The General's Daughter (51 page)

Moore answered quickly, “No! If she had, I would never have agreed to her—to the plan.”

I nodded to myself. I didn’t know if that was true or not, and only two people did. One of them was dead, the other, sitting
here, was going to lie about it to mitigate what he’d done. The general himself knew, of course, how he’d felt in that moment
when his daughter had hurled the challenge at him. But he couldn’t even tell himself what he felt, and he wasn’t going to
tell me. In a way, it didn’t matter anymore.

Cynthia asked the prisoner, “Did it occur to you or Ann Campbell that the general did not come prepared to free his daughter—I
don’t mean psychologically—I’m referring to a knife or stake puller.”

Moore replied, “Yes, she considered that. In fact, I stuck a bayonet in the ground. . . you found that, didn’t you?”

Cynthia asked, “Where was the bayonet?”

“Well. . . sort of between her legs. . . The men who raped her at West Point took her bayonet and jammed it in the ground,
close to her. . . her vagina, then warned her about not reporting what happened, then she was cut loose.”

Cynthia nodded. “I see. . .”

Moore continued, “She was trying to shock him, of course, shock both of them, and they were going to have to retrieve the
bayonet and cut her loose. Then she thought he would offer her his shirt or jacket. I’d left her bra there, and her panties
were around her neck, as I’m sure you found them. That’s how they had left her in the woods at West Point. They’d thrown her
clothes around, and she’d had to retrieve them in the dark. In this case, however, she intended for her parents to help her
back to the humvee, then she intended to tell her father where her clothes were—on top of the latrine—and make him go get
them. She’d left her handbag in the humvee with her keys, and it was her intention to get dressed and drive off as if nothing
had happened, then return to duty at Post Headquarters. Then she was going to show up at the breakfast meeting she had with
her parents, and, at that point, they would all confront the issues.”

Again Cynthia nodded. She asked, “Did she have much hope for this breakfast meeting?”

He considered a moment, then replied, “Yes, I think she did. Depending, of course, on how her father and mother had reacted
to the rape scene. Well, as it turned out, Mrs. Campbell had not come along. But I think that Ann realized that whatever forces
she unleashed that night, no matter how her father reacted, things could not get any worse. There is a high risk with shock
therapy, but when you’ve nothing left to lose, when you’ve hit bottom, then you’re ready to gamble everything and hope for
the best.”

Cynthia nodded again, the way they tell you to do in the interrogation manual. Be positive, affirming. Don’t appear stone-faced,
or judgmental, or skeptical when a suspect is rolling. Just keep nodding, like a shrink during a therapy session. Perhaps
Moore recognized the technique, which was ironic, but in his present mental and physical state, all he wanted was a smile,
a nod, and the stupid donut. Cynthia asked him, “Did she tell you why she had hope for this meeting? I mean, why this time,
after all those years?”

“Well. . . she was finally ready to forgive. She was prepared to say anything that morning, to promise anything that would
make things right again. She was tired of the war, and she felt the catharsis even before she’d gone out to the rifle range.
She was hopeful, almost giddy, and to tell you the truth, she was happy and close to peace for the first time since I’d known
her.” He took a long breath and looked at us, then said, “I know what you think of me, and I don’t blame you, but I had only
her best interests at heart. She had seduced me, too, in another way, and I went along with what I knew was. . . unorthodox.
But if you could have seen how optimistic she was, how almost girlish she was acting—nervous, frightened, but filled with
hope that this was the end of the long nightmare. . . In fact, however, I knew that the damage she had done to herself and
others was not going to disappear just like that, just because she was going to say to her parents, ‘I love you, and I forgive
you if you forgive me’. . . but she believed this, and she had me believing it too. . . But she miscalculated. . . I miscalculated
her father’s rage. . . and the irony is, she thought she was so close to being happy again. . . and she kept rehearsing what
she was going to say to them that night. . . and at breakfast. . .”

Then the oddest thing happened. Two tears rolled down Moore’s cheeks, and he put his face in his hands.

Cynthia stood and put her hand on his shoulder and motioned me to come with her. We went out into the corridor, and she said
to me, “Let him go, Paul.”

“Hell, no.”

“You got your jailhouse interview. Let him go sleep in his office, attend the funeral tomorrow. We’ll deal with him tomorrow
or the next day. He’s not going anywhere.”

I shrugged. “All right. God, I’m getting soft.” I went to the guard office and spoke to the sergeant. I filled out a confinement
release form and signed it—I hate confinement release forms—then I walked out to the corridor where Cynthia was waiting for
me.

I said, “He’s free, but restricted to post.”

“Good. It was the right thing.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Paul. . . anger is not going to change anything that happened, and vindictiveness is not going to bring justice. That’s the
lesson you should learn from this. Ann Campbell never did. But what happened to her should at least be a useful example of
that.”

“Thank you.”

We walked to our office, and I sat at the desk, dividing the diary printouts between Cynthia and myself. Before we began to
read, I said to her, “What happened to the bayonet?”

She replied, “I don’t know. If General Campbell never approached his daughter, then he never saw it, and never knew that he
could have cut her loose. He told us two versions of that story—one was that he tried to get her free by pulling at the stakes,
the other that he couldn’t bring himself to get that close.” She added, “He actually never got that close.”

