. I read aloud, “ ‘Regarding the West Point inquiry, as indicated on the phone, all files sealed or nonexistent, all verbal inquiries met with silence. However, I phoned a retired CID person who was stationed at the Point during the period in question. That person spoke on condition of anonymity, and briefed me as follows: During the summer between Cadet Campbell’s first and second year at West Point, she was hospitalized in a private clinic for a few weeks. Officially, she’d had a training accident at Camp Buckner Military Reservation during night exercises. My source says that General Campbell flew in from Germany the day after the ‘accident.’ Here is the story as my source pieced it together from rumors: In August, during recondo training, the cadets were engaged in night patrols in the woods, and by accident or design, Cadet Campbell was separated from a larger group and found herself with five or six males—either cadets or men from the Eighty-second Airborne Division who were assisting with the training. They wore camouflage paint, and it was dark and so forth. These male personnel grabbed Cadet Campbell, stripped her, and staked her out with pegs from their pup tents, then took turns raping her. What happened next is unclear, but presumably the men threatened her if she reported the rape, then untied her and ran off. She was reported missing until dawn, when she appeared at the bivouac area, disheveled and hysterical. She was taken first to Keller Army Hospital and treated for minor cuts and bruises, exhaustion, and so forth. Medical records do not indicate sexual assault. General Campbell arrived, and she was removed to a private clinic. No one was charged, no action taken, incident hushed for the good of the academy, and Cadet Campbell reported for classes in September. Rumor was that the general put pressure on his daughter not to pursue the matter—the general was probably pressured himself from higher-ups. So that’s it. Shred this message and destroy fax activity report. Good luck. (Signed) Hellmann.’ ”

I passed the fax to Cynthia, and she said, “It all makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

I nodded.

Kiefer asked us, “You know who killed her?”

I replied, “No, but I think we know now why she was out there on the range.”

Cynthia put Karl’s message through the shredder and said to Kiefer, “So you wanted to be a detective?”

Kiefer looked a little embarrassed but replied, “Specialist Baker wanted to be a detective.”

Cynthia said, “Specialist Baker can stay a clerk-typist for a while. We don’t need another detective.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Kiefer, slipping back into her assumed rank and role. “But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

“You do that.”

I said to Baker, “Tell Colonel Kent that Mr. Brenner wants Colonel Moore restricted to post and available until further notice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cynthia and I left the office, went out the back way, and made it to the parking lot without getting waylaid by reporters. I said, “My turn to drive.” I found my keys and we got into my Blazer.

As I drove toward Bethany Hill, I said, “Karl is okay for a bastard.”

She smiled. “Even if he did pull a fast one on us. Do you believe that?”

“It comes with the territory, Cynthia.” I added, “I thought she looked familiar. There was something not right about her.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Paul. You were as fooled as I was. God, I have to get out of this job.”

“What about Panama?” I glanced at her, and our eyes met.

Cynthia said, “I put in for a permanent duty station out of the continental United States because I wanted to get away from my about-to-be ex.”

“Good thinking.” I changed the subject. “So this West Point thing is high explosives.”

“Yes. I can’t believe a father would participate in a coverup… well, if you think about it… I mean, there’s so much tension at West Point since it went co-ed. It’s unbelievable what’s happening there. Plus, the general had his own career to think about, and maybe he was thinking of his daughter’s career and reputation as well. But he wasn’t doing her any favors.”

“No, he was not.”

“Women who suppress a sexual assault, or who are made to suppress it, usually pay for it later.”

“Or make other people pay for it,” I pointed out.

“That’s right. Sometimes both.” She added, “What happened on rifle range six was a reenactment of the rape at West Point, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it was.”

“Except this time someone killed her.”

“Right.”

“Her father?”

“Let’s get the last piece of information we need to reenact the entire crime, from beginning to end.”

She stayed silent a moment, then asked me, “Do you know who killed her?”

“I know who didn’t kill her.”

“Don’t be enigmatic, Paul.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“I have a few.”

“Build a case against them and we’ll put them on trial tonight in the VOQ.”

“Sounds good. I hope we can hang someone in the morning.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

We arrived at the Fowler residence on Bethany Hill and rang the bell.

Mrs. Fowler greeted us, looking only slightly less distressed than she’d looked that morning. She showed us into the living room and offered us coffee or whatever, but we declined. She sat on a couch, and we sat in club chairs.

Cynthia and I had discussed a line of questioning, and we decided that Cynthia would lead off. She chatted with Mrs. Fowler about life, the Army, Fort Hadley, and so forth, then, when Mrs. Fowler was relaxed, Cynthia said to her, “Please be assured that we only want to see justice done. We are not here to ruin reputations. We are here to find a murderer, but we are also here to make certain that innocent men and women are not falsely accused.”

Mrs. Fowler nodded.

Cynthia continued, “You know that Ann Campbell was sexually involved with many men on this post. I want first to assure you that in all the evidence that we’ve gathered, your husband’s name has not been linked with Ann Campbell.”

Again she nodded, a little more vigorously, I thought.

Cynthia continued, “We understand Colonel Fowler’s position as General Campbell’s adjutant and, I assume, his friend. We appreciate your husband’s honesty and his willingness to let us speak to you. I’m sure he’s told you to be as honest with us as he’s been with us, and as we’ve been with you.”

Tentative nod.

Cynthia went on, circling around any direct question, saying positive things, showing compassion, empathy, and so on. You have to do this with civilian witnesses who are not under subpoena, and Cynthia was doing a much better job than I could have done.

But the time had come, and Cynthia asked her, “You were home on the evening of the murder?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Your husband came home from the O Club at about ten P.M.”

“That’s right.”

“You retired about eleven P.M.?”

“I believe so.”

“And sometime between 0245 and 0300 hours, three A.M. or so, you were awakened by someone ringing your doorbell.”

No reply.

“Your husband went downstairs and answered the door. He came back to the bedroom and told you it was the general, and that he had to go off on urgent business. Your husband got dressed and asked you to do the same. Correct?”

No reply.

Cynthia said, “And you went with him.” Cynthia added, “You wear a size seven shoe, I believe.”

Mrs. Fowler replied, “Yes, we both got dressed and left.”

No one spoke for a few seconds, then Cynthia said, “You both got dressed and left. And did General Campbell remain in your house?”

“Yes.”

“And was Mrs. Campbell with him?”

“No, she was not.”

“So General Campbell stayed behind, and you accompanied your husband to rifle range six. Correct?”

“Yes. My husband said that the general told him Ann Campbell was naked, and he told me to bring a robe with me. He said that Ann Campbell was tied up, so he took a knife for me to cut the rope.”

“All right. You drove along Rifle Range Road, and for the last mile or so, you drove without headlights.”

“Yes. My husband did not want to attract the attention of the guard. He said there was a guard up the road.”

“Yes. And you stopped at the parked humvee, as General Campbell instructed. It was now what time?”

“It was… about three-thirty.”

“It was about three-thirty. You got out of your car and…”

“And I could see something out on the rifle range, and my husband told me to go out there and cut her loose and make her put the robe on. He said to call him if I needed help.” Mrs. Fowler paused, then added, “He said to slap her around if she didn’t cooperate. He was very angry.”

“Understandably so,” Cynthia agreed. “So you walked out on the range.”

“Yes. My husband decided to follow about halfway. I think he was concerned about how Ann would react. He thought she might become violent.”

“And you approached Ann Campbell. Did you say anything?”

“Yes, I called her name, but she didn’t… she didn’t reply. I got right up to her, and… I knelt beside her, and her eyes were open, but… I screamed… and my husband ran to me…” Mrs. Fowler put her hands over her face and began crying. Cynthia seemed prepared for this and sprang out of her seat and sat beside Mrs. Fowler on the couch, putting her arm around her and giving her a handkerchief.

After about a minute, Cynthia said, “Thank you. You don’t have to say any more. We’ll see ourselves out.” And we did.

We got into my Blazer and drove off. I said, “Sometimes a shot in the dark hits its mark.”

Cynthia replied, “But it wasn’t a shot in the dark. I mean, it all makes sense now, it’s all logical, based on what we know of the facts, and what we know of the personalities.”

“Right. You did a nice job.”

“Thank you. But you set it up.”

Which was true, so I said, “Yes, I did.”

“I suppose I don’t like false modesty or humility in a man.”

“Good. You’re in the right car.” I said, “Do you think Colonel Fowler told her to tell the truth, or did she decide on her own?”

Cynthia thought a moment, then replied, “I think Colonel Fowler knows that we know a, b, and c. He told his wife that if we asked about x, then she should answer about x, and go on about y and z and get it off her chest, and get it finished with.”

“Right. And Mrs. Fowler is her husband’s witness that Ann Campbell was dead when they got there, and that Colonel Fowler did not kill her.”

“Correct. And I believe her, and I don’t believe he killed Ann Campbell.”

We drove in silence back toward the main post, both of us deep in thought.

We arrived at Beaumont House a little early, but decided that protocol had to take a backseat to reality for a change, and we went to the front door, where an MP checked our IDs, then rang the bell for us.

As luck would have it, young and handsome Lieutenant Elby opened the door. He said, “You’re ten minutes early.”

Young Elby wore the crossed-rifles insignia of an infantry officer, and though there was no indication on this uniform that he’d seen combat anywhere, I deferred to his infantry status and his rank as a commissioned officer. I said to him, “We can leave and come back, or we can speak to you for a few minutes.”

Lieutenant Elby seemed an amicable sort and showed us in. We went into the waiting room where we’d been before, and, still standing, I said to Cynthia, “Didn’t you want to use the facilities?”

“What? Oh… yes.”

Lieutenant Elby pointed and said, “There’s a powder room to the left of the foyer.”

“Thank you.” She left.

I said to Elby, “Lieutenant, it has come to my attention that you and Captain Campbell dated.”

Elby looked at me closely, then replied, “That’s correct.”

“Did you know she was also dating Wes Yardley?”

He nodded, and I could tell by his expression that this was still a painful memory for him. I could certainly understand this—a clean-cut young officer having to share his boss’s daughter with a less-than-clean-cut townie, a sort of bad-boy cop. I said to Elby, “Did you love her?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“You already have. And were your intentions honorable?”

“Why are you asking me these questions? You’re here to speak to Mrs. Campbell.”

“We’re early. So you knew about Wes Yardley. Did you hear other rumors that Ann Campbell dated married officers on post?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I guess he didn’t hear those rumors. And I guess he didn’t know about the room in the basement, either. I said to him, “Did the general approve of your relationship with his daughter?”

“Yes, he did. Do I have to answer these questions?”

“Well, three days ago you didn’t, and you could have told me to go to hell. And a few days from now, you could probably tell me the same thing. But right now, yes, you have to answer these questions. Next question—did Mrs. Campbell approve?”

“Yes.”

“Did you and Ann Campbell ever discuss marriage?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Talk to me, Lieutenant.”

“Well… I knew she was involved with this Yardley guy, and I was… annoyed… but it wasn’t just that… I mean, she told me that… that she had to be sure her parents approved, and when the general gave his blessings, we would announce our engagement.”

“I see. And you discussed this with the general, man-to-man?”

“Yes, I did, a few weeks ago. He seemed happy, but he told me to take a month to think it over. He said that his daughter was a very headstrong young woman.”

“I see. And then recently you received orders to go to someplace on the other side of the world.”

He looked at me, sort of surprised. “Yes… Guam.”

I almost laughed, but didn’t. Though he was my superior, he was young enough to be my son, and I put my hand on his shoulder. I said to him, “Lieutenant, you could have been the best thing to happen to Ann Campbell, but it wasn’t going to happen. You got caught in a power struggle between General and Captain Campbell, and they moved you up and down the board. Somewhere in the back of your mind you understand this. Get on with your life and your career, Lieutenant, and the next time you think about marriage, take two aspirin, lie down in a dark room, and wait for the feeling to pass.”

Unfortunately, Cynthia returned at that very moment and gave me a nasty look.

Lieutenant Elby seemed confused and irritated, but something was clicking in his brain. He looked at his watch and said, “Mrs. Campbell will see you now.”

We followed Elby into the hallway, and he showed us into a large, sort of Victorian parlor at the front of the house.

Mrs. Campbell rose from her chair and we went to her. She was wearing a simple black dress, and as I got closer I could see the resemblance to her daughter. At about sixty years old, Mrs. Campbell had made that transition from beautiful to attractive, but it would be another ten years at least before people would begin using the neutral and sexless expression “a handsome woman.”

Cynthia took her hand first and went through the condolences. I also took her hand and did the same. She said, “Won’t you be seated?” She indicated a love seat near the front window. We sat, and she took the love seat opposite. Between us was a small round table on which sat a few decanters of cordials and glasses. Mrs. Campbell was drinking tea, but asked us, “Would you like some sherry or port?”

Actually, I wanted the alcohol, but not if I had to drink sherry or port to get at it. I declined, but Cynthia said yes to sherry, and Mrs. Campbell poured one for her.

Mrs. Campbell, I was surprised to discover, had a southern accent, but then I remembered seeing her on television once during the Gulf War, and I recalled thinking what a politically perfect pair they were: a rock-hard general from the Midwest and a cultured lady from the South.

Cynthia made some light chatter, and Mrs. Campbell, for all her grief, kept up her end of the conversation. Mrs. Campbell, it turned out, was from South Carolina, herself the daughter of an Army officer. June Campbell—that was her name—was, I thought, the embodiment of everything that was good about the South. She was polite, charming, and gracious, and I recalled what Colonel Fowler had said about her, and I added loyal and ladylike but tough.

I was aware that the clock was ticking, but Cynthia seemed in no hurry to get to the nasty stuff, and I assumed she had decided it wasn’t appropriate and/or had lost her nerve. I didn’t blame her at all. But then Cynthia said, “I assume Mrs. Fowler, or perhaps Colonel Fowler, called you before we arrived.”

Good shot, Cynthia.

Mrs. Campbell put her teacup down and replied in the same quiet tone of voice she’d been conversing in, “Yes, it was Mrs. Fowler. I’m so glad she had the opportunity to speak to you. She’s been very upset and feels so much better now.”

“Yes,“ Cynthia replied, “it’s often that way. You know, Mrs. Campbell, I’m assigned mostly to cases of sexual assault, and I can tell you that when I begin questioning people who I know can tell me something, I can almost feel the tension. It’s sort of like everybody is wound up, but once the first person speaks up, it begins to unwind, as it has here.”

This was Cynthia’s way of saying that once the code of silence is broken, everyone falls all over one another to go on the record as a government witness. Beats the hell out of being a suspect.

Cynthia said to Mrs. Campbell, “So from what Mrs. Fowler tells me, and from what Mr. Brenner and I have discovered from other sources, it appears that the general received a call from Ann in the early morning hours, asking him to meet her on the rifle range, presumably to discuss something. Is that correct?”

Another shot in the dark or, to give Cynthia some credit, a very good guess.

Mrs. Campbell replied, “The red telephone beside the bed rang at about one forty-five A.M. The general immediately answered it, and I woke up as well. I watched him as he listened. He never spoke, but hung up and got out of bed and began getting dressed. I never ask him what these calls are about, but he always tells me where he’s going and when he expects to be back.” She smiled and said, “Since we’ve been at Fort Hadley, he doesn’t get many calls in the middle of the night, but in Europe, when the phone rang, he’d fly out of bed, grab a packed bag, and be off to Washington or to the East German border, or who knows where. But he’d always tell me… This time he just said he’d be back in an hour or so. He put on civilian clothes and left. I watched him pull away and noticed that he used my car.”

“What kind of car is that, ma’am?”

“A Buick.”

Cynthia nodded and said, “Then at about four or four-thirty in the morning, the general returned home and told you what had happened.”

She stared off into space, and for the first time I could see the face of a tired and heartsick mother, and I could only imagine what toll these years had taken. Surely, a wife and mother could not have countenanced what a father and husband had done to their daughter in the name of the greater good, in the name of career advancement and positive public images. But on some level, she must have come to terms with it.

Cynthia prompted, “Your husband came home about four-thirty A.M.”

“Yes… I was waiting up for him… here in the front room. When he walked in the door, I knew my daughter was dead.” She stood. “And that’s all I know. Now that my husband’s career is ended, all we have left is the hope that you can find who did this. Then we can all go on and make our peace.”

We stood also, and Cynthia said, “We’re doing our best, and we thank you for putting aside your grief to speak to us.”

I said that we could find our way out, and we made our departure.

Outside, on the way to my vehicle, I said, “The general’s career ended ten years ago in Keller Army Hospital at West Point. It just took some time for it to catch up with him.”

“Yes, he not only betrayed his daughter, but he betrayed himself and his wife.”

We got into the Blazer and I pulled away from Beaumont House.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

What did you speak to Lieutenant Elby about?” Cynthia asked as I drove.

“Love and marriage.”

“Yes, I heard that piece of enduring wisdom.”

“Well… you know, he’s too young to settle down. He had proposed marriage to Ann Campbell.”

“Marrying Ann Campbell is not what I’d call settling down.”

“True.” I briefed Cynthia on my short conversation with Elby, and added, “Now the poor bastard is being shipped to Guam. That’s what happens—like in those old Greek plays when a mortal has carnal knowledge of a goddess. They wind up insane, turned into an animal or some inanimate object, or get banished to Guam or its Aegean equivalent.”

“Sexist nonsense.”

“Right. Anyway, I get the feeling that the family dynamics among the Campbells was so pathological that love and happiness could never flourish, and God help anyone who got caught in their misery and pain.”

She nodded. “Do you think they were all right before she was raped at West Point?”

