The General's Daughter (19 page)

“Adjust your rearview mirror.”

“Cut it out, Paul.”

“Sorry.”

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

“Yes. Cut it out.”

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

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

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

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

“And Chief Yardley?”

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

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

“He knows his business?”

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

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

“So did Kent. So did we.”

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

“I was sleeping,” Cynthia said coolly.

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

“I’d rather be a murder suspect.”

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

“Yes,” she replied, “but it’s drier.”

“Did you ever think about going home?”

“Sometimes. How about you?”

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

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

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

“I like what I do,” she replied.

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

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

“Well, at least you make good coffee.”

“Fuck off, Paul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if Yardley finds that room?”

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

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

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

“Is this Paul Brenner speaking?”

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

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

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

“Thanks. But I have nothing to hide.”

“Are you married?”

“None of your business.”

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be all right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you know what I mean.”

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

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

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

Why do I try to figure these people out?

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

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

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

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

“The papers say he does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir,” I said.

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