The General's Daughter (36 page)

“Why not?” she shot back. “Are you an officer or a cabin boy? Were you her friend or not? And surely, since you weren’t seduced
by her charms, you could have reasoned with her. Or did you find her sexual experiments interesting in a clinical way? Or
perhaps you were titillated by the knowledge that she had sex with multiple partners?”

Moore looked at me and said, “I refuse to answer that or to speak to this woman.”

I informed him, “You can’t stand behind the Fifth Amendment until we read you your rights as an accused, which I have no intention
of doing at this time. It’s frustrating, I know. But we’ll let the question pass for now, and I promise you that Ms. Sunhill
will try to phrase her questions so that you don’t mistake them for insubordination.”

Colonel Moore seemed to see no advantage in keeping up the moral indignation routine, so he nodded and sat back in his chair.
The body language said, “You’re both beneath my contempt. Fire away.”

Cynthia got herself under control, and, in a nonadversarial tone of voice, asked him, “When would Ann Campbell have considered
the score even?”

Moore didn’t look at Cynthia or at me, but replied in a toneless, professional voice, “Unfortunately, only she knew that.
Apparently, what she was doing to him was not enough to satisfy her. Part of the problem was General Campbell himself.” Moore
smiled, but it was more of a sneer, and said, “This is a general who will not admit he’s being damaged, let alone admit he’s
beaten and raise the white flag. To the best of my knowledge, he never asked for a cease-fire, to continue the military metaphor,
nor did he ever ask for peace talks. He apparently felt that whatever he had done to her was canceled out by what she was
doing to him.”

“In other words,” Cynthia said, “they were too stubborn to negotiate. He never apologized for his initial betrayal.”

“Well, he did, in a manner of speaking, but you can guess what sort of apology you’d get from such a man.”

Cynthia observed, “It’s too bad so many innocent people had to be hurt while these two fought it out.”

Moore replied, with some surprisingly normal insight, “That’s life, that’s war. When has it been any different?”

Indeed so, I thought. Or, as Plato said, “Only the dead have seen an end to war.”

Cynthia asked Colonel Moore, “When you left home on the morning of the murder, did you notice that Ann Campbell’s car was
not in front of her house?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I may have. Subconsciously.”

“Don’t you normally take note of her car?”

“No.”

“So you don’t ever know if your subordinate, neighbor, and friend is still home or on her way to the office.”

“Well, I suppose on most mornings I do.”

“Did you ever share a ride?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you know that Captain Campbell had an appointment for breakfast with her parents that morning?”

“No… well, yes, now that you mention it. She did tell me that.”

“What was the purpose of this breakfast meeting?”

“Purpose?”

“Did the Campbells often get together to enjoy one another’s company?”

“I suppose not.”

Cynthia said, “It’s my understanding, Colonel, that General Campbell gave his daughter an ultimatum regarding her behavior,
and that Ann Campbell’s reply to that ultimatum was to be given at that breakfast. Correct?”

Colonel Moore for the first time looked a bit uneasy, probably wondering how much we knew and from whom we knew it.

“Correct?”

“I… She did tell me that her father wanted to resolve this problem.”

Cynthia was getting herself worked up again and said sharply, “Colonel, either she did or didn’t tell you all about this.
Either she did or didn’t use words like ultimatum, court-martial, ordered therapy, and resignation from the service. Did she
or didn’t she confide completely in you, and did she or didn’t she ask your advice?”

Colonel Moore was clearly angry again at Cynthia’s tone, but he was also uneasy about this particular question, which had
obviously touched on something that frightened him. He must have decided that we could not possibly know enough to hammer
him on this, so he replied, “I’ve told you all I know. She never told me what he proposed, and she never asked my advice.
I told you, as her therapist I listened, kept my questions to a minimum, and only gave advice when asked.”

Cynthia replied, “I don’t believe any man is capable of that amount of self-restraint with a woman he’s known for six years.”