“Well… according to Colonel Moore, yes. I think that’s an accurate picture. And speaking of pictures, I’m thinking back to that photo album we found in Ann’s house… If you think about the pictures as before and after—before and after the rape in the summer between her first and second year at West Point—you can see a difference.”

“Yes. You can almost pinpoint any family tragedy that way if you know what you’re looking for.” She added, “Those men who gang-raped her had a little fun and went on with their lives, and they never thought about the human wreckage they left behind.”

“I know. We both see that if we stay around long enough after an act of violence. But usually we can get some justice. In this case, nobody called the cops.”

“No, not then. But we’re here now.” She asked me, “How do you want to handle General Campbell?”

“I’d like to rough him up. But I think he’s already paid the supreme price for his great mistake. I don’t know… tough call. Play it by ear. He’s a general.”

“Right.”

The Post Headquarters parking lot was nearly empty, but there were a few cars left, including the general’s olive-drab staff car. There was also a humvee, a few of which are usually authorized for Post Headquarters, and I assumed that the one sitting in the hangar at Jordan Field had been replaced.

Cynthia and I stood in the parking lot to the right of the headquarters building, and I said, “She walked out that side door at about 0100 hours, got into one of the humvees, and drove off to confront the ghosts of the past.”

“And the ghosts won.”

We walked around to the front of the headquarters building. The two-story, dark brick structure vaguely resembled a public school built in the 1930s, except that the walk was lined with spent 105mm howitzer shell casings, each one sprouting flowers, which was unintentionally ironic. Also on the lawn were old field artillery pieces from different eras, a graphic display of the progression of the boom factor.

We entered the front doors, and a young PFC at the information desk stood. I told him we had an appointment with General Campbell. He checked his appointment sheet and directed us down a long corridor toward the rear of the building.

Cynthia and I walked down the deserted, echoing corridor with the spit-shined linoleum floor. I said to her, “I’ve never arrested a general before. I’m probably more nervous than he is.”

She glanced at me and replied, “He didn’t do it, Paul.”

“How do you know?”

“I can’t picture it, and if I can’t picture it, it didn’t happen.”

“I don’t remember that in the manual.”

“Well, in any case, I don’t think you’re allowed to arrest a general officer. Check the manual.”

We came to a sort of second lobby, which was deserted, and straight ahead was a closed door with a brass plate that said, “Lt. General Joseph I. Campbell.”

I knocked on the door, and it was opened by a female captain whose nametag read Bollinger. She said, “Good evening. I’m General Campbell’s senior aide.”

We shook hands all around, and she showed us into a small secretarial area. Captain Bollinger was about thirty-five, chunky, but friendly-looking and animated. I said to her, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a female aide to a male general since Ike’s lady friend.”

She smiled and replied, “There are a few. The general’s other aide is a male, Lieutenant Elby.”

“Yes, we’ve met him.” It occurred to me that if Lieutenant Elby was a pawn in the game between father and daughter, then Captain Bollinger was certainly not; she was not seducible by Ann, and she was also homely enough for Mrs. Campbell’s requirements. It really sucks at the top.

Captain Bollinger escorted us into an empty outer office and said, “The general has allocated all the time you want. But please understand that he’s… well, he’s just plain grief-stricken.”

Cynthia replied, “We understand.”

I also understood that this interview was scheduled for after-duty hours so that if it got messy, the troops wouldn’t be around to see or hear it.

Captain Bollinger knocked on a nice oak door, opened it, and announced us as Warrant Officers Brenner and Sunhill. She stepped aside and we entered.

The general was standing and came forward to greet us. We exchanged quick salutes, then shook hands.

General Campbell indicated a grouping of upholstered chairs, and we all sat. Generals, like CEOs, have varying degrees of seating in the office, but generals also have the option of letting you stand at attention or, if they’re being nice, at parade rest or at ease. But Cynthia and I were being shown far more courtesy than our rank required. It must have had something to do with the fact that we’d just heard two confessions of criminal conduct from two wives, to wit: accessory after the fact, and conspiracy. But perhaps he just liked us.

He asked, “Would either of you like a drink?”

“No, thank you, sir.” But in truth, the cannon had sounded and the flag was down, and in the Army that is the equivalent of Pavlov’s starving dogs hearing the dinner bell.

No one spoke for a minute or so, and I looked around the office. The walls were white plaster, and the trim and moldings were natural oak, as were the desks, tables, and so forth. The area rug over the oak floor was a red Oriental, probably picked up overseas. There was not much in the way of war trophies, souvenirs, framed certificates, or any of that, but on a small round table in the corner was a blue cape laid out like a tablecloth on which lay a sheathed saber, an old long-barreled pistol, a blue dress hat, and other odds and ends.

The general saw me looking and said, “Those are my father’s things. He was a colonel in the old horse cavalry back in the 1920s.”

I replied, “I was in the First Battalion of the Eighth Cavalry in Vietnam, minus horses.”

“Really? That was my father’s regiment. Old Indian fighters, though that was before his time.”

So, we had something in common after all. Almost. Cynthia was probably immediately bored by the old boola-boola routine, but a little male bonding is a good thing before you go for the balls.

General Campbell asked me, “So you weren’t always a detective?”

“No, sir. I used to do honest work.”

He smiled. “Awards? Decorations?”

I told him and he nodded. I think he was better able to accept what I had to do to him if I was a combat vet. Even if I hadn’t been, I’d have told him I was. I’m allowed to lie in the pursuit of truth, and an unsworn witness may also lie, while a sworn witness better not, and a suspect can exercise his or her right against self-incrimination anytime. Often, however, the problem is deciding who’s who.

The general looked at Cynthia, not wanting to exclude her, and asked her about her military background, civilian roots, and so forth. She told him, and I learned a few things myself, though she may have been lying. Generals, and sometimes colonels, I’ve noticed, always ask enlisted personnel and lower-ranking officers about their hometowns, civilian schools, military training, and all that. I don’t know if they care, or if it’s some kind of imported Japanese management tool they learned at the War College, or what the hell this is all about, but you have to play the game, even if you’re about to broach the subject of criminal activity.

So, with all the time allotted that we needed, we chewed the fat for about fifteen minutes, then finally the general said, “I understand that you’ve spoken to Mrs. Fowler and Mrs. Campbell, so you know something of what went on that evening.”

I replied, “Yes, sir, but to be perfectly frank, we had figured out a lot of what went on prior to our speaking to Mrs. Fowler and Mrs. Campbell.”

“Had you? That’s very impressive. We do a good job training our CID people.”

“Yes, sir, and we’ve had a lot of on-the-job experience, though this case presented unique problems.”

“I’m sure it did. Do you know who killed my daughter?’

“No, sir.”

He looked at me closely and asked, “It wasn’t Colonel Moore?”

“It may have been.”

“I see you’re not here to answer questions.”

“No, sir, we’re not.”

“Then how would you like to conduct this interview?”

“I think it may be easier on everyone, sir, if you just start by telling us what happened on the evening in question. Beginning with the phone call at 0145 hours. I may interrupt when I need a point clarified.”

He nodded. “Yes, all right. I was sleeping, and the red phone rang on my nightstand. I answered it, but there was no reply to my saying, ‘Campbell here.’ Then there was a sort of click, then… then my daughter’s voice came on the line, and I could tell it was recorded.”

I nodded. There were telephones in the fire control towers on the ranges, but they were secured at night. Ann Campbell and Charles Moore obviously had a mobile phone with them and a tape player.

He continued, “The message—the recorded message said, ‘Dad, this is Ann. I want to discuss something extremely urgent with you. You must meet me at rifle range six no later than 0215 hours.’ ” The general added, “She said if I didn’t come, she’d kill herself.”

Again I nodded. I said to him, “Did she tell you to bring Mrs. Campbell with you?”

He glanced at me and Cynthia, wondering how much we actually knew, thinking perhaps we’d somehow found that tape. He replied, “Yes, she did say that, but I had no intention of doing that.”

“Yes, sir. Did you have any idea of what she wanted to speak to you about that was so urgent that she wanted you to get out of bed and drive out to the rifle range?”

“No… I… Ann, as you may have learned, was emotionally distressed.”

“Yes, sir. I think, though, that someone mentioned to me that you had given her an ultimatum and a deadline. She was to give you her answer at breakfast that morning.”

“That’s correct. Her behavior had become unacceptable, and I told her to shape up or ship out.”

“So when you heard her voice at that hour, you realized that this was not just a random emotional outburst, but was in fact connected to your ultimatum and her response.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I did realize that.”

“Why do you think she communicated with you by recorded message?”

“I suppose so there would be no argument. I was very firm with her, but since I couldn’t reason or argue with a recorded voice, I did what any father would do and went to the designated meeting.”

“Yes, sir. And as it turned out, your daughter was already out on the rifle range, and she called you from there with a mobile phone. She’d actually left Post Headquarters at about 0100 hours. Did you wonder why she picked a remote training area for this meeting? Why didn’t she just show up at breakfast and give you her answer to your ultimatum?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Well, perhaps he didn’t know at first, but when he saw her, he knew. I could see that he was genuinely grieved and was barely holding it together. But he would hold it together no matter how hard I pushed, and he’d tell the obvious truths relating to fact and hard evidence. But he would not voluntarily reveal the central truth of why his daughter presented herself to him staked out and naked.

I said to him, “She mentioned killing herself if you didn’t come. Did you think that she might be contemplating killing you if you did come?”

He didn’t reply.

I asked him, “Did you take a weapon with you?”

He nodded, then said, “I had no idea what I was going to find out there at night.”

No, I’ll bet you didn’t. And that’s why you didn’t take Mrs. Campbell along. I said, “So you dressed in civilian clothes, took a weapon, took your wife’s car, and drove out to rifle range six with your headlights on. What time did you reach your destination?”

“Well… about 0215 hours. At the time she designated.”

“Yes. And you put your lights out, and…”

There was a long silence while General Campbell considered my hanging conjunction. Finally, he said, “I got out of the car and went to the humvee, but she wasn’t there. I became concerned and called her name, but there was no reply. I called again, then heard her call to me, and I turned in the direction of the rifle range and saw… I saw her on the ground, or I saw this figure on the ground, and I thought it was her and that she was hurt. I moved quickly toward the figure… she was naked, and I was… I suppose I was shocked, confused… I didn’t know what to make of this, but she was alive, and that’s all I cared about. I called out and asked if she was all right, and she replied that she was… I got up to her… you know, it’s difficult to talk about this.”

“Yes, sir. It’s difficult for us, too. That’s not to try to compare your loss with our feelings, but I think I speak for Ms. Sunhill, too, when I say that during the course of this investigation, we’ve come to… well, to like your daughter.” Well, maybe I wasn’t speaking for Ms. Sunhill. I continued, “Homicide detectives often have feelings for the deceased even though they’ve never met them. This is an unusual case in that we’ve viewed hours of videotapes of your daughter’s lectures, and I felt that your daughter was someone I’d like to have known… but I should let you tell us what happened next.”

General Campbell was starting to lose it again, and we all sat there awkwardly for a minute or so while he took a lot of deep breaths, then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, then I tried to untie her… it was very embarrassing, I mean to her and to me… but I couldn’t get the rope untied, and I couldn’t get the stakes out of the ground… I tried… I mean, whoever did it drove those stakes very deep, and tied those knots… so I said to her I’d be right back… and I went to the car and to the humvee, but I couldn’t find anything to cut the ropes… so I went back to her and told her… I told her… I said that I’d drive up to Bethany Hill and get a knife from Colonel Fowler… Bethany Hill is less than ten minutes from range six… In retrospect, I should have… well, I don’t know what I should have done.”

Again I nodded. I asked him, “And while you were trying to untie the ropes, you spoke, of course.”

“Just a few words.”

“But surely you asked her who had done that to her?”

“No…”

“General, surely you said something like, ‘Ann, who did this?’ ”

“Oh… yes, of course. But she didn’t know.”

“Actually,” I informed him, “she wouldn’t say.”

The general looked me in the eye. “That’s correct. She wouldn’t say. Perhaps you know.”

“So you drove back along Rifle Range Road toward Bethany Hill.”

“That’s right. And I called on Colonel Fowler for assistance.”

“Did you know that there was a guard posted at the ammo shed about another kilometer in the opposite direction?”

“I don’t know the location of every guard post at this fort.” He added, “I doubt I would have gone there anyway. I certainly didn’t need a young man to see my daughter like that.”

“Actually, it was a woman. But that’s irrelevant. What I’m wondering is why you made the U-turn with your headlights off, sir, and why you proceeded for at least a few hundred meters with them off.”

He must have wondered how I knew this, then he probably realized I’d interviewed the guard. Finally, he replied, “To be honest with you, I didn’t want to attract attention at that point.”

“Why not?”

“Well, would you? If you just left your daughter tied naked to the ground, would you want anyone else involved? I had it clear in my mind that I had to go to Colonel and Mrs. Fowler for help. Obviously, I didn’t want this incident to become public.”

“But the incident, sir, was a crime, was it not? I mean, didn’t you think she’d been molested by some madman or several madmen? Why would you wish to keep that private?”

“I suppose I didn’t want to embarrass her.”

Cynthia spoke up. “Rape should not be embarrassing to the victim.”

General Campbell replied, “But it is.”

Cynthia asked, “Did she indicate to you in any way that she was willing to lie them while you went and got Colonel and Mrs. Fowler?”

“No, but I thought it was the best thing.”

Cynthia inquired, “Wasn’t she frightened out of her mind that the rapist or rapists would return while you were gone?”

“No… well, yes, she did say to hurry back. Look, Ms. Sunhill, Mr. Brenner, if you’re suggesting that I did not take the best course of action, then you’re probably correct. Perhaps I should have tried harder to get her loose, perhaps I should have put my pistol in her hand so she could try to protect herself while I was gone, perhaps I should have fired the pistol to attract the attention of MPs, perhaps I should have just sat there with her until a vehicle came along. Don’t you think I’ve thought about this a thousand times? If you’re questioning my judgment, you have a valid point. But do not question my degree of concern.”

Cynthia replied, “General, I’m not questioning either. I’m questioning what actually went on out there.”

He started to reply, then decided to say nothing.

I said to him, “So you drove to the Fowlers, explained the situation, and they went back to assist Captain Campbell.”

“That’s correct. Mrs. Fowler had a robe and a knife to cut the ropes.”

“And you didn’t see your daughter’s clothes anywhere at the scene?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you think to cover her with your shirt?”

“No… I wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

This was the man who, as a lieutenant colonel, led a mechanized infantry battalion into the besieged city of Quang Tri and rescued an American rifle company who were trapped in the old French citadel. But he couldn’t figure out how to aid his daughter. Obviously, he had no intention of offering her aid and comfort. He was royally pissed-off.

I asked him, “Why didn’t you accompany the Fowlers, General?”

“I wasn’t needed, obviously. Only Mrs. Fowler was needed, but Colonel Fowler went along, of course, in case there was trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Well, in case the person who did that was still around.”

“But why would you leave your daughter alone, tied, naked, and exposed if you thought there might be any chance of that?”

“It didn’t occur to me until after I was back on the road. Until I was nearly at the Fowlers’ house. I should point out that the drive to the Fowlers took under ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. But the round trip, including your waking them and them getting dressed and driving back, would take close to thirty minutes. After waking them and asking for their assistance, the natural response of any person—a father, a military commander—would be to race back to the scene and to secure the situation until the alerted cavalry arrived, to use a military analogy.”

“Are you questioning my judgment or my motives, Mr. Brenner?”

“Not your judgment, sir. Your judgment would have been excellent if your motives were pure. So I guess I’m questioning your motives.” Normally, you don’t question a general about anything. But this was different.

He nodded and said, “I suppose you both know more than you’re letting on. You’re very clever. I could see that from the beginning. So why don’t you tell me what my motives were?”

Cynthia responded to that and said, “You wanted to make her squirm a little.”

The fortifications had been breached, to continue the military metaphor, and Cynthia charged right through. She said, “In fact, General, you knew that your daughter was not the victim of some rapist, that she hadn’t been attacked while waiting out there for you. But, in fact, she and an accomplice called you, played her message, and got you out there for the sole purpose of you and Mrs. Campbell finding her in that position. That, sir, is the only logical explanation for that sequence of events, for you leaving her there alone, for you going to the Fowlers and telling them to take care of it, for you staying behind in their house and waiting for them to return with your daughter and with her humvee, and for you not reporting a word of this until this moment. You were very angry with her for what she did.”

General Campbell sat there, deep in thought, contemplating, perhaps, his options, his life, his mistake a few nights ago, his mistake ten years ago. Finally, he said, “My career is ended, and I’ve drafted a resignation that I will submit tomorrow after my daughter’s funeral. I suppose what I’m thinking about now is how much you have to know to find the murderer, how much I want to confess to you and to the world, and what good it would do anyone to further dishonor my daughter’s memory. This is all self-serving, I know, but I do have to consider my wife and my son, and also the Army.” He added, “I’m not a private citizen, and my conduct is a reflection on my profession, and my disgrace can only serve to lower the morale of the officer corps.”

I wanted to tell him that the morale of the senior officers at Fort Hadley was already low as they all waited for the ax to fall, and that, indeed, he wasn’t a private citizen and had no reasonable expectation to be treated like one, and that, yes, he sounded a little self-serving and that his daughter’s reputation was not the issue at hand, and to let me worry about how much I had to know to find the murderer, and, last but not least, his career was, indeed, over. But instead, I told him, “I understand why you did not notify the MPs that your daughter was staked out naked on the rifle range—indeed, General, it was a private matter up until that point, and I confess to you I would have done the same thing. I understand, too, why and how the Fowlers got involved. Again, I confess, I would probably have done the same thing. But when the Fowlers returned and told you that your daughter was dead, you had no right to involve them in a conspiracy to conceal the true nature of the crime, and no right to involve your wife in the conspiracy as well. And no right, sir, to make my job and Ms. Sunhill’s job more difficult by sending us up false trails.”

