The General's Daughter (23 page)

Anyway, the jockey shorts were small, not medium. Women can be petty. I got dressed, complete with Glock 9mm accessories,
and went out into the hall, where I saw Cynthia coming out of the next room. I asked her, “Is that your room?”

“No, I’m cleaning it for a total stranger.”

“Couldn’t you get me a room down the hall or something?”

“Actually, this place is full of summer reservists doing their two weeks. I had to pull my CID routine to get you
any
room.” She added, “I don’t mind sharing a bathroom with you.”

We got outside and into her Mustang. She said, “Rifle range six?”

“Right.” She was still wearing the black pants and white blouse, but had put on running shoes and a white sweater. The flashlight
I asked her to bring was on the console between the seats. I asked her, “Are you carrying?”

“Yes. Why? Are you expecting trouble?”

“A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.”

“Nonsense.”

The sun had set, a full moon was rising, and I hoped that the conditions at this hour were close enough to those of the early
morning hours out on the rifle ranges to get a sense of what may have happened, and to give me inspiration.

We drove past the post movie theater, where a crowd was letting out, then past the NCO Club, where the drinks are better than
in the Officers’ Club, the food is cheaper, and the women are friendlier.

Cynthia said, “I went to the provost marshal’s office and saw Colonel Kent.”

“Good initiative. Anything new?”

“A few things. First, he wants you to go easy on Colonel Moore. Apparently, Moore complained about your aggressive behavior.”

“I wonder who Kent complains to.”

“Here’s more good news. You had a message from Karl, and I took the liberty of calling him at home. He’s royally pissed-off
about someone called Dalbert Elkins, who he says you transformed from a criminal into a government witness with immunity.”

“I hope someone does the same for me someday. Anything else?”

“Yes. Karl, round two. He has to report to the judge advocate general at the Pentagon tomorrow, and he’d like a more comprehensive
report than the one you filed earlier today.”

“Well, he can wing it. I’m busy.”

“I typed out a report and faxed it to his home.”

“Thank you. What did the report say?”

“There’s a copy of it on your desk. Do you trust me or not?”

“Of course. It’s just that if this case goes bad, you may be safe if you don’t have your name on things.”

“Right. I signed your name to it.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. Let me worry about my career”

“Fine. Anything from forensic?”

“Yes. The hospital sent a preliminary protocol to the provost marshal’s office. Death occurred no earlier than midnight and
no later than 0400 hours.”

“I know that.” The autopsy report, known for some unexplained reason as the protocol, generally picked up where forensic left
off, though there was some overlap, which is fine. The more ghouls, the better.

“Also, death was definitely a result of asphyxia. There were internal traumas discovered in her neck and throat, and she’d
bitten her tongue. All consistent with strangulation.”

I’ve seen autopsies, and, as you can imagine, they are not pleasant things to watch. Being murdered and naked is undignified
enough, but being sliced up and examined by a team of strangers is the ultimate violation. “What else?” I asked.

“Lividity and rigor were consistent with the position of the body as it was found, so it appears that death occurred there,
and there was no movement of the body from another location. Also, there were no other wounds aside from the ligature around
her neck, no other trauma to exposed tissue or to bones, brain, vagina, anus, mouth, and so forth.”

I nodded, but made no response. “What else?”

Cynthia gave me a rundown of stomach contents, bladder and intestine contents, conditions of the internal organs, and anatomical
findings. I’m glad I hadn’t finished that cheese-burger, because my stomach was getting jumpy. Cynthia said, “There
was
some erosion of the cervix, which could be consistent with an abortion, a prior disease, or perhaps insertions of large objects.”

“Okay… is that it?”

“That’s it for now. The coroner hasn’t done microscopic examinations of tissue and fluids yet, or toxology, which they want
to do independent of the forensic lab.” Cynthia added, “She didn’t keep any secrets from them, did she?”

“Only one.”

