The General's Daughter (25 page)

“Not likely, is it? And remember, she had her watch on. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Cynthia replied. “That may be insignificant.”

“It may be. Let’s walk.” We retraced our steps along the tarpaulin path and came back to the road where Ann Campbell’s humvee
had been parked. “All right,” I said, “he comes back here to the vehicle. He takes her BDUs, her helmet, dog tags, socks,
boots, and so forth, but leaves her handbag on the passenger seat of the vehicle.”

“He may have forgotten the handbag. Men often do. I’ve seen that before.”

I turned toward the latrines. “Carrying those items, he crosses the grassy area, passes the bleachers, passes the latrines,
and finds the corduroy trail. He would not walk on the road.”

“No.”

“Okay, if they’d started at about 0115 hours, it is now about 0215 hours, give or take a few minutes. It can’t be later because
PFC Robbins saw headlights at 0217 hours.”

“And you’re sure they were not Ann Campbell’s headlights?”

“I’m making the strong assumption she got here earlier, and she drove up without headlights. So this vehicle comes by, sees
her parked humvee, stops, turns off the lights, and gets out of his or her vehicle. That is what Robbins saw at 0217 hours.”

“And he or she can see Ann Campbell from the road. Right?”

“Sergeant St. John did. The moon was nearly full. Anyone who saw the parked humvee would look around. Fifty meters away, this
person sees something on the rifle range. It’s almost a human instinct to recognize another human form, especially a naked
one. We’ve both heard similar stories—someone walking in the woods sees something lying on the ground, and so on.”

“All right. So what does that person do?”

“That person goes up to her and sees that she’s dead, goes back to his or her vehicle, makes a U-turn, and gets the hell out
of there.”

“Without turning his or her headlights back on.”

“Apparently. PFC Robbins was transfixed by the headlights and kept watching, but never saw them go on again. The next lights
she saw were Sergeant St. John’s at 0425 hours.”

“Why would this person not turn their headlights back on when they were leaving? Why turn them off to begin with? It’s damned
spooky out here, Paul. I’d leave my lights on if I got out of my car. And who is this new person you’ve introduced, and why
didn’t this person make a report?”

“The only answer I can come up with is that Ann Campbell had not gone through all this trouble for one tryst. Her fantasy
may have been multiple rapes. She may have had several appointments.”

“That’s very weird.” She added, “But possible.”

I said, “Let’s follow the path that Ann Campbell’s assistant or assailant took back.” We retraced our steps and intersected
the corduroy path in the bush behind the rifle ranges, then turned left onto it and headed back to rifle range five. I said,
“Here, in these bushes, will probably be a plastic bag containing her clothes.”

Cynthia looked at me. “Are you psychic, too?”

“The area search turned up nothing, and neither did the dogs, so the clothes will be in a plastic, odorproof bag, probably
a trash bag, and they will be farther away than the search. When we get closer to rifle range five, you’ll turn that flashlight
into the bush. We may have to come back tomorrow—”

Cynthia stopped. “Wait.”

“What?”

“The latrine sheds.”

“Damn it! You’re right.”

So back we went to the latrine sheds. A line of steel-mesh trash pails sat between the two sheds, and I turned one of them
over and jumped onto the roof of the shed for male personnel. There was nothing on the flat, pitched roof, but as I scrambled
to my feet, I saw on the next latrine roof a brown plastic trash bag shining in the moonlight. I took a running start, jumped
onto the adjoining shed, and kicked the bag off, following it to the ground. Somewhere in midair, I remembered my paratrooper
training, flexed my knees into a shoulder roll, and bounded up on my feet.

Cynthia asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Get a handkerchief.”

She took a handkerchief from her pocket, knelt, and untwisted the wire tie, then carefully pulled open the mouth of the bag
and shined her flashlight into it. Inside, we could see a jumble of clothing, a pair of boots, and a white sock. Carefully,
with her hand wrapped in the handkerchief, Cynthia moved the things around, uncovering the pistol belt and holster with the
automatic still in it, then finally the dog tags, which she held up and read in the beam of her flashlight. “Campbell, Ann
Louise.” She let the dog tags drop back into the bag and stood. She looked up at the top of the latrine shed. “One of the
older tricks in the book. But why did this guy care about hiding her clothes?”