He nodded. “You’re absolutely correct. I take full responsibility.”

I took a deep breath and informed him, “I must tell you, sir, that your actions are offenses that are punishable under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

He nodded again, slowly. “Yes, I’m aware of that.” He looked at me, then at Cynthia. “I would ask one favor of you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I would ask that you do everything you can to keep the Fowlers’ name out of this.”

I was prepared for that request, and I’d wrestled with the answer long before General Campbell asked. I looked at Cynthia, then at the general, and replied, “I can’t compound this crime with a crime of my own.” In fact, I’d already done that by striking a deal with Burt Yardley. But that was offpost stuff. This was not. I said, “The Fowlers found the body, General. They did not report it.”

“They did. To me.”

Cynthia said, “General, my position is somewhat different from Mr. Brenner’s, and though detectives are never to disagree in public, I think we can keep the Fowlers out of this. In fact, Colonel Fowler did report the crime to you, and you told him you would call Colonel Kent. But in your shock and grief, and Mrs. Campbell’s grief, the body was discovered before you could call the provost marshal. There are more details to work out, but I don’t think justice would be served any better by dragging the Fowlers into this.”

General Campbell looked at Cynthia for a long time, then nodded.

I was not happy, but I was relieved. Colonel Fowler, after all, was perhaps the only officer who’d shown some degree of honor and integrity throughout, including not screwing the general’s daughter. In truth, I did not possess that kind of willpower myself, and I was in awe of a man who did. Still, you don’t give something for nothing, and Cynthia understood that, because she said to the general, “But I would like you, sir, to tell us what actually happened out there, and why it happened.”

General Campbell sat back in his chair and nodded. He said, “All right, then. The story actually begins ten years ago… ten years ago this month at West Point.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

General Campbell related to us what had happened at Camp Buckner, West Point’s field training area. In regard to the actual rape, he knew not much more than we did, or, probably, the authorities did. What he did know was that, when he saw his daughter at Keller Army Hospital, she was traumatized, hysterical, and humiliated by what had happened to her. He told us that Ann clung to him, cried, and begged him to take her home.

He offered the information that his daughter told him she was a virgin, and that the men who raped her made fun of this. She told him that the men had pulled off her clothes and staked her on the ground with tent pegs. One of the men had choked her with a rope while he was raping her, and told her he’d strangle her to death if she reported the assault.

Neither I nor Cynthia, I’m sure, expected the general to provide these small, intimate details. He knew that this incident was only related to the murder in a peripheral way, and there was no clue there regarding her murderer. Yet, he wanted to talk, and we let him talk.

I got the impression, though he didn’t address the issue directly, that his daughter expected him to see to it that justice was done, that there was no question that she’d been brutally raped, and that the men who’d done it were to be expelled from the military academy and prosecuted.

These, of course, were reasonable expectations for a young woman who’d been trying her damnedest to live up to Daddy’s expectations, who had put up with all the hardships that were part of life at West Point, and who had been criminally assaulted.

But there were some problems, it seemed. First, there was the question of Cadet Campbell being alone with five men in the woods at night. How did she get separated from the forty-person patrol? By accident? On purpose? Second, Cadet Campbell could not identify the men. They not only wore camouflage paint, but they had mosquito nets over their faces. It was so dark, she couldn’t even identify the uniforms and could not say for certain if the men were other cadets, West Point cadre, or soldiers from the 82nd Airborne Division. In all, there were close to a thousand men and women on training exercises that night, and the chance of her identifying her five attackers was almost nil, according to what General Campbell had been told.

But this was not precisely true, as Cynthia and I knew. By process of elimination, you could begin to narrow the field. And as you got closer to the perpetrators, it was inevitable that one of them would crack to save himself from long jail time. And also you had semen tests, saliva tests, hair tests, fingerprints, and all the other magic of forensic science. In fact, gang rapes were easier to solve than solitary rapes, and I knew that, Cynthia certainly knew it, and I strongly suspected that General Campbell knew it.

The real problem was not identifying who did it; the problem was that the rapists were either cadets, cadre, or soldiers. The problem was not in the area of police science, but in the area of public relations.

Basically, it came down to the fact that five erect penises penetrated one vagina, and the entire United States Army Military Academy at West Point could be torn apart in the same act that had torn Ann Campbell’s hymen imperforatus. These were the times that we lived in; rape was not an act of sex—consensual sex is easily available. Rape was an act of violence, a breach of military order and discipline, an affront to the West Point code of honor, a definitive no vote against a co-ed academy, against women in the Army, against female officers, and against the notion that women could coexist with men in the dark woods of Camp Buckner, or the hostile environment of the battlefield.

The exclusive male domain of West Point had been infiltrated by people who squatted to piss in the woods, as that colonel at the O Club bar would put it. During the academic year, in the classroom, it wasn’t intolerable. But out in the woods, in the hot summer night, in the dark, men will revert to ancient modes of behavior.

The entire field training experience, as I remember too well, was a call to arms, a call to war, a call to bravery, and an intentional imitation of a primitive rite of passage for young men. There were no women in the woods when I took my training, and if there had been, I would have felt sorry for them and been frightened for them.

But the people in Washington and the Pentagon had heard and heeded the call to equality. It was a good call, a necessary call, a long-overdue call. And certainly attitudes and perceptions had changed since I was a young man training for Vietnam. But not everyone’s attitudes changed, and the move to equality proceeded at different paces in different sections of the national life. There are glitches in the system, little pockets of resistance, situational behavior, primitive stirrings in the loins. This is what happened on a night in August ten years before. The commandant of West Point did not announce that a hundred women in the woods with a thousand men did not get raped during recondo training. And he wasn’t about to announce that one did.

So the people in Washington, in the Pentagon, at the Academy, had reasoned with General Joseph Campbell. And, as he related it to Cynthia and me, it certainly sounded reasonable. Better to have one unreported and unvindicated rape than to rock the very foundations of West Point, to cause doubts about a co-ed academy, to cast suspicion on a thousand innocent men who did not gang-rape a woman that night. All the general had to do was to convince his daughter that she—as well as the Academy, the Army, the nation, and the cause of equality— would best be served if she just forgot about the whole thing.

Ann Campbell was given a drug to prevent pregnancy, she was tested and retested for sexually communicated diseases, her mother flew in from Germany and brought her a favorite childhood doll, her cuts and bruises healed, and everyone held their breath.

Daddy was convincing, Mommy was not as convinced. Ann trusted Daddy, and, at twenty years old, for all her world travel as a military brat, she was still Daddy’s girl and she wanted to please him, so she forgot she was raped. But later, she remembered, which was why we were all sitting in the general’s office that evening.

So that was the sad story, and the general’s voice cracked now and then, got husky, got quiet. I heard Cynthia sniffle a few times, too, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t feel a lump in my throat.

The general stood but motioned us to remain seated. He said, “Excuse me a moment.” He disappeared through a door, and we could hear water running. As melodramatic as it sounds now, I almost expected to hear a gunshot.

Cynthia kept her eye on the door and said softly, “I understand why he did what he did, but as a woman, I’m outraged.”

“As a man, I’m outraged, too, Cynthia. Five men have a memory of a fun night, and here we are dealing with the mess. Five men, if they were all cadets, went on to graduate and become officers and gentlemen. They were classmates of hers and probably saw her every day. Indirectly, or perhaps directly, they were responsible for her death. Certainly they were responsible for her mental condition.”

Cynthia nodded. “And if they were soldiers, they went back to their post and bragged about how they all fucked this little West Point bitch cadet.”

“Right. And they got away with it.”

General Campbell returned and sat again. After a while, he said, “So you see, I got what I deserved, but Ann was the one who paid for my betrayal. Within months of the incident, she went from a warm, outgoing, and friendly girl to a distrustful, quiet, and withdrawn woman. She did well at the Point, graduated in the top of her class, and went on to postgraduate school. But things were never the same between us, and I should have thought of that consequence of my behavior.” He added, “I lost my daughter when she lost her faith in me.” He took a deep breath. “You know, it feels good to talk it out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know about her promiscuousness, and professionals have explained to me what that was all about. It wasn’t just that she was trying to corrupt the people around me or to embarrass me. She was saying to me, ‘You thought nothing of my chastity, my decision to remain a virgin until I was ready, so what I’m giving to every man who wants it is nothing you care about. So don’t lecture me.’ ”

I nodded but could not and would not comment.

The general said, “So the years pass, and she arrives here. Not by accident, but by design. A person in the Pentagon, a person who was closely involved with the West Point decision, strongly suggested that I consider two options. One, that I leave the service so that Ann might decide to leave also or might decide that her misbehavior was no longer profitable.” He added, “They were quite honestly afraid to ask for her resignation, because she obviously had something on the Army, though she never had a name. My second option was to take this uncoveted command at Fort Hadley, where the Psy-Ops School has its subcommand. They said they would have Ann transferred here, which would be a natural career assignment for her, and I could solve the problem in close quarters. I chose the second option, though my resignation would not have been unusual after the success in the Gulf and my years of service.” He added, “However, she told me once that if I ever accepted a White House appointment, or ever accepted a political nomination, she would go public with this story. In effect, I was being held hostage in the Army by my daughter, and my only options were to stay or to retire into private life.”

So, I thought, that explained General Campbell’s coyness regarding political office or a presidential appointment. Like everything else about this case, this Army post, and the people here, what you saw, and what you heard, were not what was actually happening.

He looked around his office as though seeing it for the first time, or the last time. He said, “So I chose to come here to try to make amends, to try to rectify not only my mistake but the mistake of my superiors, many of whom are still in the service or in public life, and most of whose names you would know.” He paused and said, “I’m not blaming my superiors for putting pressure on me. It was wrong what they did, but the ultimate decision to cooperate in the cover-up was mine. I thought I was doing what I did for good and valid reasons—for Ann and for the Army—but in the final analysis, they were not good reasons, and I was selling out my daughter for myself.” He added, “Within a year of the incident, I had my second star.”

At the risk of sounding too empathetic, I said, “General, you are responsible for everything your subordinates do or fail to do. But in this case, your superiors betrayed you. They had no right to ask that of you.”

“I know. They know. All that talent, experience, and brainpower, and there we were meeting in a motel room in upstate New York in the middle of the night, like criminals talking ourselves into a completely dishonorable and stupid decision. But we’re human, and we make bad decisions. However, had we truly been men of honor and integrity, as we said we were, we’d have reversed that bad decision no matter what the cost.”

I couldn’t have agreed more, and he knew it, so I didn’t say it. I said instead, “So for two years, you and your daughter engaged in close-quarter hand-to-hand combat.”

He smiled grimly. “Yes. It turned out to be not a healing process at all. It was war, and she was better prepared for it than I was. She had right on her side, and that made for might. She beat me at every turn, while I offered to make peace. I thought, if she won, she’d accept my apology and sincere regrets. It tore me apart, as a father, to see what she was doing to herself and her mother. I didn’t care about myself any longer. But I was also concerned for the men she was using…” He added, “Though in some odd way, I was happy just to have her around on any terms. I missed her, and I miss her now.”

Cynthia and I sat quietly and listened to him breathe. Clearly, the man had aged ten years in the last few days, and probably another ten in the last two years. It struck me that this was not the same man who had returned in triumph and glory from the Gulf not so long ago. It was amazing, I thought, how even kings and emperors and generals could be brought down by domestic discord, by the wrath and fury of a wronged woman. Somehow, amid all the sophistication and diversions of this world, we forgot the basics: take care of business at home first, and never betray your blood.

I said to him, “Tell us about rifle range six, and then we’ll leave you, General.”

He nodded. “Yes… well, I saw her there on the ground, and… and I… I honestly thought at first that she’d been assaulted… but then she called out to me… she said, ‘Here’s the answer to your damned ultimatum.’

“I didn’t understand at first what she was talking about, but then, of course, I remembered what they’d done to her at West Point. She asked me where her mother was, and I told her that her mother didn’t know anything about this. She called me a damned coward, then she said, ‘Do you see what they did to me? Do you see what they did to me?’ And I… I did see… I mean, if her purpose was to make me see, then she achieved her purpose.”

“And what did you say to her, General?”

“I… just called out to her… ‘Ann, you didn’t have to do this.’ But she was… she was wild with anger, as though she’d completely lost her sanity. She yelled out for me to come closer, to see what they did to her, to see what she’d suffered. She went on like that for some time, then she said since I’d given her some choices, she was going to give me some choices.” General Campbell paused a moment, then continued. “She said she had a rope around her neck… and I could strangle her if I wanted to… or I could cover this up like I did once before… I could come and untie her and take her away… take her to Beaumont House… to her mother. She also said I could leave her there, and the MPs or the guards or someone would find her, and she’d tell the MPs everything. Those were my choices.”

Cynthia asked, “And did you go to her and try to untie her, as you told us you did?”

“No… I couldn’t. I didn’t go near her… I didn’t try to untie her… I just stood near the car, then… I completely snapped. My anger and rage at all those years of trying to make things right got the best of me… I shouted back at her that I didn’t give a damn what they’d done to her ten years ago… I told her I was going to leave her there and let the guards or the MPs find her, or the first platoon who came out to fire on the range or whoever, and that the whole world could see her naked for all I cared, and—” He stopped in midsentence and looked down at the floor, then continued. “I told her she couldn’t hurt me anymore, and then she started shouting this Nietzsche junk—‘whatever hurts you makes me stronger, what does not destroy me makes me stronger,’ and so on. I said that the only hold she had over me was my rank and my position, and that I was resigning from the service, and that she had destroyed any feelings I had for her and that she had more than equaled the score.”

The general poured himself some water from a carafe and drank it, then continued, “She said that was fine, that was good… ‘Let someone else find me—you never helped me… ’ Then she started to cry, and she couldn’t stop crying, but I thought I heard her say… she said, ‘Daddy’…” He stood. “Please… I can’t…”

We stood also. I said, “Thank you, General.” We turned and made toward the door before he began crying, but a thought came into my head, and I turned back to him and said, “Another death in the family won’t solve anything. It’s not the manly thing to do. It’s very cowardly.” But his back was toward us, and I don’t know if he even heard me.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

I drove out of the Post Headquarters parking lot, went a few hundred meters, then pulled off to the side of the road. A sort of delayed reaction to the interview came over me, and I actually felt shaky. I said, “Well, we know now why the lab people found dried tears on her cheeks.”

Cynthia said, “I feel sick.”

“I need a drink.”

She took a deep breath. “No. We have to finish this. Where’s Moore?”

“He’d damned well better be someplace on post.” I put the Blazer into gear and headed toward the Psy-Ops School.

On the way, Cynthia said, as if to herself, “But in the end, the general did not abandon his daughter this time the way he did at West Point. He left her on the rifle range in a fit of rage, but somewhere on the road, he realized that this was the last chance for both of them.”

She thought a moment, then continued, “He probably considered turning around, but then he thought about what he would need—a knife if the rope needed to be cut, clothing, a woman’s presence. Those attentions to detail that are drummed into us overcame his shock and confusion, and he drove to Bethany Hill, to the one man on this post that he could trust.” Cynthia paused, then asked, “When the Fowlers got there, I wonder if they thought that the general strangled her?”

I replied, “It may have crossed their minds. But when they got back to the house and told him she was dead… they must have seen the shock and disbelief on his face.”

Cynthia nodded. “Would they… should they have cut her loose and taken the body away?”

“No. Colonel Fowler knew that moving the body would only make matters worse. And I’m sure that Colonel Fowler, with his military experience, could determine that she was definitely dead. And as to any suspicion that he himself killed her, I’m sure he blessed the moment when he, the general, or Mrs. Fowler herself suggested that she go along.”

“Yes, if it were Colonel Fowler alone, he’d be in a bad position.”

I considered a moment, then said, “So we know that, aside from the victim, four other people were out there—Colonel Moore, the general, and Colonel and Mrs. Fowler. And we don’t think any of them was the murderer. So we have to place a fifth person out there during that critical half-hour window of opportunity.” I added, “That person, of course, is the killer.”

Cynthia nodded, “Maybe we should have asked General Campbell if he had any idea who it was who arrived during that half hour.”

“I think he believes it was Colonel Moore. If he thought it was anyone else, he’d have told us. I don’t think it has occurred to him that Moore was the accomplice, not the killer. Bottom line, I just couldn’t push the guy any further.”

“I know. I hate to interview a victim’s family. I get all emotional…”

“You did fine. I did fine. The general did fine.”

I pulled into the Psy-Ops School, but Moore’s car was not in its reserved spot. I drove around, past the school’s dining facility, but we didn’t see the gray Ford. I said, “If that SOB left post, I’ll put his ass in a meat grinder.”

An MP jeep pulled up alongside me, and our old friend, Corporal Stroud, was in the passenger seat. “You looking for Colonel Moore, Chief?”

“None other.”

Stroud smiled. “He went to see the provost marshal to get his restriction lifted.”

“Thanks.” I turned around and headed toward main post. I said to Cynthia, “I’m going to nail his ass to the wall.”

“What happened to the meat grinder?”

“That, too.”

I drove to main post, and, as I approached the provost marshal’s building, I noticed that the news media were still there. I parked on the road directly in front of the main doors, and Cynthia and I got out and climbed the steps. We entered the building and went directly to Kent’s office. His clerk said he was in conference.