“Then you don’t understand therapy, Ms. Sunhill. I certainly offered advice in terms of her career, assignments, and such,
and even personal advice regarding living quarters, vacations, and so forth. But the problems with her family were only discussed
in therapy sessions—these were compartmentalized discussions that never spilled over into work or leisure time. This was our
firm understanding and we never deviated from it. Medical doctors, for instance, don’t appreciate friends asking them for
a diagnosis on the golf course, and attorneys have similar rules about legal advice in bars. Mental health workers are no
different.”

Cynthia replied, “Thank you for that information, Colonel. I see you’ve thought about it. Am I to assume, then, that the deceased
never had the opportunity to arrange a formal session with you to discuss this ultimatum and deadline?”

“That’s correct.”

“So, after all these years, when this heartache, misery, and anger are about to come to a head, one or both of you was too
busy to talk about it.”

“It was Ann herself who decided not to discuss it with me. We did, however, decide to meet after she’d spoken to her father.
In fact, we were to meet yesterday afternoon.”

Cynthia said, “I don’t believe you, Colonel. I think there is a connection between the general’s ultimatum and what happened
to her, and you know what that connection is.”

Colonel Moore stood. “I will not be called a liar.”

Cynthia stood also and they glared at each other. Cynthia said, “We already know you’re a liar.”

Which was true. We knew that Moore had been on rifle range six with Ann Campbell, and I think Moore now realized we knew this.
How else could we get away with abusing a full colonel? But we were about half a step over the threshold now, and that was
far enough. I stood also. “Thank you for your time, Colonel. Don’t bother to complain to Colonel Kent about us. One all-inclusive
complaint is good enough for a week or so.” I added, “I’m posting an MP at your door, sir, and if you attempt to shred any
papers or carry anything out of here with you, you’ll be placed under restraint and confined to post.”

The man was shaking now, but I couldn’t tell if it was from fright or rage, and I didn’t care. He said, “I’m going to bring
formal charges against both of you.”

“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. We are your last best hope to avoid a noose—or is it a firing squad? I have to check.
They just don’t execute enough people for me to remember how they do it. But anyway, don’t piss me off. You know what I’m
talking about. Good day, Colonel.”

And we left him standing there, contemplating his options, which definitely didn’t include pissing me off.

C
ynthia parked in the provost marshal’s parking field a few spaces away from my Blazer. As we started toward the provost building,
we saw three news vans and a group of people outside who were obviously journalists. They saw us coming, and we must have
fit someone’s description of the detectives in charge, because they moved toward us like a cloud of locusts. As I said, Hadley
is an open post, so you can’t keep the taxpaying citizens out, and you normally don’t want to, but I didn’t need this.

The first reporter to reach us, a well-dressed young man with coiffed hair, had a microphone, and the grubbier ones around
him had pencils and pads. I was aware of cameras turned on us. The coiffed one asked me, “Are you Warrant Officer Brenner?”
then put the microphone under my nose.

“No, sir,” I replied, “I’m here to service the Coke machine.” We kept walking, but this great cloud engulfed us as we continued
toward the front doors.

A female reporter asked Cynthia, “Are you Warrant Officer Sunhill?”

“No, ma’am, I’m with the Coke guy.”

But they weren’t buying it, and the questions rained out of this cloud until we finally got to the steps of the provost building,
where two huge MPs stood guard with M-16 rifles. I climbed the steps and turned to the crowd, who could go no further, and
said, “Good morning.”

The crowd of journalists became quiet, and I saw now three TV cameras and about a dozen photographers snapping away. I said,
“The investigation into the death of Captain Ann Campbell is continuing. We have several leads, but no suspects. However,
all the available resources of Fort Hadley, the Army Criminal Investigation Division, and the local civilian police have been
mobilized, and we are working on the case in close cooperation. We will schedule a news conference in the near future.” Bullshit.

Boom! The storm of questions broke, and I could hear a few of them: “Wasn’t she raped, too?” “Was she found tied up and naked?”
“Was she strangled?” “Who do you think did it?” “Isn’t this the second rape here within a week?” And interestingly, “Have
you questioned her boyfriend, the chief of police’s son?” and so on.

I replied, “All your questions will be answered at the news conference.”

