The General's Daughter (16 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any nonmilitary footwear?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I see that.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? Don’t waste your time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

“Please.”

Cal turned and walked away.

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

“Correct.”

“Then we look for a perpetrator.”

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

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

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

“Just a thought. Between us.”

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

“Where was the bare footprint?”

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

I nodded. “How was the rope cut?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“I begged for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was Colonel Kent here?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“What did he want?”

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

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

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

“Not even the general.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

Cal nodded. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How about the owner’s name?”

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

“Open the sink traps, too.”

“Do I need to be told that?”

“I guess not.”

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

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

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

“Do you forget to breathe?”

“Once in a while.”

“I don’t forget anything.”

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

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