“With Colonel Moore?”

“Yes, sir.”

I opened his door, and there in Kent’s office was Colonel Moore, Kent, and another man in uniform, a captain. Kent said to us, “Well, I guess I’m glad you’re here.”

The third man stood, and I saw by his branch insignia that he was a JAG officer—a lawyer. The man, whose name tag said Collins, asked me, “Are you Warrant Officer Brenner?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Captain.”

“I guess you are,” he said. “Colonel Moore has requested that he be represented by counsel, so anything you have to say to him—”

“I’ll say to him.”

Moore was still sitting in front of Kent’s desk and was pointedly not looking up. I said to Moore, “I’m placing you under arrest. Come with me.”

Captain Collins motioned for his client to remain seated and said to me, “What is the charge?”

“Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.”

“Oh, really, Mr. Brenner, that’s a silly, catch-all—”

“Plus, Article 134, disorders and neglects, and so forth. Plus, accessory after the fact, conspiracy, and making false statements. Plus, Captain, you are on the verge of Article 98, noncompliance with procedural rules.”

“How dare you?”

I asked Kent, “Do you have two sets of cuffs handy?”

Colonel Kent looked worried now. He said, “Paul, we have some questions of law and fact here. You can’t arrest—well, you can, but I’m in the middle of a conversation with a suspect and his lawyer—”

“Colonel Moore is not a suspect in the murder, so there’s no reason for a conversation, and if there were a reason, I’d be having the conversation, not you, Colonel.”

“Damn it, Brenner, you’ve gone too far—”

“Colonel, I’m taking my prisoner out of here.” I said to Moore, “Stand up.”

Without a glance toward his lawyer, he stood.

“Come with me.”

Cynthia and I left Kent’s office with poor Colonel Moore in tow.

We escorted him down the corridors and into the holding cells. Most of the cells were empty, and I found an open door right next to Dalbert Elkins. I gave Moore a little nudge into the cell and slammed the door shut.

Dalbert Elkins looked at Moore, then at me, and said in a surprised tone, “Hey, Chief, that’s a full colonel.”

I ignored Elkins and said to Moore, “You’re charged with what I said before. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to counsel of your choice.”

Moore spoke for the first time, reminding me, “I have counsel. You just threatened to arrest him.”

“Right. And anything you say may be held against you in a court-martial.”

“I don’t know who did it.”

“Did I say you did?”

“No… but…”

Dalbert Elkins was following all this closely. He said to Moore through the bars, “Colonel, you shouldn’t get a lawyer. It makes him mad.”

Moore glanced at Elkins, then turned his attention back to me. “Colonel Kent informed me that I was restricted to post, so I had no choice but to seek counsel—”

“Now you’re worse than restricted. You’re confined.”

Dalbert said, “They’re letting me out. Restricted to barracks. Thanks, Chief.”

I ignored Elkins and said to Moore, “I have hard evidence that puts you at the scene of the crime, Colonel. There are enough charges against you to put you in jail for ten or twenty years.”

Moore reeled backward as if I’d hit him, and he sat heavily on the cot. “No… I didn’t do anything wrong. I just did what she asked me to do…”

“You suggested it.”

“No! She suggested it. It was her idea.”

“You knew fucking well what her father did to her at West Point.”

“I only knew about a week ago—when he gave her his ultimatum.”

Elkins looked at Cynthia and asked her, “What did he do to you?”

I said to Elkins, “Pipe down.”

“Yes, sir.”

I said to Moore, “I want you out of this Army. I may let you resign for the good of the service. That depends on how cooperative you are.”

“I’m willing to cooperate—”

“I don’t care if you’re willing or not, Colonel. You will cooperate. You will fire your attorney.”

Elkins began to second that, but thought better of it and sat down on his cot.

Moore nodded.

“What were you wearing out on rifle range six?”

“My uniform. We thought it would be best, in case I ran into any MPs—”

“Those shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Take them off.”

He hesitated, then took them off.

“Give them to me.”

He handed them through the bars.

I said to him, “I’ll see you later, Colonel.” I said to Elkins, “How’s my buddy?”

He stood. “Fine, sir. They’re letting me out tomorrow morning.”

“Good. If you run, you die.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walked away from the cells, and Cynthia followed. She asked, “Who was that other guy?”

“My buddy. The reason I’m here at Hadley.” I explained briefly, then went into the office of the lockup sergeant. I identified myself and said to him, “I have a Colonel Moore in lockup. Have him strip-searched and give him only water tonight. No reading material allowed.”

The sergeant looked at me wide-eyed. “You have an officer in lockup? A colonel?”

“He may not have access to counsel until sometime tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

I put Moore’s shoes on his desk. “Have these tagged and delivered to hangar three at Jordan Field.”

“Yes, sir.”

We left and headed toward our office. Cynthia said, “I didn’t know you were going to lock him up.”

“Neither did I until I saw the lawyer. Well, everyone wanted me to arrest him.”

“Yes, but for murder. And you don’t put a commissioned officer in a common lockup.”

“Silly custom. If he goes to Leavenworth, this is good training.” I added, “Besides, people talk better when they’ve tasted jail.”

“Right. Not to mention a strip-search and no rations. The regulations say he has to have at least bread and water.”

“In each twenty-four-hour period. Meanwhile, I haven’t had a decent meal myself in forty-eight hours.”

“You’re going to be officially criticized for the way you’ve handled this.”

“That’s the least of my problems at the moment.”

We entered our office, and I flipped through the phone messages. Aside from the news media, there weren’t many calls. No one wanted to speak to me anymore. There was, however, a message from the worried Major Bowes of the CID, the worried Colonel Weems of the staff judge advocate’s office, and the anxious Colonel Hellmann. I called Hellmann at his home in Falls Church, where his wife assured me that I was interrupting his dinner. “Hello, Karl.”

“Hello, Paul,” he said in his jovial manner.

“Thanks for the fax,” I said.

“Don’t mention it. Don’t ever mention it.”

“Right. We’ve spoken to General and Mrs. Campbell, as well as to Mrs. Fowler. Cynthia and I can reconstruct nearly everything that happened that evening from about the time Captain Campbell had chicken for dinner at the O Club, to the time she reported for duty officer, to the time she took the humvee out ostensibly to check the guard posts, right up to and including the murder and beyond the murder, to dawn and to me becoming involved in the case.”

“Very good. Who killed her?”

“Well, we don’t actually know.”

“I see. Will you know by noon tomorrow?”

“That’s the program.”

“It would be good if the CID could solve this case.”

“Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to a promotion and a raise.”

“Well, you’ll get neither. But I will get that letter of reprimand out of your file as you politely requested.”

“Terrific. Really good. You may get another to take its place. I arrested Colonel Moore, had him thrown in the lockup here, strip-searched, and put on water.”

“Perhaps you could have just restricted him to post, Mr. Brenner.”

“I did, but then he ran off and got a JAG lawyer.”

“That’s his right.”

“Absolutely. In fact, I arrested him in front of his lawyer, and almost arrested the lawyer for interfering.”

“I see. What is the charge, if not murder?”

“Conspiracy to conceal a crime, actions unbecoming, being an asshole, and so forth. You don’t want to discuss this on the phone, do you?”

“No. Why don’t you fax me a report?”

“No reports. Maybe Warrant Officer Kiefer can fax you a report.”

“Oh, yes. I hope she’s being helpful.”

“We didn’t know we had a third partner.”

“Now you know. I actually called you because the CID commander there called Falls Church, and he’s rather upset.”

I didn’t reply.

“Major Bowes. You remember him?”

“We’ve never met.”

“Nevertheless, he’s making all sorts of threats.”

“Karl, there are about thirty officers on this post, almost all of them married, who were sexually involved with the deceased. They’re all going to threaten, beg, plead, cajole, and—”

“Thirty?”

“At least. But who’s counting?”

“Thirty? What is going on out there?”

“I think it’s something in the water. I’m not drinking it.”

Cynthia stifled a laugh, but too late, and Karl said, “Ms. Sunhill? Are you there?”

“Yes, sir. Just picked up.”

“How do you know that thirty married officers were sexually involved with the deceased?”

Cynthia answered, “We found a diary, sir. Actually, a computer file. Grace got into the deceased’s computer.” She added, “The officers include most of the general’s personal staff.”

There was no reply, so I said, “I think we can control this if that’s what they want in the Pentagon. I’d suggest transfers to thirty different duty stations, followed by individual resignations at varying intervals. That wouldn’t draw any attention. But it’s not my problem.”

Again, no response.

Cynthia said, “General Campbell intends to resign tomorrow after his daughter’s funeral.”

Karl spoke. “I’m flying down tonight.”

I replied, “Why don’t you wait until tomorrow? There’s an electrical storm here, tornado warnings, wind shear—”

“All right, tomorrow. Anything further?”

“No, sir.”

“We’ll speak tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it. Enjoy your dinner, sir.”

He hung up and we did the same.

Cynthia commented, “I think he likes you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Well, how about a drink?”

“Not yet.” She pushed the intercom and asked Ms. Kiefer to come in.

Kiefer entered with her own chair, now that we were all equals, and sat down. She inquired, “How’s it going, guys?”

“Fine,” Cynthia replied. “Thanks for sticking around.”

“This is where the action is.”

“Right. I’d like you to go through all your MP patrol reports for the night of the murder. Listen to the tapes of the radio transmissions, check the desk sergeant’s log, see if any traffic or parking tickets were issued that night, and talk to the MPs who had duty that night, but be discreet. You know what we’re looking for.”

Kiefer nodded. “Yes. Cars and people where they’re not supposed to be after about 2400 hours. Good idea.”

“Actually, you gave me the idea when you told us about Randy Six. That’s the sort of thing that could be significant. See you later.”

We left Ms. Kiefer in our office. In the hallway, I said to Cynthia, “You may have something there.”

“I hope so. We don’t have much else.”

“Drink?”

“I think you should go talk to Colonel Kent. You’ve been very rough with him. I’ll wait for you out front. Ask him to join us for a drink. Okay, Paul?”

I looked at Cynthia a moment, and our eyes met. It seemed from her tone of voice and her demeanor that she wanted more from Kent than his goodwill. I nodded. “Okay.” I went toward his office, and Cynthia continued on toward the front lobby.

I walked slowly toward Kent’s office, my mind going faster than my legs. Colonel William Kent—motive, opportunity, the will to act, a strong presumption of innocence, but a weak alibi.

Position determines perspective. Or, to put it more simply, what you see depends on where you’re standing. I’d been standing in the wrong place. I’d been standing too close to William Kent. I had to step back and see Kent from a different angle.

It had been gnawing at me for the last two days, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it, or even think it. Kent had invited me to take the case, and that had put me in a certain mind-set. Kent was my only on-post ally at Fort Hadley. Everyone else was a suspect, a witness, a compromised officer, or a victim of sorts. Kent had belatedly confessed to being compromised, too, but only because he thought I’d eventually discover something regarding him and Ann Campbell, and he may also have suspected that Cynthia and I had found the room. In fact, if I thought about it, Burt Yardley probably told Kent that the door of the room had been glued shut, and they suspected that it had to be me who did that. The contents of the room appeared to be intact when Yardley came upon the room, but neither he nor Kent could be sure of what I had found there or taken away.

Burt Yardley, cunning bastard that he was, had feigned surprise that I knew about the room, but he knew that Ann Campbell wouldn’t have glued it shut—therefore, he suspected that Brenner did. Burt Yardley took that information to Kent, and Kent decided to confess to sexual misconduct, but hedged his bet and never mentioned the room. Now the contents of the room were in Yardley’s possession, and I didn’t know who had whom by the balls, and what the relationship was of those two men, but if either of them killed her, the other didn’t know about it.

I recalled how Kent resisted my decision to go directly to the victim’s off-post house. That was understandable on the face of it—it was an irregular procedure—but I thought now that Kent had intended to call Yardley early that morning, or may have tried to call him before or after he called me, and intended to say something like, “Chief, Ann Campbell has been murdered on post. You should probably get a court order and go through her house, ASAP. Collect evidence.” And Yardley would know what evidence had to be collected and disposed of, ASAP. But Yardley, according to his own statement, had been inconveniently or conveniently in Atlanta, and Kent found himself in a bind.

Right. So I got there first, and Kent had to make a different kind of call to Yardley in Atlanta, explaining what had happened. Then Kent and Yardley crossed their fingers, hoping that the hidden room would stay that way. Just as Cynthia and I had hoped for the same thing, not knowing that the Midland police chief and the Fort Hadley provost marshal had both been guests in that room.

Kent, too, had dragged his feet about notifying General and Mrs. Campbell. That could be an understandable human reaction, a natural aversion to being the bearer of bad news, though it was uncharacteristically unprofessional of Kent. But if Kent had killed the general’s daughter, then I could see why he couldn’t get up the courage to do his duty.

And Kent would not call Major Bowes, because Kent knew that Bowes knew about the room, the major having been entertained there as well. And Kent did not want Bowes to go there and collect evidence on Kent. And Kent could not get to that room in Ann Campbell’s house himself, because, if he was the one who killed her, the place where he had to be was at home, and damned quick, to wait for the call from the MPs when she was found.

I could almost picture it. . . almost. Kent, for some reason that I still didn’t know, was out there on or near rifle range six. I didn’t know how or if he knew what was going to go on there, but I could sort of picture him after General Campbell left: big, tall Bill Kent, probably in his uniform, walking that fifty meters from the road, toward the naked and bound Ann Campbell. He stops and they look at each other, and he realizes that fate has dropped this in his lap. His problem was Ann Campbell and her willingness to take everyone down with her. The answer to his problem was the rope that was already around her neck.

He may or may not have known what this scenario was all about, he may or may not have heard the exchange with her father. If he hadn’t, then perhaps he mistook what he saw for a sexual rendezvous with another man, and he was jealous, enraged. In any event, they certainly spoke, and it was very possible that Ann Campbell said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Or perhaps it didn’t matter what she said—Kent had had enough. He knew that there was trace evidence from other people at the scene, and he knew he’d be back in an official capacity within hours, and any evidence of his presence was explainable and expected. He’s a cop, and he computes all of it very quickly. Not only would this be the perfect crime, but it was the necessary crime. All he has to do is kneel down and tighten the rope. But did he have the will to act? Didn’t she plead with him? Could he have been that cold and callous? Or was it heat and rage that drove him?

What did I know about this man whom I’d seen maybe a dozen times in the last ten years? I searched my memory, but all I could say for sure about him was that he was always more concerned about the appearance of propriety than with propriety itself. He was very aware of his reputation as Mr. Clean Cop. He never made sexual comments or jokes, and he was tough on the men in his command who did not live up to his high standards of conduct and appearance. But then he was seduced by the general’s daughter. He knew he was the butt of jokes, according to Ms. Kiefer, he knew he was losing respect, and he knew you don’t get to be a general by fucking one of their daughters.

And was it possible, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, that he knew that certain people on post, certainly people under his command, would wonder in awe if it was Colonel Kent who had done it, if the top cop at Hadley had solved not only his problem but the problems of thirty senior officers and their wives? The average person might feel revulsion against a killer, but a killer can also command fear and respect, especially if there’s a sense that the killer was doing something not quite all bad.

But given all that, given the fact that these speculations and deductions made sense and fit the facts, did that make Colonel William Kent, provost marshal of Fort Hadley, a suspect in the murder of Captain Ann Campbell? With all the other possible men, and perhaps women, on post who had a motive—revenge, jealousy, concealment of a crime, to avoid humiliation or disgrace, or even homicidal mania—why Kent? And, if Kent, how would I go about proving it? In the rare cases when a cop at the scene of a crime may be the perpetrator of the crime, the investigating officer has a real problem.

I stood in front of Kent’s door a moment, then knocked.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

I pointed the Blazer toward the Officers’ Club, and we drove in silence, then I asked Cynthia, “Why do you think it was Kent?”

“Instinct.”

“Instinct is what put Kent between Ann Campbell’s thighs. Why do you think he murdered her?”

“I don’t know that he did, Paul. But we’ve eliminated other suspects. The Yardley boys have tight alibis, we know what Colonel Moore did, and the Fowlers are each other’s witnesses, and the general, and, for that matter, Mrs. Campbell, are clean as far as I’m concerned. Sergeant St. John and MP Casey, who found the body, are not likely suspects, and neither is anyone else we’ve spoken to or heard about.”

“But there’s Major Bowes, Colonel Weems, Lieutenant Elby, the head chaplain, the medical officer, and about thirty other officers who had a motive. Plus, there are the wives of those officers, if you think about that. That’s a possibility.”

“True. And there could very well be someone else out there whom we haven’t even heard of. But you have to consider opportunity and the will to commit murder.”

“Right. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to interview all the men in her diary. And I’d hate to think of the FBI doing that, because they’ll write a two-hundred-page report on every one of them. Kent is a possible suspect, but I don’t want him to be a convenient suspect like he—and some others here—tried to make of Colonel Moore.”

“I understand that. But it just struck me at some point that Kent fits.”

“When did it strike you?”

“I don’t know. In the shower.”

“I’ll pass on that.”

“Do you think he’ll join us for a drink?”

“He was vague. But if he’s the murderer, he’ll be there. I’ve never seen it fail yet. They want to be close, to see, to hear, to try to manipulate the investigation. And the bright ones are not obvious about it. I certainly wouldn’t say that if Kent joined us for a drink he is the murderer. But if he doesn’t show up, I’d bet money that he isn’t.”

“I understand.”