“Right. Also, there were some preliminary notes from Cal. They finished the serology tests and found no drugs or poisons in
the blood, just a trace of alcohol. They found saliva at the corners of her mouth, running downward, consistent with the position
of her body. They found perspiration in various places, and they found dried tears running downward from the eyes, again consistent
with the position of the body. All three liquids have been identified as belonging to the victim.”

“Tears?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “Lots of tears. She’d been crying.”

“I missed that…”

“That’s all right. They didn’t.”

“Right… but tears are not consistent with the lack of wounds, and not necessarily consistent with a strangulation.”

“No,” Cynthia agreed, “but it is consistent with being tied up by a madman and being told you’re going to die.” She added,
“What is not consistent with this is your theory that she was a voluntary participant. So maybe you have to change your theory.”

“I’m fine-tuning my theory.” I thought a moment, then said, “You’re a woman. What made her cry?”

“I don’t know, Paul. I wasn’t there.”

“But we have to get ourselves there. This was not a woman who would cry easily.”

Cynthia nodded. “I agree with that. So whatever made her cry was perhaps an emotional trauma.”

“Right. Someone she knew made her cry without even touching her.”

“Perhaps. But she may have made herself cry. We don’t know at this point.”

“Right.” Forensic evidence is objective. That is, dried tears were present in large quantities. The tears belonged to the
victim. They flowed from the eyes toward the ears, indicating that they flowed when the body was in a supine position. End
of statement. Exit Cal Seiver, enter Paul Brenner. The tears indicated
crying.
Therefore,
who
made her cry?
What
made her cry?
Why
did she cry?
When
did she cry? Is this important to know? Somehow, I thought it was.

Cynthia said, “Trace fibers were from her own underwear and from BDUs that are probably her own but could be from another
person. There were no other fibers found. Also, the only hair found on and around the body was her own.”

“How about the hair in the latrine sink?”

“That was not hers. It was black, undyed, from a Caucasian, came from the head, probably fell out, not pulled or cut, and
from the shaft they determined that it was blood type O. There were no roots, so no genetic markers, and the sex can’t be
determined conclusively, but Cal’s guess, based on the length and the lack of any dye, conditioner, styling preparations,
and so forth, is that it belonged to a man. It was characterized as curly, not straight or wavy.”

“I just met a guy with that kind of hair.”

“Yes. We should get a strand of Colonel Moore’s hair for microscopic comparison.”

“Right. What else?”

“Well, there was no semen found on her skin or in any of her orifices. Also, there was no trace of any type of lubrication
in her vagina or anus that would suggest a penetration by a foreign object, or by a lubricated condom, for instance.”

I nodded. “No sexual intercourse took place.”

“It could have taken place if a man dressed in the same BDUs she wore got on top of her, leaving no body hair, saliva, or
perspiration of his own. Using a condom without lubrication, or using no condom, he penetrated her but did not ejaculate.
That could have happened.”

“But it didn’t. No sexual intercourse took place. Transference and exchange has got to occur to some extent. Even a microscopic
extent.”

“I tend to agree. But we can’t rule out some sort of genital stimulation. If the rope around her neck was to induce sexual
asphyxiation, as you suggested, then it follows that genital stimulation was supposed to take place.”

“That would be logical. But I’ve given up on logic in this case. Okay, how about fingerprints?”

“None on her body. They couldn’t lift any complete or distinct prints from the nylon rope, but they got several from the tent
pegs.”

“Are they good enough to run through the FBI?”

“No, but they’re good enough to match to known prints. In fact, some of the prints were Ann Campbell’s. Some were not and
may belong to the other person.”

“I hope so.”

Cynthia said, “So she handled the tent pegs, which means she was forced to assist the perpetrator, or she voluntarily assisted
the perpetrator, as in a consensual act of sexual fantasy or whatever.”

“I lean toward the latter.”

“I would, too, except what made her cry?”

“Happiness. Ecstasy.” I pointed out, “Crying is an empirically observable event. The cause of the crying is open to different
interpretations.” I added, “Some people do cry after orgasm.”

“I’ve heard. So anyway, we know a lot more than we did at sunrise, but in some ways we know a lot less. Some of this stuff
is not fitting together in the normal way.”