I thought a moment. “It seems that the clothes were supposed to be recovered later.”

“By whom? The perpetrator? A third party?”

“Don’t know. But I like the idea of a third party.”

A pair of headlights lit up the road, then I heard the engine of a vehicle, then saw it, an olive-drab staff car that stopped.
The engine remained running, and the headlights stayed on. I felt for my pistol and so did Cynthia.

The driver’s door opened, and the interior lights revealed the figure of Bill Kent as he got out drawing his pistol and looking
toward our flashlight. He slammed his door and issued a challenge. “Identify yourselves.”

I called back, “Brenner and Sunhill, Colonel.” A little formal, but you don’t fool around when being challenged by an armed
man.

We stayed motionless until he said, “I’m coming to you.”

“Understand.” We both stood until he got closer, then saw him holster his pistol, and heard him say, “Recognize.”

All a little silly, too, except that every once in a while, a guy gets plugged messing around with challenges and such. Kent
asked us, “What are you doing here?”

I replied, “This is the scene of the crime, Bill, and detectives and criminals always return to it. What are
you
doing here?”

“I resent the implication, wise guy. I’m here for the same reason you are—to try to get a feeling for the scene at night.”

“Let me be the detective, Colonel. I expected to see MPs posted here.”

“I suppose I should have posted a few. But I have patrols going by.”

“I haven’t seen any. Can you get a couple of people here?”

“All right.” He asked Cynthia, “Why is your car way back there?”

She replied, “We wanted to walk in the moonlight.”

He looked like he was going to ask why, but then noticed the bag. “What is that?”

“That is,” Cynthia replied, “the missing items.”

“What items?”

“Her clothing.”

I watched Kent as he took this in. He seemed almost indifferent, I thought. He asked, “Where’d you find them?”

“On top of the female latrine shed. Your guys missed it.”

“I guess they did.” He asked, “Why do you think her clothes were up there?”

“Who knows?”

“Are you through here?”

“For now.”

“What’s next?”

I replied, “We’ll meet you at Jordan Field in about an hour.”

“Okay.” He added, “Colonel Moore is very upset with you.”

“Then he should file formal charges instead of crying on your shoulder. Do you know the guy?”

“Only through Ann.” He looked at his watch. “One hour.”

“Right.”

We parted, he backed toward his car on the road, we along the corduroy trail, me carrying the plastic trash bag.

Cynthia said to me, “You don’t trust him, do you?”

“I did… I’ve known Bill Kent for over ten years. But now… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s a suspect, but there’s no doubt
in my mind that he, like just about everybody here, is hiding something.”

“I know. I get that feeling, too. It’s like we’ve arrived in a small town and everybody knows everybody’s dirty secrets, and
we know there are skeletons in the closet, but we can’t find the closets.”

“That’s about it.”

We reached the car, and I put the bag in the trunk.

Cynthia and I got in, and she started the engine, then brushed something from my shoulder. “Anything broken, soldier? Can
I take you to the hospital?”

“No, but I need my head examined. Psychological Operations School.”

W
e arrived at the Psy-Ops School at about 2300 hours, and Cynthia parked near the school headquarters. The school was made
up of a cluster of about thirty concrete buildings, all of which were a uniquely depressing slate gray, the color of suicide,
of Seattle.

There was not much grass, few trees, and the inadequate exterior lighting would be unacceptable in a civilian setting, but
in the Army, muggings and lawsuits were not yet a problem.

Most of the buildings were dark, except for two that looked like living quarters, and in the nearby headquarters building,
a single ground floor window was lit.

As we walked toward the headquarters, Cynthia asked me, “What exactly goes on here?”

“This is a subcommand of the JFK Special Warfare School at Bragg. In reality, it’s not a school at all, but that’s the cover.”

“Cover for what?”

“It’s a research facility. They don’t teach, they learn.”

“What do they learn?”

“I think they learn what makes people tick, then they find out how to make them stop ticking without putting a bullet in them.”
I added, “Most of it is experimental.”