In my years in the CID, I had managed to avoid every Department of the Army mandated personnel management class, sensitivity session, race and gender relations course, and so on, which was obviously why I was having problems in the new Army. But I did take lots of leadership classes, and within those classes was everything you needed to know about human relations, such as: respect subordinates and superiors, don’t ask your people to do anything you wouldn’t do, earn respect, don’t demand it, give praise when it’s due. So, in that spirit, I said to Cynthia, “You’re doing a fine job, you’ve shown good initiative, good judgment, and poise under pressure. You’re very professional, very knowledgeable, and very hardworking. It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

“Is this a recorded message?”

“No, I—”

“No feeling, Paul. Completely atonal. Speak from your heart, if you have one.”

“I resent that.” I pulled into the Officers’ Club parking lot and nosed into a space. “That’s judgmental, very—”

“I love you. Say it.”

“I said it last year. How many times—?”

“Say it!”

“I love you.”

“Good.” She jumped out of the Blazer, slammed the door, and began walking across the parking lot. I followed and caught up. We didn’t exchange another word until we got into the main lounge. I found an empty table in the corner and checked my watch, which gave me the civilian time of eight-fifteen P.M. The dining room was full, but the lounge was half-empty now that half-price Happy Hour was over. The new Army officially frowns on half-price Happy Hour, but the clubs are quasi-independent, and some of them still honor the ancient and honorable tradition of cheap whisky for an hour or two, a minor reward for putting up with bullshit that no civilian—except a recent immigrant from a military dictatorship—would put up with. But the Army has its moments. Unfortunately, there are fewer of them these days. A waitress came around, and Cynthia ordered her bourbon and Coke, and I ordered a Scotch with a beer chaser. I said, “I’m dehydrated. God, it’s hot out there.”

“You’ve been sweating like a pig all day,” she agreed. She smiled. “You need a shower.”

“Do we have time?”

“We might have to share it again.”

“This is a demanding job.”

The drinks came and we toasted. She said, “To Ann Campbell. We’ll do our best for you, Captain.”

We drank.

I said, “This case is getting to me. Is that because of the case, or because I’m tired and old?”

“It’s because of the case, Paul. Because you care. Because it’s not just a case. It’s a human tragedy.”

“What other kind of tragedies are there? We’re all a heartbeat away from tragedy.”

“Right. When we find the killer, it won’t be a time to celebrate. It will be another tragedy. It will be someone who knew her. Maybe loved her.”

“Like Kent.”

“Yes. I keep thinking of something I read once. . . something I think about when I’m interviewing a woman who’s been raped. It goes like this—‘Compared to shame, death is nothing.’ I think that’s what happened here, starting with Ann Campbell’s shame and humiliation at West Point. I mean, think of it, Paul. They teach officers to be proud, to be assertive, to stand tall. People like Ann Campbell are already predisposed to this type of personality, so they gravitate toward someplace like West Point. Then, when something like that happens, a rape, a humiliation, they can’t handle it. They don’t bend like most people. They stand tall, then snap.”

I nodded. “I see that.”

“Right. They pick up the pieces and go on, but they’re never the same again. I mean, no woman is after a brutal rape, but someone like Ann Campbell can’t even begin to heal inside.”

“I understand that some people think that the only cure for shame and humiliation is revenge.”

“Correct. So take that a step further and think of the average male officer. He’s been seduced by Ann Campbell in about twenty minutes, including drinks, he’s been led into a sex room and encouraged or coerced into engaging in kinky acts, then at some point he’s either discarded or asked by Ann to bend a few rules for her. He has a mix of emotions—starting with a little male vanity at his conquest, but eventually, if he’s married and if he takes any of this officer stuff seriously, he feels shame. Most men would not feel a great deal of shame for a consensual sex act, but some men—officers, clergy, pillars of the community—will feel shame. So we get back to ‘Compared to shame, death is nothing.’ Or call it dishonor, to put it in a military context. This could apply to Ann Campbell, General Campbell, and to any number of men who either wished themselves or Ann Campbell dead. That’s why I think it was someone she knew, someone who felt that the act of murder was a way to end the shame and dishonor of the victim as well as of the murderer. Kent, as a ramrod kind of cop, an officer, might well fit that theory.”

I nodded again. I’d thought something similar, though with a different slant. But it was interesting that we both had a psychological profile of the killer that could fit Kent. Then again, there’s nothing like hindsight. “Kent,” I said, “Kent.”

“Speaking of whom. . .”

In walked Colonel Kent, and a few heads turned. Any post’s top cop usually gets a few heads to turn, a few side glances. But now, at Hadley, with a sensational murder still hot news, Kent was the man of the hour. He saw us and walked over.

Cynthia and I stood, as was customary. I might shove it up his butt in private, but in public I gave him the respect he was supposed to deserve.

He sat and we sat. A waitress came over and Kent ordered drinks for us and a gin and tonic for himself. “On me,” he said.

We chatted awhile, everyone agreeing what a strain this had been and how tempers were getting short, sleepless nights, hot days, and all that crap. As casual and chatty as Cynthia and I were, Kent was a pro and he smelled the rat, or perhaps felt like the rat being maneuvered into the corner.

He said to us, “Will you stay on awhile after the funeral, and brief the FBI?”

“I think that’s what we’re supposed to do,” I replied. “But I’d like to be gone by nightfall tomorrow.”

He nodded, then smiled at us. “You two getting along? Or is that a leading question?”

Cynthia returned the smile. “We’re renewing our friendship.”

“Right. Where’d you meet?”

“Brussels.”

“Great city.”

And so on. But every once in a while, he would nonchalantly ask something like, “So Moore’s definitely not the murderer?”

“Nothing is definite,” Cynthia replied, “but we don’t think so.” She added, “It’s scary how close we came to accusing the wrong man.”

“If he is the wrong man. You’re saying he tied her up and left?”

“Right,” I replied. “I can’t reveal why, but we know why.”

“Then he’s an accessory to murder.”

“Not legally,” I said. “It was something completely different.”

“Weird. Did your computer lady get what she needed?”

“I think so. Unfortunately for some guys, Ann Campbell left a sort of sexual diary in the computer.”

“Oh, Jesus. . . am I in there?”

“I think so, Bill.” I added, “With about thirty other officers.”

“My God. . . I knew she had lots of. . . but not that many. . . God, I feel like a fool. Hey, can we get the diary classified?”

I smiled. “You mean like top secret? Come up with a national security angle and I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, the decision rests with the judge advocate general, or the attorney general, or both. I think you have enough company not to be too concerned with being singled out.”

“Well, but I’m a cop.”

“There were guys in that diary with more power and prestige than you.”

“That’s good. How about Fowler?”

“Can’t say. Hey, did you know that Burt Yardley was also in the honey?”

“No kidding. . .? Jesus. . .”

“You see, you had more in common with Burt than you realized.” But seriously, Bill. “Do you know him well?”

“Only professionally. We attend the monthly G-5 meetings.”

That’s civilian affairs, and if I’d thought about it, I’d have realized that they were thrown together often enough, chief and provost, top cop and top cop, to work out a mutual ass-covering arrangement.

Kent asked, “Have either of you gone over to the chapel yet?”

“No,” Cynthia replied. “I think we’ll wait until the service tomorrow. Are you going to the chapel tonight?”

He glanced at his watch. “Yes, of course. I was a lover.”

I asked, “How big is that chapel?”

We both shared a little laugh, but it was definitely a crude remark, and Cynthia gave me a really mean look.

I asked him, “Is Mrs. Kent still in Ohio?”

“Yes.”

“Until when?”

“Oh. . . another few days.”

“That’s a long drive. Or did she fly?”

He glanced at me, then replied, “Flew.” He forced a smile. “On her broom.”

I returned the phony smile and said, “Can I ask if her departure is related to ugly rumors about you and Captain Campbell?”

“Well. . . there was a little of that, I guess. We’re trying to work it out. But she really doesn’t know. She just thinks. You’re not married, but maybe you understand.”

“I was married. Cynthia is married.”

He looked at her. “Are you? Military?”

“Yes. He’s at Benning.”

“Tough life.”

And so forth. Perfectly pleasant. Two warrant officers, CID types, and a senior commissioned officer, the MP commander, drinking and talking about life, love, the job, and, every once in a while, sandwiching in the subject of murder. This is an interesting interrogation technique, and it’s quite effective in appropriate situations, like this one. In fact, I call it the murder sandwich—a little bread, meat, lettuce, blood, cheese, tomato, blood, and so forth.

But Bill Kent wasn’t your average suspect, and I had the distinct impression that he knew what this was about, and that he knew that we knew that he knew, and so on. So it became a little dance, a charade, and at one point our eyes met, and then he knew for sure, and I knew for sure.

At this point, when a guy realizes you’re on to him, it’s kind of awkward for everyone, and the suspect goes into an exaggerated nonchalance, trying to show how completely at ease he is. Sometimes, too, a perverse or reverse sort of logic takes over, and the suspect gets ballsy. In fact, Kent said to us, “I’m glad I asked you two to take this case. I was pretty sure Bowes was involved with her, but I didn’t want to say that in case it wasn’t true. He has no special homicide investigators on his team here anyway, and they’d have just sent somebody like you two from Falls Church eventually. Or they’d have called the FBI right away. So I was glad you were here.” He looked at me and said, “We’ve worked together before, and I knew you’d be right for this case.” He added, “You’ve only got until noon tomorrow, right? But you know what? I think you’re going to wrap it up before noon.”

And so we sat there a minute, playing with cocktail stirrers and napkins, Cynthia and I wondering if there was a murderer at the table, and Bill Kent contemplating the end of his career at the very least, and perhaps wrestling with the notion of telling us something that would get us out of here by noon tomorrow.

Sometimes people need encouragement, so I said to him in a tone he’d understand, “Bill, do you want to take a walk? Or we can go back to your office. We can talk.”

He shook his head. “I have to go.” He stood. “Well. . . I hope those butchers at the morgue left enough of her for an open casket. I’d like to see her again. . . I don’t have a photo. . .” He forced another smile. “There aren’t too many souvenirs of an extramarital affair.”

Actually, there had been a room full of them. Cynthia and I stood also, and I said, “Get one of those recruiting posters before everyone else thinks the same thing. Collector’s item.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the drinks,” I said.

He turned and left.

We sat. Cynthia watched him walking away, then said, as if to herself, “He could be upset over the end of his career, his soon-to-be-public disgrace, his troubled marriage, and the death of someone he cared for. Maybe that’s what we’re seeing. Or. . . he did it.”

I nodded. “Hard to evaluate his behavior given all he’s going through. Yet, there is something about a person’s eyes. . . they speak their own language, from the heart and soul. They speak love, grief, hate, innocence, and guilt. They speak the truth even as the person is lying.”

Cynthia nodded. “They sure do.”

We both sat in silence awhile, then Cynthia asked, “So?”

I looked at her, and she looked back into my eyes, a sort of experiment, I guess, and we both agreed without speaking that Bill Kent was our man.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

We skipped dinner and drove out on Rifle Range Road toward Jordan Field. As Kent had indicated earlier, there was an MP checkpoint on the road, and we had to stop and identify ourselves. When we got to the MP booth at the entrance to Jordan Field, we went through another identification procedure, then yet another at the door of hangar three. The Army liked to keep reporters in the press conference room, where the Army thought they belonged. Reporters liked to roam. These differences of opinion have been going on for a few hundred years. The Army citing security considerations, the press invoking their traditional and lawful privileges. The Army has gotten the upper hand in recent decades, having learned at least one lesson in Vietnam.

My own experiences with the press began in Vietnam when a reporter stuck a microphone under my nose while we were both pinned down by machine-gun fire. The news camera rolled, and the reporter asked me, “What’s happening?” I thought the situation spoke for itself, but young idiot that I was, I replied, “An enemy machine gun’s got our range.” The guy asked, “What are you going to do now?” I said to him, “Leave you and the camera guy here.” And I made a hasty withdrawal, hoping the enemy gunner would concentrate his fire on the gentlemen of the press. Somewhere, that news footage was in an archive, preserved for posterity. I never saw the two guys again.

The hangar was nearly deserted, most of the forensic people having gone back to Fort Gillem, or on to other assignments, with their equipment. But about half a dozen people had stayed behind to type reports and complete a few more tests.

Ann Campbell’s home was still there, as well as the humvee and her BMW, but her office was gone. Nevertheless, Grace Dixon sat at a camp desk, yawning, in front of an IBM personal computer.

She looked up at us as we approached and said, “I requisitioned another PC. I’m sorting files, reading letters and diaries, but not printing out, as you said. You got that stuff on Yardley that I sent you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Thanks.”

Grace said, “This is very hot stuff here. I love it.”

“Take a cold shower tonight, Grace.”

She laughed and wiggled her ample rear end in the seat. “I’m sticking to the chair.”

Cynthia asked, “Where are you staying tonight?”

“Guest house on post. I’ll sleep with the disk. No men. Promise.” She added, “The post chaplain is in this diary. Is nothing sacred?”

I wanted to point out that sleeping with a goddess was itself a sacrament, but I didn’t think either of the two ladies would appreciate it. I asked Grace, “Can you print out all entries that mention the name of Colonel William Kent?”

“Sure. I’ve seen him in here. I can scan for that. What’s his job or title in case it’s under that?”

“He’s the provost marshal. Known to friends as Bill.”

“Right. I saw him in here. You want printouts every time his name appears, right?”

“Correct. Also, the FBI may be around tonight or early tomorrow. The MPs outside will not stop them from coming through that door. But if you see the type walking across the hangar, you take the disk out and make believe you’re typing a report. Okay?”

“Sure. But what if they have a court order or a search warrant or something?”

It’s easier to deal with military types because they follow orders. Civilians want explanations and ask too many questions. I replied to her, “Grace, you’re just typing reports. Put the disk on your person, and if they want to look under your dress, slap them.”

She laughed. “What if they’re cute?”

Obviously, something had fired up this woman’s libido.

Cynthia said to her, “It’s really important, Grace, that no one but us three sees that stuff.”

“Okay.”

I asked her, “Is Cal Seiver still here?”

“Yes. He’s grabbing some cot time over there.” Grace was playing with the keys again. I don’t know much about computers, and I want to know less. But people like Grace, who are into them, are a little weird. They can’t seem to break away from the screen, and they sit there, talk, type, mumble, curse, squeal with delight, and probably go without sex, sleep, and food for extended periods. Actually, I guess that goes for me, too. Cynthia and I left Grace without bothering her with a farewell.

I rolled a chalkboard in front of her so that anyone coming in the door wouldn’t see her, then we found Cal Seiver in a deep sleep on a cot, and I woke him. He stood unsteadily and seemed confused by his surroundings.

I gave him a few seconds, then asked him, “Did you find anything new and interesting?”

“No, we’re just putting it all in order now.”

“You have disqualifying footprints and fingerprints from Colonel Kent?”

“Sure.”

“Did you find any of his prints out at the scene? On the humvee, on her handbag, the latrines?”

He thought a moment, then said, “No. But his bootprints are all over. I took boot impressions from him to disqualify those.”

“Did you get Colonel Moore’s shoes?”

“Sure did. I compared them to unidentified plaster casts. They lead right to the body, then back to the road.”

“Do you have a diagram yet?”

“Sure.” He walked over to a rolling bulletin board and snapped on a portable light. Tacked to the board was a four-foot-by-eight-foot diagram of the murder scene. The scene took in a stretch of road, the victim’s parked humvee, the beginning of the bleachers, and, on the other side of the road, a small section of the firing range that included a few pop-up targets and a sketch of a spread-eagled figure that the artist had rendered sexless.

Footprints were marked by colored pins, and there was a legend at the bottom of the board identifying the known owners of the boot-and shoeprints, with black pins indicating unknown owners or unclear footprints. Little arrows showed directions, and notes indicated whether the prints were fresh, old, rained on, and so forth. In cases where a print was super-imposed on another print, the most recent print had a longer pin. There were other notes and explanations to try to add some clarity to the chaos. Eventually, this whole board would be fed into a computer, and you would see a more graphic display, including, if you wished, the prints appearing one after another, as if a ghost were walking. Also, you could eliminate or call up any set of prints you wanted. But for now, I had to make do with my own experience, and that of Cynthia and Cal Seiver.

Seiver said, “We really haven’t analyzed this. That’s sort of your job.”

“Right. I remember that from the manual.”

He added, “We’ve got to spiffy this up a little for the FBI. There’s too many variables and unknowns here, including the fact we don’t have the footwear that you wore.”

“That might he in the VOQ now.”

“When people hold off on providing footprints, I get suspicious.”

“Fuck off, Cal.”

“Right.” He looked at the legend and said, “Colonel Moore is yellow.”

I replied, “Colonel Kent is who we want.”

Pause. “Kent?”

“Kent.” I looked at the legend. Kent was blue.

We all studied the diagram, and, in the quiet hangar, you could hear the computer printer spewing out paper.

I said to Cal Seiver, “Talk to me.”

“Right.” Seiver began, and, from what he was saying, it appeared that Colonel William Kent had visited the body no fewer than three times. Cal explained, “See, here he walks from the road to the body. Stops very near the body, probably kneels or squats because, when he turns, his prints rotate, then he probably stands and goes back to the road. This was probably the first time, when he went out there with his MP who found the body. . . See, here’s her print. . . Casey. She’s green. Then the next time may have been here where he accompanied you and Cynthia with her running shoes. Cynthia is white.” He managed to remind me again, “You’re black. Lots of black. I’ll give you pink pins when I get your boots. But for now, I can’t tell you from—”

“Okay. I get it. How about the third time he walked out to the body?”

