The General's Daughter (21 page)

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

“I spoke to the provost marshal.”

“And he told you how she was found?”

“That’s correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Good day, Mr. Brenner, Ms. Sunhill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Add a suspect,” I said.

C
ynthia asked, “Psy-Ops School?”

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

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

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

“Do you mean personally or professionally?”

“Both.”

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

“I’m asking
you.
”

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

“Thank you. And personally?”

“Personally, I enjoy your company.”

“And I enjoy yours.”

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

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

She asked, “But who
is
he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh…”

“Regarding the death of Captain Campbell.”

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

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

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

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

“Well…”

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

“Of course. Where—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“Just a wild guess.”

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

“Similar to what?”

“To what happened to Captain Campbell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you knew her fairly well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what?”

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

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

“That’s confidential.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. But not well.”

“Had you met him prior to Fort Hadley?”

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

“We?”

“Ann and I.”