Cynthia and I went inside the building, where we bumped into Colonel Kent, who looked unhappy and agitated. He said, “I can’t
get them to leave.”

“No, you can’t. That’s what I love about this country.”

“But they’re confined to main post, but that includes Beaumont House, and I had to put a dozen MPs there. They can’t go out
to the rifle ranges or Jordan Field—I have MPs on the road. But they’re snooping around all over the damn place.”

“Maybe they’ll have better luck than we did.”

“I don’t like this.” He asked me, “Anything new?”

“We spoke to Colonel Fowler and Colonel Moore. I’d like you to send two MPs to Colonel Moore’s office, ASAP, and baby-sit
him. He may not use his shredder, and he may not take anything from his office.”

“Okay. I’ll get on that.” He asked, “Are you going to arrest Moore?”

I replied, “We’re still trying to get a psychological autopsy of the deceased from him.”

“Who cares?”

“Well,” I replied, “Ms. Sunhill and I do.”

“Why? What does that have to do with Colonel Moore?”

“Well, the more I learn, the less motivation I can find for Colonel Moore to kill his subordinate. On the other hand, I see
that other people could have strong motives.”

Kent looked exasperated, and he said, “Paul, I understand what you’re doing up to a point, and so will everyone else. But
you’ve passed that point, and if you don’t arrest Moore now and he turns out to be the killer, and the FBI arrests him, then
you look really stupid.”

“I know that, Bill. But if I do arrest him and he’s not the killer, I look worse than stupid.”

“Show some balls.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey! You’re speaking to a superior officer.”

“Fuck you,
sir.
” I turned and walked down the hall toward our office. Cynthia followed, but Kent did not.

In our office, we were greeted by a stack of white telephone messages, a pile of reports from forensic and the coroner, and
other pieces of paper that appeared to be “read and initial” internal memos, half of which didn’t concern me. The Army could
screw up your pay records, send your furniture to Alaska and your family to Japan, and lose all track of your leave time—but
if you reported into someplace on temporary duty, you immediately got on the distribution list for bullshit memos even if
you were working undercover with an assumed identity in a borrowed office.

Cynthia commented, “That wasn’t a smart thing to do.”

“You mean him telling me to show some balls? No, it wasn’t.”

“Well, that wasn’t smart of him, either. But I mean you telling him, quote, fuck you, unquote.”

“No problem.” I leafed through the stack of telephone messages.

Cynthia stayed silent a moment, then said, “Well, but he did do something wrong, didn’t he?”

“You got that right. And he knows it.”

“Still… you don’t have to rub his face in it. If nothing else, we need him even if he is damaged goods.”

I looked up from the phone messages and said, “I don’t have a lot of compassion for an officer who breaks a trust.”

“Except if her name is Ann Campbell.”

I refused to respond to that.

“Anyway, how about some coffee and donuts?”

“Sounds good.”

Cynthia pushed the intercom button and asked for Specialist Baker to report.

I sat down and opened Ann Campbell’s medical file, which was exceedingly thin for her years in service, leading me to believe
that she used civilian doctors. There was, however, a gynecological report dating back to her entrance physical at West Point,
and a doctor had noted, “H. imperforatus.” I showed it to Cynthia and asked, “Does that mean an intact hymen?”

“Yes, intact and without any opening. But it is not absolute evidence of virginity, though it’s very likely that nothing very
big ever got that far.”

“So we can rule out her father raping her when she was a young girl.”

“Well, pretty much. But we can’t rule out other forms of sex abuse.” She added, “But what Colonel Moore said seemed to have
the ring of truth. Whatever her father did to her, he did it to her in her second year at West Point, and I doubt if he could
rape his twenty-year-old daughter at West Point… but it’s interesting that she was probably a virgin when she got there. Any
other gynecological reports in there?”

I looked but saw none. I said, “They are strangely missing. I suspect she used private doctors whenever she could.”

“Right. You don’t go that long without seeing a gynecologist.” She thought a moment, then said, “Why do I think that whatever
happened to her at West Point was sexual?”