Cal shrugged. “He walked there when I was there, but we had tarps down by then. I guess he went out to the body more than once before you two got there, because it seems that we’ve got three trails of his prints from the road to the body. But even that’s hard to say for sure because no trail is complete. We got prints over prints, and we got soft ground and hard ground, and grass.”

“Right.” We all studied the pins, the arrows, and the notations.

I said, “There was a man and woman out there also, wearing civilian shoes. I could get you the shoes, but what I’m interested in is Colonel Kent. I think he visited the scene earlier, probably in uniform, with the same boots he wore later, somewhere between, say, 0245 and 0330 hours.”

Cal Seiver thought a moment, then replied, “But the body wasn’t found until. . . what time?. . . 0400, by the duty sergeant, St. John.”

I didn’t reply.

Seiver scratched his bald head and stared at the diagram. “Well. . . could be. . . I mean, here’s something that doesn’t make sense. . . here’s St. John’s bootprint. Orange. That’s a definite. The guy had a wad of gum on his sole and it printed. Okay. . . so here we have St. John’s bootprint, and it seems to be superimposed on a bootprint that we think is Colonel Kent’s. Kent had very new boots with clear tread. So. . . I mean, if St. John was there at 0400 hours, and Colonel Kent didn’t arrive until the MPs called him at what. . . after 0500 hours, then St. John’s bootprint on top of Kent’s bootprint wouldn’t make sense. But you have to understand that while we can ID the impressions of most footwear if the medium is good—snow, mud, soft soil, and such—it’s not as precise as fingerprints. And in this case, where we have two good prints, we can’t say for certain which was superimposed on which.”

“But you have St. John’s noted as being superimposed on Kent’s.”

“Well, that’s a judgment call by the tech. Could be a mistake. Probably was, now that I see it. St. John was there first, so he couldn’t have walked over Kent’s. . . but you’re saying you think Kent was there before St. John found the body.”

“I’m saying it,” I replied, “but you will not say it to anyone.”

“I only give information to you two and to a court-martial board.”

“Correct.”

Cynthia said to Cal, “Let’s see the plaster impression of this spot.”

“Right.” Cal looked at some sheets of typed paper on the bulletin board and matched something to something, then led us to a distant corner of the hangar where about a hundred white plaster casts of footprints sat on the floor, looking like the evidence of Pompeii’s populace heading out of town.

The casts were numbered with black grease pencil, and he found the one he wanted, hefted it up, and carried it over to a table. There was a fluorescent lamp clamped to the table, and I turned it on.

We all stared at the cast a few seconds, then Cal said, “Okay, this bootprint is St. John’s, heading toward the body. This little mark at the edge is the direction of the body. Okay, also heading toward the body is this bootprint, which is Colonel Kent’s.”

I looked at the two bootprints. They were superimposed side by side, the left side of Kent’s left boot overlapping the right side of St. John’s right boot—or St. John’s overlapping Kent’s. That was the question. I didn’t say anything, and neither did Cynthia. Finally, Cal said, “Well. . . if you. . . do you see that indent there? That’s the wad of gum on St. John’s boot, but it wasn’t touched by Kent’s boot or vice versa. You see, we have two military boots of the same make, same tread, and the prints were made within hours of each other. . . and we have intersecting and interlocking tread marks. . .”

“Do you need a deerstalker cap for this?”

“A what?”

“Why did someone put the shorter pin on Kent’s print on the diagram?”

“Well, I’m not an expert on this.”

“Where is the expert?”

“He’s gone. But let me give it a try.” He changed the position of the lighting, then shut it off and looked at the cast in the shadowy overhead light of the hangar, then got a flashlight and tried different angles and distances. Cynthia and I looked as well, this not being an exact science but more a matter of common sense. In truth, it was nearly impossible to say with any certainty which bootprint had been made first.

Cynthia ran her finger over the places where the two bootprints intersected. With a smooth sole, you could easily tell which was deeper, but even that was not proof that the deeper one was made first, given the fact that people walk differently and are of different weights. But the deeper print is usually first because it compresses the earth or the snow or the mud, and the next footstep is walking on compressed earth and will not sink in as far, unless the person is a real lard-ass. Cynthia said, “St. John’s print is a hair higher than Kent’s.”

Cal said, “I’ve seen Kent, and he weighs about two hundred pounds. How about St. John?”

I replied, “About the same.”

“Well,” said Seiver, “it really depends on how hard they came down. Relative to their other prints on the diagram, and considering the flat impressions of both prints, neither was running. In fact, I’d guess that both were walking slowly. So if Kent’s print is a hair deeper, you’d have to guess that Kent’s print was made first, and St. John walked over Kent’s print later. But that’s just a guess.” He added, “I wouldn’t send anybody to the gallows on that.”

“No, but we can scare the shit out of him.”

“Right.”

“Can you get the latent-footprint guy back here tonight?”

Cal shook his head. “He’s off to Oakland Army Base on assignment. I can get someone else flown in by chopper.”

“I want the original guy. Get this cast on a flight to Oakland and have him analyze it again. Don’t tell him what he thought the first time. Right? He’s not going to remember this one out of a few hundred.”

“Right. We’ll see if we get the same analysis. I’ll get on it. We may have to put it on a commercial flight out of Atlanta to San Francisco. I may go myself.”

“No way, pal. You’re stuck at Hadley with me.”

“Shit.”

“Right. Okay, I do want a latent-footprint team from Gillem. I want them out at the rifle range at first light. They’re looking for more of Colonel Kent’s bootprints. Have them look alongside the road, out further on the range, around the body again, and near the latrines and so on. I want a clear diagram showing only Kent’s prints. Better yet, feed everything into a computer program, and be prepared to show it by noon tomorrow. Okay?”

“We’ll do our best.” He hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure about this?”

I gave him a slight nod, which was all the encouragement he needed to roust people out of bed and get them back to Hadley at dawn. I said, “Cal, the FBI might come around tonight or early tomorrow. They have jurisdiction over this case as of noon tomorrow. But not until then.”

“I hear you.”

“Work out some kind of early warning signal with the MPs outside, and alert Grace so she can stuff the disk she’s working on.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. You’ve done a good job.”

Cynthia and I went back to Grace Dixon, who was making a neat pile of printouts on her desk. She said, “Here’s the last one. That’s all the diary entries that mention Bill Kent, William Kent, Kent, and so on.”

“Good.” I took the stack and leafed through it. There were about forty sheets of paper, some with more than one dated entry, the first going back to June of two years ago, and the most recent was just last week.

Cynthia commented, “They saw a lot of each other.”

I nodded. “Okay, thanks again, Grace. Why don’t you put the disk in your secret place and go get some sleep?”

“I’m okay. You look like hell.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I took the printouts with me, and we made the long walk across the hangar and exited through the small door. It was one of those still nights where the humidity hung in the air, and you couldn’t even smell the pines unless you were on top of them. “Shower?” I asked.

“No,” Cynthia replied. “Provost office. Colonel Moore and Ms. Baker-Kiefer. Remember them?”

We got into my Blazer, and the clock on the dashboard said ten thirty-five. That gave us less than fourteen hours to tie it up.

Cynthia saw me looking at the clock and said, “The FBI guys are probably yawning and thinking about turning in. But they’ll be all over the place tomorrow morning.”

“Right.” I put the Blazer in gear, and we headed away from Jordan Field. I said, “I don’t care if they get credit for solving this case. I’m not into the petty crap. I’ll turn this all over to them at noon tomorrow, and they can run with it. But the closer we get to the perpetrator, the less dirt they have to dig up. I’ll point them in Kent’s direction and hope that’s as far as it goes.”

“Well, that’s very big of you to let them wind it up. Your career is sort of winding up, too. But I could use the credit.”

I glanced at her. “We’re military. We just take orders. In fact, you take orders from me.”

“Yes, sir.” She sulked for a minute, then said, “The FBI are masters at the public relations game, Paul. Their PR people make the Army Public Information Office look like an information booth at a bus station. We’ve got to finish this ourselves, even if it means putting a gun to Kent’s head and threatening to blow his brains out unless he signs a confession.”

“My, my, aren’t we assertive tonight.”

“Paul, this is important. And you’re right about the FBI digging up unnecessary dirt. They’ll leak the contents of that diary to every paper in the country, and to add insult to injury, they’ll say they found the disk and cracked it. These guys are good, but they’re ruthless. They’re almost as ruthless as you.”

“Thank you.”

“And they don’t care about the Army. Talk about Nietzsche—the FBI philosophy is, ‘Whatever makes any other law enforcement agency or institution look bad makes us look better.’

So we have to wrap it up by noon.”

“Okay. Who’s the murderer?”

“Kent.”

“Positive?”

“No. Are you?”

I shrugged. “I like the guy.”

She nodded. “I don’t dislike him, but I’m not overly fond of him.”

It was funny, I thought, how men and women often had a different opinion of the same person. The last time I can remember when a woman and I both agreed that we really liked a guy, the woman was my wife, and she ran off with the guy. I asked, as a matter of information, “What is it about Kent that you don’t like?”

“He cheated on his wife.”

Makes sense to me. I added to that, “He may also be a killer. Minor point, but I thought I’d mention it.”

“Can the sarcasm. If he murdered Ann Campbell, he did it on the spur of the moment. Cheating on his wife was a two-year, premeditated infidelity. It shows weakness of character.”

“I’ll say.” I headed up the long, dark road through the pine forest. In the distance, I could see the lights of Bethany Hill, and I wondered what was going on at the Fowler house and the Kent house. I said, “I wouldn’t want to be up there for dinner tonight.”

Cynthia looked out the windshield. “What a mess. I came here to Hadley to investigate a rape, and I wind up involved with the aftershock of a ten-year-old rape.”

“Crime breeds crime breeds crime,” I pointed out.

“Right. Did you know that a rape victim is statistically more likely to get raped again than a female who has never been raped?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“But no one seems to know why. There’s no common denominator like job, age, neighborhood, or anything like that. It’s just that if it happened once, it’s more likely to happen again. Makes no sense. It’s scary, like there’s some sort of evil out there that knows. . .”

“Spooky,” I agreed. I didn’t have that experience in homicide cases. You only get killed once.

Cynthia began talking about her job, about how the job got her down sometimes, and how it had probably affected her marriage.

Cynthia obviously needed to talk, to start healing herself before the next case. But there’s always a residue of each case, and it’s like a soul toxin that makes you spiritually sicker each year. But it’s a job that needed to be done, and some people decided to do it, and some people decided they needed another job. You form a callus around your heart, I think, but it’s only as thick as you want it to be, and sometimes a particularly vicious crime cuts right through the callus, and you’re wounded again.

Cynthia kept talking, and I supposed I realized that this talk was not just about her, or her marriage, or the job, but about me, and about us.

She said, “I think I might apply for a transfer to. . . something else.”

“Like what?”

“The Army band.” She laughed. “I used to play the flute. Do you play anything?”

“Just the radio. How about Panama?”

She shrugged. “You go where they send you. I don’t know. . . Everything’s up in the air.”

I guess I was supposed to say something, to offer an alternative. But in truth, I wasn’t as confident and decisive in my personal life as I was in my professional life. When a woman says “commitment,” I ask for an aspirin. When she says “love,” I immediately lace up my running shoes.

Yet, this thing with Cynthia was real, because it had withstood some test of time, and because I’d missed her and thought about her for a year. But now that she was here, right beside me, I was starting to panic. But I wasn’t going to blow it again, so I said to her, “I still have that farmhouse outside of Falls Church. Maybe you’d like to see it.”

“I’d love to.”

“Good.”

“When?”

“I guess. . . day after tomorrow. When we go back to headquarters. Stay the weekend. Longer if you want.”

“I have to be at Benning on Monday.”

“Why?”

“Lawyers. Papers. I’m getting divorced in Georgia. I was married in Virginia. You’d think there’d be a national divorce law for people like us.”

“Good idea.”

“I have to be in Panama by the end of this month. I’d like to finalize the divorce before then or it’ll take another six months if I’m out of the country.”

“Right. I got my divorce papers delivered in the mail call by chopper while I was under fire.”

“Really?”

“Really. Plus a dunning letter for my car loan, and antiwar literature from a peace group in San Francisco. Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Actually, I had no bed. Goes to show you. Things could be worse.”

“Things could be better. We’ll have a good weekend.”

“Looking forward to it.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO

We arrived back at the provost marshal’s building. The media had decamped, and I parked in a no-parking zone on the road. Carrying the printouts of Ann Campbell’s diary, we went inside the building.

I said to Cynthia, “We’ll speak with Colonel Moore first, then see what Ms. Kiefer has found.”

As we walked toward the holding cells, Cynthia observed, “It’s hard to comprehend that the man who runs this whole place could be a criminal.”

“Right. It kind of messes up the protocols and the standard operating procedures.”

“Sure does. How do you feel about that bootprint?”

“It’s about all we’ve got,” I replied.

She thought a moment, then said, “But we’ve got motive and opportunity. Though I’m not certain about our psychological profile of the killer or Kent’s will to act. Also, we have almost no circumstantial evidence.” She added, “But after having drinks with him, I think our intuition is correct.”

“Good. Tell it to the FBI.”

I asked the lockup sergeant to accompany us, and we went to Colonel Moore’s cell. Moore was sitting up in his cot, fully dressed except for his shoes. Dalbert Elkins had pulled his chair up to the common bars and was talking to Moore, who was either listening very intently or had gone into a catatonic trance.

They both saw us approaching and both stood. Elkins seemed glad to see me, but Moore looked apprehensive, not to mention disheveled.

Elkins said to me, “Still set for tomorrow, Chief? No problem?”

“No problem.”

“My wife says to say thanks to you.”

“She does? She told me to keep you here.”

Elkins laughed.

I said to the MP sergeant, “Will you unlock Colonel Moore, please?”

“Yes, sir.” He unlocked Moore’s cell and asked me, “Cuffs?”

“Yes, please, Sergeant.”

The MP sergeant barked at Moore, “Wrists, front!”

Moore thrust his clenched hands to his front, and the sergeant snapped the cuffs on him.

Without a word, we walked down the long, echoing corridor, past the mostly empty cells. Moore, in his stockinged feet, made no echoes. There are few places on this earth more dismal than a cell block, and few scenes more melancholy than a prisoner in handcuffs. Moore, for all his intellectualizing, was not handling this well, which was the purpose.

We went into an interrogation room, and the sergeant left us. I said to Moore, “Sit.”

He sat.

Cynthia and I sat at a table opposite him.

I said to him, “I told you that the next time we spoke, it would be here.”

He didn’t reply. He looked a little frightened, a little dejected, and a little angry, though he was trying to suppress that, since he realized it wouldn’t do him any good. I said to him, “If you’d told us everything you knew the first time, you might not be here.”

No reply.

“Do you know what makes a detective really, really angry? When the detective has to waste valuable time and energy on a witness who’s being cute.”

I verbally poked him around awhile, assuring him that he made me sick, that he was a disgrace to his uniform, his rank, his profession, his country, and to God, the human race, and the universe.

All the while, Moore stayed silent, though I don’t think this was an expression of his Fifth Amendment right to do so as much as it was his accurate estimate that I wanted him to shut his mouth.

Cynthia, meanwhile, had taken the printouts of the diary and had gotten up and left for most of the verbal abuse. After about five minutes, she came back without the printouts, but she was carrying a plastic tray on which was a Styrofoam cup of milk and a donut.

Moore’s eyes flashed to the food, and he stopped paying attention to me.

Cynthia said to him, “I brought you this.” She set the tray down out of his reach and said to him, “I’ve asked the MP to unlock your cuffs so you can eat. He’ll be here when he gets a moment.”

Moore assured her, “I can eat with my cuffs on.”

Cynthia informed him, “It’s against regulations to make a prisoner eat with wrist manacles, chains, cuffs, and such.”

“You’re not making me. I’m perfectly willing to—”

“Sorry. Wait for the sergeant.”

Moore kept looking at the donut, which, I suspected, was the first mess hall donut he’d ever shown any interest in. I said to him, “Let’s get on with this. And don’t jerk us around like you did the last few times. Okay, to show you how much shit you’re in, I’m going to tell you what we already know from the forensic evidence. Then you’re going to fill in the details. First, you and Ann Campbell planned this for at least a week—from the time her father gave her the ultimatum. Okay, I don’t know whose idea it was to re-create the West Point rape”—I stared at him and saw his reaction to this, then went on—“but it was a sick idea. Okay, you called her at Post Headquarters, coordinated the times, and drove out to rifle range five, where you pulled across the gravel lot and behind the bleachers there. You got out of your car, carrying the tent pegs, rope, a hammer, and so forth, and also a mobile phone, and maybe the tape player. You walked along the corduroy trail to the latrines at rifle range six, and perhaps called her again from there to confirm that she’d left Post Headquarters.”

I spent the next ten minutes re-creating the crime for him, basing my narrative on forensic evidence, conjecture, and supposition. Colonel Moore looked duly impressed, very surprised, and increasingly unhappy.

I continued, “You called the general’s red phone, and when he answered, Ann played the taped message. It was then, knowing you had about twenty minutes or so, that you both began to set the stage. She undressed in or near the jeep in case someone came along unexpectedly. You put her things in a plastic bag which you left at the humvee. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“She kept her watch on.”

“Yes. She wanted to keep track of the time. She could see the watch face, and she thought that would be reassuring somehow as she waited for her parents.”