“That’s an understatement. Any fingerprints from the humvee?”

“Lots. They were still working on that and on the latrines. Cal took the humvee and the lower bleacher seats to the hangar.
He’s set up shop there.”

“Good.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’ve only had two homicide cases that I’ve solved to my satisfaction where I’ve failed
to get a conviction. And those two involved bright people who took care not to leave any forensic evidence behind. I don’t
want this to be one of those cases.”

“Well, Paul, as they say, long before there was scientific evidence, there were confessions. Often the perpetrator needs to
confess and is just waiting for us to ask him to do so.”

“That’s what they said during the Inquisition, the Salem witch trials, and the Moscow show trials. I’d like to see some evidence.”

We drove through the outskirts of the main post, neither of us saying much. I rolled down my window, letting in the cool night
air. “Do you like Georgia?”

She glanced at me. “I never had a permanent duty station here. Just here and gone. But I like it. How about you?”

“Brings back memories.”

We left the main post, and Cynthia found Rifle Range Road without too much difficulty. The moon was still below the trees,
and it was dark except for our headlights on the road. You could hear crickets, tree frogs, locusts, and all sorts of other
nocturnal things that make weird sounds, and the smell of the pines was overwhelming, reminding me of Whispering Pines many
years ago: sitting outside at night on lawn chairs, drinking beer with the other young soldiers and their wives, listening
to Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, or whomever, waiting for the mimeographed papers that began, “You are hereby ordered to report…”

Cynthia asked, “What did you think of Colonel Moore?”

“Probably the same as you. He’s an odd duck.”

“Yes, but I think he’s a key to
why
Ann Campbell was killed.”

“Quite possibly,” I asked her, “Do you consider him a suspect?”

“For the record, no. We have to keep him talking. But between us, I can see him as a suspect.”

“Especially if that was his hair in the sink,” I pointed out.

“What would be his motive?” Cynthia asked.

“Well, it wasn’t classical sexual jealousy.”

“Do you believe that he never slept with her, or even propositioned her?”

“Yes. That shows how sick he is.”

“That’s an interesting observation. The more I deal with men, the more I learn.”

“Good for you. What do
you
think his motive could be?”

“Well, I agree with you that Colonel Moore is somewhat asexual. But she may have threatened to break off their platonic or
therapeutic relationship, and he couldn’t handle it.”

“Then why kill her that way?” I asked.

“How do I know? We’re dealing with two shrinks here.”

“Right. But I’ll bet Moore knows why. Moore knows how she got there on the ground, even if he didn’t kill her himself. For
all we know, he told her it was good therapy to have sex with strangers in open places. I’ve heard of that kind of thing.

Cynthia nodded. “You’re getting close to something.”

“Just another theory to store in the hangar.”

After a moment of quiet, I said to her, apropos of nothing except my whole life, “Did you many Major what’s-his-name

with the gun?” She replied, not enthusiastically, I thought, “Yes, I did.”

“Well, congratulations. I’m extremely happy for you, Cynthia, and wish you all the best that life has to offer.”

“I’ve filed for divorce.”

“Good.”

We rode in silence awhile, then she said, “I felt guilty after Brussels, so I accepted his proposal. Actually, I guess I was
engaged to be married to him, so we got married. But… he never let me forget that he didn’t trust me anymore. Your name came
up once or twice.”

“Am
I
supposed to feel guilty? I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t. He turned out to be a possessive manipulator, anyway.”

“You didn’t see that?”

“No. The best thing about some long-distance relationships is that they’re long-distance. It’s very romantic. Living together
is another matter.”

“I’m sure you bent over backward to please.”

“If that’s sarcasm, you’re wrong. I did bend over backward. But every time I had to go off on assignment, he got very nasty,
and every time I came back from assignment, he interrogated me. I don’t like being interrogated.”

“No one does.”

“I never fooled around on him.”

“Well, once.”

“You know what I mean. So anyway, I got to thinking that military life and married life don’t go together. He wanted me to
resign. I said no. He got violent, and I had to pull my gun on him.”