“Sounds spooky.”

“I’m with you. Bullets and high explosives work every time. Screw panic and free-floating anxiety.”

A humvee turned the corner up ahead and came toward us. It stopped and an MP dismounted from the passenger side while the
driver stayed in the vehicle, pointing his headlights at us. The MP, a corporal named Stroud, saluted, which is customary,
then asked us, “Do you have business here?”

I replied, “Yes. CID.” I held up my identification, which he examined with a flashlight, then examined Cynthia’s and turned
out his light. “Who do you have business with, sir?”

“The duty sergeant. Why don’t you escort us, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.” He walked with us to the headquarters and asked, “The Campbell murder?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Damned shame.”

“Did you know her?” Cynthia asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Not well, but I’d see her here at night sometimes. Lots of what they do here, they do at night.” He added, “Nice
lady. Got any leads?”

I replied, “Not yet.”

“Glad to see you’re working all night on this.”

We all entered the headquarters building, where a staff sergeant was sitting in an office located to the right of the small
lobby. He saw us and stood as we entered. After the preliminaries, I said to the duty sergeant, whose name was Corman, “Sergeant,
I’d like to see Colonel Moore’s office.”

Sergeant Corman scratched his head and glanced at Corporal Stroud, then replied, “Can’t do that, sir.”

“Sure you can. Let’s go.”

He stood his ground. “I really can’t without proper authorization. This is a restricted area.”

In the Army, you don’t actually need probable cause or a search warrant, and if you did, the warrant wouldn’t be issued by
a military judge because they have no power outside a court-martial. What I needed was someone in the chain of command. I
asked Sergeant Corman, “Does Colonel Moore keep a personal locker in his office?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go and get me his hairbrush or comb.”

“Sir?”

“He needs to comb his hair. We’ll stay here and cover the phone.”

“Sir, this is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave.”

I said, “May I use your phone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Privately.”

“I can’t leave—”

“MP Corporal Stroud will stay here. Thank you.”

He hesitated, then walked out of the office. I said to Stroud, “Whatever you hear is confidential.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked up Colonel Fowler’s Bethany Hill phone number in the post directory, and Fowler answered on the third ring. I said,
“Colonel, this is Mr. Brenner. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour.” Actually I wasn’t. “But I need you to authorize me to
remove something from Colonel Moore’s office.”

“Where the hell are you, Brenner?” He sounded as if he might have been sleeping.

I replied, “At the Psy-Ops School, Colonel.”

“At this hour?”

“I must have lost track of the time.”

“What do you have to remove from Colonel Moore’s office?”

“Actually, I’d like to remove the entire office to Jordan Field.”

He replied, “I can’t authorize that. That school is run from Fort Bragg, and it’s a restricted area. Colonel Moore’s office
is full of classified documents. But I’ll call Bragg in the morning and see what I can do.”

I didn’t mention that I already had Ann Campbell’s office at Jordan Field. This is what happens when you ask permission to
do anything in the Army. The answer is always no, then you negotiate. I said, “Well, then, Colonel, give me permission to
seal the office.”

“Seal the office? What the hell’s going on?”

“A murder investigation.”

“Don’t be flippant with me, Mr. Brenner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call Bragg in the morning. That’s all I can do.”

“That’s not enough, Colonel.”

“You know, Mr. Brenner, I appreciate your hard work and initiative, but you can’t be charging around like a bull, wreaking
havoc wherever you go. There’s only one murderer out there, and you should give some thought to the feelings of the remainder
of the people on this post. And while you’re doing that, you may want to keep in mind Army regulations, customs, protocols,
and courtesy. Do you follow me, Mr. Brenner?”

“Yes, sir. What I actually need at the moment is a sample of Colonel Moore’s hair to match up with a strand found at the scene
of the murder. You could call Colonel Moore at home, sir, and have him report to the forensic lab at Jordan Field for a plucking,
or we can get a sample of his hair from his comb or brush here, which I would prefer, as time is short. Also, I’d rather that
Colonel Moore did not know he was a suspect at the moment.” I noticed Corporal Stroud’s eyes widen.