Odd, I thought, but a lot less odd than the scene that presented itself to me the first time I saw her naked and staked out, wearing a watch and nothing else. In fact, I had come a long way since that morning, when I thought I was looking at the work of a homicidal rapist. In truth, the crime had taken place in phases, in stages, and the genesis of the crime was a decade old, and what I saw was not what it seemed to all the world to be. What I saw was the end product of a bizarre night that could have ended differently.

I said to Moore, “By the way, did you notice if she had her West Point ring on?”

He replied without hesitation, “Yes, she did. It was a symbolic link to the original rape. It was engraved with her name on the inside, of course, and she intended to give it to her father as a token of some sort—as a way of saying that the bad memories that it symbolized were in his possession, and she did not want to be reminded of them again.”

“I see. . .” My goodness, this was a unique, if somewhat troubled, woman. And it occurred to me that there was some sort of psychosexual thing between father and daughter that was buried deep down there, and probably Moore understood it, and maybe all the Campbells understood it, but I damned sure didn’t want to know about it.

I exchanged glances with Cynthia, and I think she had the same thought that I did. But back to the crime in question. I said to Moore, “Then you both walked out on the range, picked a spot at the base of the closest pop-up target about fifty meters from the road, and she lay down and spread her arms and legs.” I looked at him and asked, “How does it feel to be thought of as a handy eunuch?”

He showed a flash of anger, then controlled it and said, “I have never taken sexual advantage of a patient. No matter how bizarre you may think this therapy was, it was designed to help, to act as a catharsis for both parties. The therapy did not include me having sex with, or raping, my patient when she was tied up.”

“You’re one hell of a guy, an absolute paragon of professional standards. But let me not get myself all pissed-off again. What I want to know from you is what happened after you tied the last knot. Talk to me.”

“All right. . . Well, we spoke a moment, and she thanked me for risking so much to assist her in her plan—”

“Colonel, cut the self-serving crap. Continue.”

He took a deep breath and went on. “I walked back to the humvee, collected the plastic bag of clothes, and also my briefcase, which I had used to carry the tent stakes and rope, and which now held only the hammer, then I went to the latrine sheds behind the bleacher seats and waited.”

“Waited for what? For whom?”

“Well, for her parents, of course. Also, she was concerned that someone else might come by first and see her humvee, so she asked me to stay until her parents got there.”

“And what were you supposed to do if anyone else showed up first? Hide your head in the toilet bowl?”

I felt Cynthia kick me under the table, and she took over the interview. She asked Moore, nicely, “What were you supposed to do, Colonel?”

He looked at her, then at the donut, then at her again and replied, “Well, I had her pistol in the plastic bag. But. . . I don’t know exactly what I was supposed to do, but if anyone else came along and saw her before her parents did, I was prepared to see that no harm came to her.”

“I see. And it was at this point that you used the latrine?”

Moore seemed a little surprised, then nodded. “Yes. . . I had to use the latrine.”

I said to him, “You were so scared, you had to piss. Right? Then you washed your hands like a good soldier, then what?”

He stared at me, then directed his reply to Cynthia. “I stood behind the latrine shed, then I saw the headlights on the road. The vehicle stopped, and when the driver’s side door opened, I could see it was the general. In any case, it was full moonlight, and I recognized Mrs. Campbell’s car, though I didn’t see her.” He added, “I was afraid that General Campbell might not take his wife along.”

“Why?”

“Well. . . without Mrs. Campbell, the situation had the potential to get out of hand. I never thought that the general would he able to approach his own daughter, naked. . . I was fairly certain that, if it were only those two, the sparks would fly.”

Cynthia looked at him a long moment, then asked, “Did you stay around for the exchange between General Campbell and his daughter?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We decided that I should not. As soon as I was sure it was the general, I threw the plastic bag with her clothing onto the latrine roof, then I hurried back along that log trail. It was about a five-minute walk back to my car, and I couldn’t be certain how long this exchange between the two was going to last. I wanted to get my car on the road and head back toward post as soon as possible, which I did.”

Cynthia asked, “And did you see any other vehicle on the road as you were driving back to post?”

“No, I did not.”

Cynthia and I glanced at each other, and I looked at Moore. I said to him, “Colonel, think. Did you see any other headlights going in either direction?”

“No. Absolutely not. That’s what I was concerned about. . .” He added, “I was certain I wasn’t seen.”

“And you saw no one on foot?”

“No.”

“Did you see or hear anything when you were at rifle range five or six? How about at the latrine, the humvee, on the trail?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“So after you left, someone killed her.”

“Yes. I left her alive.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

He looked at me, sort of surprised. “Well, the general, of course. I thought you knew that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why? You know what happened. You know that my part was only to help her re-create the rape scene for her parents to see. He got there—I saw him with my own eyes—and later that morning she was found strangled. Who else could have done it?”

Cynthia asked him, “What did she expect her parents to do? What did she say to you about that?”

Moore thought a moment, then replied, “Well. . . I think she expected them to. . . She didn’t know quite how they were going to deal with what they saw, but she fully expected them to get her out of there no matter how difficult it was for them.” He added, “She knew they wouldn’t leave her there, so they would be forced to confront her, confront her nakedness, her shame and humiliation, and to physically undo her bonds, and thereby psychologically free not only her but themselves.” He looked at us. “Do you understand?”

Cynthia nodded. “Yes, I understand the theory.”

I put in my opinion. “Sounds screwy to me.”

Moore said to me, “If Mrs. Campbell had been there, it might have worked. Certainly, it would not have ended in tragedy.”

“Well, the best-laid plans of shrinks usually go astray.”

He ignored me and said to Cynthia, “Could you at least pass that cup of milk here? I’m very dry.”

“Sure.” Cynthia put the milk near his manacled hands, and he took the cup with both hands and drained it in one long gulp. He put the cup down, and we all stayed silent for a minute or so while Moore savored the milk as if it were a glass of that cream sherry he liked.

Cynthia said to him, “Did she ever indicate to you that she thought her father might come alone, might become enraged, and actually kill her?”

Moore answered quickly, “No! If she had, I would never have agreed to her—to the plan.”

I nodded to myself. I didn’t know if that was true or not, and only two people did. One of them was dead, the other, sitting here, was going to lie about it to mitigate what he’d done. The general himself knew, of course, how he’d felt in that moment when his daughter had hurled the challenge at him. But he couldn’t even tell himself what he felt, and he wasn’t going to tell me. In a way, it didn’t matter anymore.

Cynthia asked the prisoner, “Did it occur to you or Ann Campbell that the general did not come prepared to free his daughter—I don’t mean psychologically—I’m referring to a knife or stake puller.”

Moore replied, “Yes, she considered that. In fact, I stuck a bayonet in the ground. . . you found that, didn’t you?”

Cynthia asked, “Where was the bayonet?”

“Well. . . sort of between her legs. . . The men who raped her at West Point took her bayonet and jammed it in the ground, close to her. . . her vagina, then warned her about not reporting what happened, then she was cut loose.”

Cynthia nodded. “I see. . .”

Moore continued, “She was trying to shock him, of course, shock both of them, and they were going to have to retrieve the bayonet and cut her loose. Then she thought he would offer her his shirt or jacket. I’d left her bra there, and her panties were around her neck, as I’m sure you found them. That’s how they had left her in the woods at West Point. They’d thrown her clothes around, and she’d had to retrieve them in the dark. In this case, however, she intended for her parents to help her back to the humvee, then she intended to tell her father where her clothes were—on top of the latrine—and make him go get them. She’d left her handbag in the humvee with her keys, and it was her intention to get dressed and drive off as if nothing had happened, then return to duty at Post Headquarters. Then she was going to show up at the breakfast meeting she had with her parents, and, at that point, they would all confront the issues.”

Again Cynthia nodded. She asked, “Did she have much hope for this breakfast meeting?”

He considered a moment, then replied, “Yes, I think she did. Depending, of course, on how her father and mother had reacted to the rape scene. Well, as it turned out, Mrs. Campbell had not come along. But I think that Ann realized that whatever forces she unleashed that night, no matter how her father reacted, things could not get any worse. There is a high risk with shock therapy, but when you’ve nothing left to lose, when you’ve hit bottom, then you’re ready to gamble everything and hope for the best.”

Cynthia nodded again, the way they tell you to do in the interrogation manual. Be positive, affirming. Don’t appear stone-faced, or judgmental, or skeptical when a suspect is rolling. Just keep nodding, like a shrink during a therapy session. Perhaps Moore recognized the technique, which was ironic, but in his present mental and physical state, all he wanted was a smile, a nod, and the stupid donut. Cynthia asked him, “Did she tell you why she had hope for this meeting? I mean, why this time, after all those years?”

“Well. . . she was finally ready to forgive. She was prepared to say anything that morning, to promise anything that would make things right again. She was tired of the war, and she felt the catharsis even before she’d gone out to the rifle range. She was hopeful, almost giddy, and to tell you the truth, she was happy and close to peace for the first time since I’d known her.” He took a long breath and looked at us, then said, “I know what you think of me, and I don’t blame you, but I had only her best interests at heart. She had seduced me, too, in another way, and I went along with what I knew was. . . unorthodox. But if you could have seen how optimistic she was, how almost girlish she was acting—nervous, frightened, but filled with hope that this was the end of the long nightmare. . . In fact, however, I knew that the damage she had done to herself and others was not going to disappear just like that, just because she was going to say to her parents, ‘I love you, and I forgive you if you forgive me’. . . but she believed this, and she had me believing it too. . . But she miscalculated. . . I miscalculated her father’s rage. . . and the irony is, she thought she was so close to being happy again. . . and she kept rehearsing what she was going to say to them that night. . . and at breakfast. . .”

Then the oddest thing happened. Two tears rolled down Moore’s cheeks, and he put his face in his hands.

Cynthia stood and put her hand on his shoulder and motioned me to come with her. We went out into the corridor, and she said to me, “Let him go, Paul.”

“Hell, no.”

“You got your jailhouse interview. Let him go sleep in his office, attend the funeral tomorrow. We’ll deal with him tomorrow or the next day. He’s not going anywhere.”

I shrugged. “All right. God, I’m getting soft.” I went to the guard office and spoke to the sergeant. I filled out a confinement release form and signed it—I hate confinement release forms—then I walked out to the corridor where Cynthia was waiting for me.

I said, “He’s free, but restricted to post.”

“Good. It was the right thing.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Paul. . . anger is not going to change anything that happened, and vindictiveness is not going to bring justice. That’s the lesson you should learn from this. Ann Campbell never did. But what happened to her should at least be a useful example of that.”

“Thank you.”

We walked to our office, and I sat at the desk, dividing the diary printouts between Cynthia and myself. Before we began to read, I said to her, “What happened to the bayonet?”

She replied, “I don’t know. If General Campbell never approached his daughter, then he never saw it, and never knew that he could have cut her loose. He told us two versions of that story—one was that he tried to get her free by pulling at the stakes, the other that he couldn’t bring himself to get that close.” She added, “He actually never got that close.”

“Right. So the next person on the scene—let’s say it was Kent—saw the bayonet, and Kent had the same choice—if it was Kent. Then came the Fowlers, who had their own knife. . . but she was already dead. Then came Sergeant St. John, then MP Casey. . . I don’t know, but it’s interesting that whoever pulled the bayonet out of the ground kept it. . .” I noodled this awhile, then said, “If we accept the general’s second version, that he never went near her, then it wasn’t him. The killer had no reason to take the bayonet. Neither did St. John or MP Casey.”

“Are you saying the Fowlers took it?”

“I’m saying that when the Fowlers found her dead, and saw that the means of freeing her was right there between her legs, if you will, they realized that the general had lied to them, that the general had not tried to free her, as I’m sure he told them he did. That, in fact, as General Campbell told us truthfully in the second version, he had kept his distance from her, and they had shouted to each other. So when the Fowlers saw the bayonet, they realized that the general could have freed her, but did not, and as a result, she was dead. Not wanting to tell him this, or have him find out through the official report, they took the bayonet and discarded it. This was another favor they were doing for him, but they weren’t doing us any favors.”

Cynthia thought a moment, then said, “Yes, that’s probably what happened.” She looked at me. “And her West Point ring?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“The Fowlers again?”

“Possible. Another favor, though I don’t get it. Maybe the killer took it as a sentimental remembrance. I don’t think MP Casey or St. John would do something so ghoulish, but you just never know what people are going to do in the presence of a dead body. Then again, maybe the general got a little closer to his daughter than he said. He took the bayonet, considered cutting her loose, then changed his mind, took her ring off, and told her she was dishonoring her uniform, or lack of same, and left—then had a change of heart and drove to the Fowlers. Who knows? Who cares at this point?”

“I do. I have to know how people act, what goes on in their hearts. It’s important, Paul, because it’s what makes this job more than what’s in the manual. Do you want to become like Karl Hellmann?”

I forced a smile. “Sometimes, yes.”

“Then you’ll never again be able to determine a motive or understand who is good and who is evil.”

“Sounds okay to me.”

“Don’t be contrary.”

“Speaking of motives, of good and evil, of passion, jealousy, and hate, let’s give this stuff a quick read.”

We read for a while and discovered what William Kent’s sexual preferences were, but more important, I discovered that Ann Campbell considered him a growing problem. I said to Cynthia, “Here’s an entry from last month.” I read aloud, “ ‘Bill is becoming possessive again. I thought we solved that problem. He showed up here tonight when Ted Bowes was here. Ted and I hadn’t gone downstairs yet, and Bill and he had a drink in the living room, and Bill was nasty to him and pulled rank on him. Finally, Ted left, and Bill and I had words. He says he’s prepared to leave his wife and resign his commission if I promise to live with him or marry him or something. He knows why I do what I do with him and the other men, but he’s starting to think there’s more to it with us. He’s pressing me, and I tell him to stop. Tonight, he doesn’t even want sex. He just wants to talk. I let him talk, but I don’t like what he’s saying. Why do some men think they have to be knights in shining armor? I don’t need a knight. I am my own knight, I am my own dragon, and I live in my own castle. Everyone else are props and bit players. Bill is not very cognitive. He doesn’t understand, so I don’t try to explain. I did tell him I’d consider his offer, but in the meantime, would he only come here with an appointment? This put him into a rage, and he actually slapped me, then ripped off my clothes and raped me on the living room floor. When he was done, he seemed to feel better, then left in a sulk. I realize he could be dangerous, but I don’t care, and, in fact, of all of them, he’s the only one except for Wes who has actually threatened me or hit me, and it’s the only thing that makes Bill Kent interesting.’ ”

I looked up from the paper, and Cynthia and I exchanged glances. Clearly, Colonel Kent was dangerous. There’s nothing more dangerous than a prim and proper stuffed shirt who falls in lust and gets obsessed. I was about to read another printout aloud when there was a knock on the door, and it opened. I expected to see Warrant Officer Kiefer, but it was Colonel Kent, and I wondered how long he’d been standing there.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

I gathered up the printouts and slipped them in a folder. Kent stood there and watched but said nothing.

Kent had his helmet on, what we call cover in the military. You’re usually uncovered indoors, unless you’re armed, then you must be covered. Interesting regulation probably having to do with keeping your hands free if you’re armed, or letting people know at a distance that you’re armed. Kent, in fact, was wearing his sidearm.

So was I, and so was Cynthia, but ours were hidden, and we didn’t have to wear hats to give us away.

The office was dark, lit only by two desk lamps, and I could hardly see Kent’s features from where I was sitting, but I thought he looked sort of grim, perhaps subdued, and I remembered that he’d gone to the chapel to view the body.

He spoke in a quiet, almost toneless voice. He said, “Why was Specialist Baker snooping around?”

I stood and replied, “She’s not snooping around. She’s gathering some items that I asked for.”

“This is my command. Anything you need, you ask me.”

Quite right, actually. Except, in this case, the items had to do with the commander. I said, “It was just a minor administrative thing, Colonel.”

“Nothing in this building is minor.”

“Well, parking and traffic tickets are minor.”

“Why do you need those?”

“It’s a standard procedure. You must know that it’s to establish if any vehicles were anyplace that—”

“I know that. And you wanted MP patrol reports, the desk sergeant’s log, and tapes of the radio transmissions for that night. Are you looking for any vehicle in particular?”

Actually, yes. Your vehicle. But I replied, “No. Where is Baker?”

“I relieved her of her duties and ordered her out of the building.”

“I see. Well, I’m going to ask you, officially, to rescind that order.”

“I’ve assigned you another clerk. I will not tolerate any breach of internal security by anyone, for any reason. You have broken the rules, and perhaps the law. I’ll take this up with the staff judge advocate tomorrow.”

“That’s certainly your right, Colonel. Though I think Colonel Weems has other things on his mind at the moment.”

Kent seemed to know what I was talking about and replied, “The Uniform Code of Military Justice is not dependent on any single individual, and everyone here is subject to that law, including both of you.”

“That’s very true. I take full responsibility for what Baker did.”

Cynthia stood now and said, “It’s actually my responsibility, Colonel. I ordered Baker to do that.”

Kent looked at her and replied, “All you had to do was ask me first.”

“Yes, sir.”

Having taken the offensive, Kent continued his attack, though he seemed to have no enthusiasm for it. He said to me, “I didn’t say anything when you had Colonel Moore confined to jail, but I will make an official report regarding your treatment of him. You don’t treat officers that way.” Obviously, Kent was thinking into the future, and his complaint had nothing to do with Colonel Moore.

I replied, “Officers don’t usually act that way. He abused his rank, his profession, and his office.”

“Nevertheless, he could have been restricted to post and given suitable quarters until an official inquiry was completed, and charges recommended or not recommended.”

“You know, Colonel, I personally think that the higher you are, the harder you should fall. Young enlisted personnel who screw up because of ignorance, immaturity, or high spirits get the book thrown at them. I think that mature officers who screw up should be made an example of.”

“But rank still has its privilege, and one of those privileges is that an officer should not be subject to pretrial confinement, Mister Brenner.”

“But when you break the law, your punishment should be in direct proportion to your rank, your job, and your knowledge of the law. An officer’s rights and privileges carry a heavy responsibility, and any breach of duty and discipline should carry a proportionately heavy punitive burden.” I’m talking about you, Bill, and you know it.

He replied, “A soldier’s past performance has to be factored into that. If a person has performed honorably for twenty years—as Colonel Moore has—then he should be treated with honor and respect. A court-martial will decide his punishment, if any.”

I looked at Kent for a long moment, then responded, “An officer, I believe, having been given special privileges and having taken an oath of office, has an obligation to fully confess his crimes and to relieve a court-martial board of the unpleasant duty of convening for a public trial. In fact, I sort of like the ancient tradition of an officer falling on his sword. But since no one has the balls for that anymore, I think that an officer who has committed a capital crime or has dishonored himself and his uniform should at least consider blowing his brains out.”

Kent replied, “I think you’re crazy.”

“Probably. Maybe I should talk to a shrink. Charlie Moore could square me away. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve signed a release order for him, and he should be gone by now, probably riding around looking for a place to sleep tonight. You should try the Psy-Ops School officers’ quarters if you want to find him. He thinks, by the way, that the general murdered his own daughter. I know the general didn’t. So whoever did murder her will have to decide if he is going to let Moore tell the FBI what he suspects, and allow that suspicion to hang over the head of a basically honorable man. Or will this person who committed the crime redeem his honor and confess?”

Kent and I looked at each other, then Kent said, “I think whoever killed her didn’t think it was a crime. You like to talk about honor, ancient customs, and the rights and duties of an officer. Well, I’ll bet that the murderer feels no reason to bother the military justice system with this act of. . . of personal justice and honor. There’s your philosophy looked at from the other point of view.”

“True enough. Unfortunately, these are the legalistic times we live in, and my personal feelings are as unacceptable as yours. I’ve investigated homicides for over ten years, Colonel, and you’ve seen enough of them, too. In almost all cases, the murderer thinks he or she was justified. Civilian juries are starting to buy it, too. Bottom line on that, though, is if you felt it was justified, then let’s hear it.” Somehow, we had gotten from the general to the almost specific, depending on how one interpreted the personal pronoun “you.”

Kent looked at me, then at Cynthia, then said, “I went to the chapel earlier. I’m not a religious man, but I said a prayer for her. She looked very peaceful, by the way. I guess that’s the undertaker’s art, but I’d like to think that her soul is free and her spirit is happy again. . .” He turned and left.

Cynthia and I sat in the silence of the dark office for a few seconds, then Cynthia spoke. “Well, we know where Ann Campbell’s anguish and torment are residing at the moment.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll confess?”

“I don’t know. Depends on who wins the battle he’s going to fight between now and dawn.”

“I don’t believe in suicide, Paul, and you had no right to even mention it to him.”

I shrugged. “The thought of suicide is a great consolation, and it’s gotten people through many a bad night.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, Nietzsche.”

“Sick.” She stood. “Let’s find Baker.”

“Kiefer.” I stood also, took the folder with the printouts, and we left the office and the building and went out into the night.

Outside, on the steps of the provost marshal’s building, I could see heat lightning in the distance, and a wind was picking up. “Storm coming.”

“Typical Georgia,” Cynthia replied. She said, “If it had stormed two nights ago. . .”

“Right. But more to the point, if men didn’t rape, and if institutions didn’t try to cover their institutional asses, and if parents and children could communicate, and if revenge wasn’t so sweet, and if monogamy was a biological imperative, and if everyone treated everyone else the way they would like to be treated, then we’d be out of a job, and they could use the cell blocks to breed bird dogs.”

Cynthia put her arm through mine, and we walked down the steps to the Blazer.

We got into the vehicle as the first few drops of rain fell, and she asked, “How will we find Kiefer?”

“Kiefer will find us.”

“Where will she find us?”

“Where she knows we will be. The VOQ.” I started the car, put it into gear, and turned on the headlights.

The rain got heavier, and I put on the wipers. We drove in silence through the nearly deserted streets of the main post. My civilian clock said ten to midnight, but, despite the hour and the short sleep the night before, I felt fine. Within a few minutes, I pulled into the VOQ lot, which was when the sky burst open, and the rain was so heavy I could hardly hear myself say to Cynthia, “Do you want me to drive you to the door?”

She called back over the beating rain, “No. Do you want me to drive you to the door?”

There’s an upside to modern women; they don’t melt in the rain. Actually, my suit looked far more expensive than her outfit, and I nearly took her up on it, but after a minute of waiting for the rain to slacken, we dashed for it.

The lot was flooded, compliments of the Army Corps of Engineers, and by the time we got to the door, less than fifty meters away, we were soaked. Actually, it felt good.

In the small lobby, the CQ, a young corporal, informed me, “Some Midland cop came by and left some luggage here for you, sir.”

I shook myself off. “Right.” My buddy Burt was showing me he was true to his word. “Where is it?” I asked. “In my room, all unpacked for me, pressed and hung?”

“No, sir, it’s over there on the floor.”

“How many stars does this place have, Corporal?”

“Well, if we got one more, we’d be up to zero.”

“Right. Any messages?”

“Two.” He handed me two message slips. Kiefer and Seiver. I went over to my luggage, which consisted of two civilian suitcases, an Army duffel bag, and an overnight bag. Cynthia offered to help and took a suitcase and the overnight bag. Together we climbed the interior staircase, and, within a few minutes, we were in my room and dumping the luggage on the floor.

Cynthia caught her breath and said, “I’m going to change. Are you going to return those calls?”

“Yes.” I threw my wet jacket over a chair, sat on the bed, and slipped my shoes off as I dialed the number Kiefer had left. A woman answered, “Five-four-five MP Company, CQ speaking.”

“This is Colonel Hellmann,” I said, as much for kicks as for identification, “may I speak to Specialist Baker, please.”

“Yes, sir, hold on.”

Cynthia had left, and as I waited with the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder, I peeled off my wet shirt and tie and got out of my socks and trousers. Baker-Kiefer had chosen to live in the barracks, which was good for cover, but inconvenient for life. I knew that the CQ runner had gone off to get her, which was the Army’s answer to private telephones in each room.

The line clicked, and I heard her voice, “Specialist Baker here, sir.”

“Can you talk?”

“No, sir, but I’ll call you back from a pay phone here as soon as one opens up. VOQ?”

“Right.” I hung up and sat on the floor, opening my suitcases and looking for my robe. That bastard Yardley had stuffed everything together, including dirty laundry, shoes, and shaving gear. “Bastard.”

“Who?”

I looked over my shoulder and saw that Cynthia was back in the room, wearing a silk kimono and drying her hair with a towel. I said, “I’m looking for my robe.”

“Here, let’s get you organized.” And she began sorting and hanging things in the closet, and folding things, and so on.

Women have this incredible knack with fabrics, and they make it look easy, but I can’t even get a pair of pants to hang straight on a hanger.

I felt a little silly in my undershorts, rooting around on the floor, but I finally found my robe jammed into the duffel bag, and I slipped it on as the phone rang. I said to Cynthia, “Kiefer calling back.”

I picked up the phone and said, “Brenner here.”

But it was not Kiefer, it was Cal Seiver. He said to me, “Paul, I studied that footprint chart until I went blind, and I studied plaster casts until I got a hernia. I can’t find any further evidence that Colonel Kent was at the scene earlier than he says he was. I figured, since we know what we’re looking for now, I could have the footprint team do it again tomorrow, but this rain is a washout.”

“Did you leave the tarps and pavilion there?”

“No. Maybe I should have, but Colonel Kent said he’d take care of scene security and cover the whole area with rolled canvas. But I was out there a little while ago, and there’s no canvas down, and not even an MP to secure the scene. The crime scene is ruined, polluted.”

“Yup. Sure is.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Did you get the cast off to Oakland?”

“Yeah. Chopper to Gillem, and they’ll find a military flight to the left coast. I’ll hear something by morning.”

“Fine.”

“You still want the latent-footprint team?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s all muck out there.”

“Okay, forget it. We got lucky enough for one case. Where’s Grace?”

“Glued to her screen. She wanted me to tell you that she pulled up a recent letter from the deceased to Mrs. William Kent—you were interested in Kent.”

“Still am. What did the letter say?”

“Basically, it said that Colonel Kent was making more of a platonic friendship than he should, and would Mrs. Kent be so kind as to speak to her husband before she—Captain Campbell—had to make an official complaint. Captain Campbell suggested counseling for the Kents.” He added, “Wouldn’t want one of those to go to my wife.”

“What was the date of the letter?”

“Hold on.”

I watched Cynthia separating underwear from toilet articles. That bastard Yardley.

Cal came back on the line. “Ten August.”

That would be eleven days ago, and I assumed that Mrs. Kent had decamped Bethany Hill upon receipt of that letter. Obviously, too, the letter was written as a result of Kent’s unscheduled visit to Ann Campbell’s house, not to mention his bad manners in throwing her boyfriend of the evening out, and raping his hostess. My goodness. So Ann Campbell had decided to do something about Kent, but she was handling unstable explosives, and that letter was the detonator. I said to Cal, “Need a printout of that. Hold it for me.”

“Right. Also, three gentlemen of the Federal Bureau of Investigation arrived about a half hour after you left.”

“Were they charming?”

“Couldn’t have been nicer. Complimenting me on the setup here, congratulating me on every fucking fingerprint I took. They poked around and grilled me for about an hour. Grace played possum on a cot. One of the guys was messing with the computer, but the disk was in the cot with Grace.” He added, “They said they’d be back in the morning with their own forensic people.”

“Okay. Turn it all over to them at noon. Anything else?”

“Nope. It’s late, raining, too wet to plow, and I’m too tired to dance.”

“Right. Get on the footprint guy in Oakland. This case is hanging on the question of who stepped on whose bootprint. Talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up and briefed Cynthia while I helped her get me straightened out.

I’ve had live-in friends on occasion, and I enjoy the presence of a woman in the house for brief periods of time. They fall into two categories: the organizers and the slobs. There’s probably a third category—the naggers, who try to get you to do things, but I’ve never run into one of those. Oddly, I have no preference regarding organizers or slobs, as long as they don’t try to pick my clothes for me. Basically, all women are nurturers and healers, and all men are mental patients to varying degrees. It works fine if people stick to their fated roles. But nobody does, so you have six or seven good months, then you discover exactly what it is you hate about each other, then you run the moving-in and unpacking tape in reverse and watch the door slam.

Cynthia folded the last pair of socks and said to me, “Who does your laundry and ironing?”

“Oh, I have a sort of housekeeper. Farm woman, keeps an eye on things when I’m gone.”

“Are you the helpless type?”

“Well, yes, with fabrics and stuff, and needles and thread, but I can field-strip an M-16 rifle blindfolded and have it together again within three minutes.”

“So can I.”

“Good. I have one at home you can clean for me.”

The phone rang, and I motioned to Cynthia to answer it. It was Kiefer, and I went into the bathroom and dried my hair with a towel. Cynthia had laid out my toilet articles, and I combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and slipped my shorts off under my robe. Second greatest feeling in the world.

I ditched the shorts in the trash can and went back into the bedroom. Cynthia was sitting at the edge of the bed, listening on the phone, her legs crossed, rubbing her foot with her free hand. Cynthia, I noted in passing, had good legs.

She looked up and smiled at me, then said into the phone, “Okay, thanks. Good work.” She hung up and stood. “Well, Kiefer turned up one interesting tidbit. Seems that Mrs. Kent drives a black Jeep Cherokee, and that Mrs. Kent is known in MP radio circles as the Bat Lady, and the Jeep is called the Batmobile. Kiefer heard one reference on the master radio tape to the Batmobile. An unidentified MP on mobile patrol said, ‘Niner-niner, Batmobile with Randy Six parked in library lot. Heads up.’ ” Cynthia added, “That’s a typical officer-in-the-area kind of warning to the troops. Also, in case you never noticed, the library is across the road from Post Headquarters.”

“Right. What time was that?”

“At 0032. And at about 0100, Ann Campbell left Post Headquarters, got into the humvee, and drove out to rifle range six.” Cynthia asked me, “What was Kent doing in his wife’s car across the street?”

“What every lovesick jerk does. Just sitting there watching the light in the window.”

“Maybe he had something more malevolent in mind.”

“Maybe. Could be, though, that he was just trying to decide if he should go into the building and say hello. Or he was waiting for St. John to leave on some business. Or he was waiting for the object of his desire to do the same, which she in fact did.”

Cynthia tucked her feet under her, sort of like the lotus position. I don’t know how people can sit like that. I sat in the only chair, which faced the bed, and noticed that she’d kept her panties on. She modestly adjusted her kimono. I said, “If my wife had gotten a letter like that from my girlfriend, I’d be damned angry, and I’d keep my distance from the girlfriend. On the other hand, if my wife had left town because of the letter, and my girlfriend was working late, I might not he able to resist the temptation to try to make contact.”

“Sounds like you’ve been there.”

“Hey, we’ve all been there.”

“Not I,” said Cynthia, “except there was this guy once in Brussels, and I would make sure I bumped into him wherever he went, and the jerk finally figured it out.”

“The jerk probably figured it out sooner than you think, but you looked like trouble.”

“No comment.” She thought a moment—I guess the lotus position lends itself to contemplation—then said, “He followed her, obviously.”

“Right. But he may also have confronted her in the headquarters parking lot first. We don’t know.”

“But how could he follow her without her seeing his vehicle on the range road?”

“It was his wife’s vehicle.”

“Would Ann know Mrs. Kent’s vehicle?”

I replied, “Every girlfriend knows every wife’s car. But there’re enough Jeep Cherokees on this post to transport a battalion, so it wouldn’t stand out. Fact is, the Fowlers own a Cherokee, though it’s red.”

“Still, Paul, how far down Rifle Range Road could Kent follow her without her becoming concerned about the headlights behind her?”

“Not too far. But far enough.” I stood and rummaged around in a side pocket of my overnight bag, coming up with a marking pen. There was a blank expanse of white wall between the windows, and I began drawing. “Okay, the road goes south from main post and dead-ends at the last rifle range, a distance of about ten miles. There are only two turnoffs—the first, here, is General Pershing Road, coming off to the left; the second, a mile farther down to the right, is Jordan Field Road, here.” I drew a road on the wall. “Okay, he follows her at a normal distance with his headlights on, sees that she doesn’t turn left on General Pershing Road, and he keeps following. She also doesn’t turn off on Jordan Field Road, but he knows that he has to turn off there, or she will realize she’s being followed. Right?”

“So far.”

“So he turns toward Jordan Field, and she sees this in her rearview mirror and breathes easy. But Kent now knows that she’s bottled up on the range road and can’t go anywhere except to the end and back. Correct?”

She looked at my scribbles on the wall and nodded. “Sounds right. What does he do then? Follow without lights? Walk? Wait?”

“Well… what would I do? It’s a moonlit night, and, even without headlights, the vehicle can be seen at a few hundred meters. Also, there’s the noise of the engine, and the interior lights when you open the door, and even the brake lights could be seen at certain angles. So for maximum stealth, you have to walk—or jog. So he puts the Cherokee in four-wheel drive and pulls into the pines where Jordan Field Road and Rifle Range Road intersect. He gets out and heads south on Rifle Range Road on foot.”

“This is supposition.”

“Partly. Partly it’s intuition and detection, and partly it’s just the logical solution to a standard field problem. We’ve all been to the same schools, and we’ve all been through these night exercises. You have to consider your mission, the weather, distances, time, security, and all that, and you have to know, for instance, when to stay with your motor transportation, and when to dismount and hump the bush.”

“Okay, he dismounts, and walks or jogs.”

“Right. By this time, it’s somewhere between 0115 and 0130 hours. Colonel Moore has already traveled the road and is waiting for Ann Campbell. That much we know for sure. General Campbell has not yet received the phone call. Kent is double-timing along the road, looking for the headlights of the humvee up ahead. But, at some point, Ann turned her lights off and has now reached rifle range six and has met Colonel Moore.” I put an “X” to mark rifle range six.

Cynthia, still sitting on the bed, seemed unimpressed with my cartography. She asked, “What is Bill Kent thinking about now? What is his purpose?”

“Well… he’s very curious about why she’s out there alone, though he knows she could be just checking the last guard post. If this is the case, he will meet her coming back, stand in the road, and confront her. He had a taste of rape a few weeks ago, and he might be thinking of doing it again.”

“She’s armed.”

“So is he.” I added, “Even in modern relationships, you should never pull a gun on your date. Especially if she’s armed, too. However, he thinks he can handle it. Maybe he just wants to talk.”

“Maybe. But I wouldn’t want to meet an ex-lover on a lonely road. I’d run him over.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. But he doesn’t know how women think. He can’t relate to how she might feel about him following her and his waylaying her. All he knows is that they’re lovers, and this is special to him. His wife’s out of town, and he’s a horny, lovesick jerk. He wants to talk. Really he wants to have sex with her, one way or the other. He is what we call sexually obsessed.”

“So he walks down the lonely, dark road, looking for her humvee.”

“Right. The other thing that he gets into his mind is that she’s out there for a sexual rendezvous with someone else. This would not be out of character for Ann Campbell, and Bill Kent’s heart is pounding at the thought of surprising her with a lover, and he’s nuts with jealousy. Sound right to you?”