“Right. So the next person on the scene—let’s say it was Kent—saw the bayonet, and Kent had the same choice—if it was Kent.
Then came the Fowlers, who had their own knife. . . but she was already dead. Then came Sergeant St. John, then MP Casey.
. . I don’t know, but it’s interesting that whoever pulled the bayonet out of the ground kept it. . .” I noodled this awhile,
then said, “If we accept the general’s second version, that he never went near her, then it wasn’t him. The killer had no
reason to take the bayonet. Neither did St. John or MP Casey.”

“Are you saying the Fowlers took it?”

“I’m saying that when the Fowlers found her dead, and saw that the means of freeing her was right there between her legs,
if you will, they realized that the general had lied to them, that the general had not tried to free her, as I’m sure he told
them he did. That, in fact, as General Campbell told us truthfully in the second version, he had kept his distance from her,
and they had shouted to each other. So when the Fowlers saw the bayonet, they realized that the general
could
have freed her, but did not, and as a result, she was dead. Not wanting to tell him this, or have him find out through the
official report, they took the bayonet and discarded it. This was another favor they were doing for him, but they weren’t
doing us any favors.”

Cynthia thought a moment, then said, “Yes, that’s probably what happened.” She looked at me. “And her West Point ring?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“The Fowlers again?”

“Possible. Another favor, though I don’t get it. Maybe the killer took it as a sentimental remembrance. I don’t think MP Casey
or St. John would do something so ghoulish, but you just never know what people are going to do in the presence of a dead
body. Then again, maybe the general got a little closer to his daughter than he said. He took the bayonet, considered cutting
her loose, then changed his mind, took her ring off, and told her she was dishonoring her uniform, or lack of same, and left—then
had a change of heart and drove to the Fowlers. Who knows? Who cares at this point?”

“I do. I have to know how people act, what goes on in their hearts. It’s important, Paul, because it’s what makes this job
more than what’s in the manual. Do you want to become like Karl Hellmann?”

I forced a smile. “Sometimes, yes.”

“Then you’ll never again be able to determine a motive or understand who is good and who is evil.”

“Sounds okay to me.”

“Don’t be contrary.”

“Speaking of motives, of good and evil, of passion, jealousy, and hate, let’s give this stuff a quick read.”

We read for a while and discovered what William Kent’s sexual preferences were, but more important, I discovered that Ann
Campbell considered him a growing problem. I said to Cynthia, “Here’s an entry from last month.” I read aloud, “ ‘Bill is
becoming possessive again. I thought we solved that problem. He showed up here tonight when Ted Bowes was here. Ted and I
hadn’t gone downstairs yet, and Bill and he had a drink in the living room, and Bill was nasty to him and pulled rank on him.
Finally, Ted left, and Bill and I had words. He says he’s prepared to leave his wife and resign his commission if I promise
to live with him or marry him or something. He knows why I do what I do with him and the other men, but he’s starting to think
there’s more to it with us. He’s pressing me, and I tell him to stop. Tonight, he doesn’t even want sex. He just wants to
talk. I let him talk, but I don’t like what he’s saying. Why do some men think they have to be knights in shining armor? I
don’t need a knight. I am my own knight, I am my own dragon, and I live in my own castle. Everyone else are props and bit
players. Bill is not very cognitive. He doesn’t understand, so I don’t try to explain. I did tell him I’d consider his offer,
but in the meantime, would he only come here with an appointment? This put him into a rage, and he actually slapped me, then
ripped off my clothes and raped me on the living room floor. When he was done, he seemed to feel better, then left in a sulk.
I realize he could be dangerous, but I don’t care, and, in fact, of all of them, he’s the only one except for Wes who has
actually threatened me or hit me, and it’s the only thing that makes Bill Kent interesting.’ ”

I looked up from the paper, and Cynthia and I exchanged glances. Clearly, Colonel Kent was dangerous. There’s nothing more
dangerous than a prim and proper stuffed shirt who falls in lust and gets obsessed. I was about to read another printout aloud
when there was a knock on the door, and it opened. I expected to see Warrant Officer Kiefer, but it was Colonel Kent, and
I wondered how long he’d been standing there.

I
gathered up the printouts and slipped them in a folder. Kent stood there and watched but said nothing.

Kent had his helmet on, what we call cover in the military. You’re usually uncovered indoors, unless you’re armed, then you
must be covered. Interesting regulation probably having to do with keeping your hands free if you’re armed, or letting people
know at a distance that you’re armed. Kent, in fact, was wearing his sidearm.

So was I, and so was Cynthia, but ours were hidden, and we didn’t have to wear hats to give us away.

The office was dark, lit only by two desk lamps, and I could hardly see Kent’s features from where I was sitting, but I thought
he looked sort of grim, perhaps subdued, and I remembered that he’d gone to the chapel to view the body.

He spoke in a quiet, almost toneless voice. He said, “Why was Specialist Baker snooping around?”

I stood and replied, “She’s not snooping around. She’s gathering some items that I asked for.”

“This is my command. Anything you need, you ask me.”

Quite right, actually. Except, in this case, the items had to do with the commander. I said, “It was just a minor administrative
thing, Colonel.”

“Nothing in this building is minor.”

“Well, parking and traffic tickets are minor.”

“Why do you need those?”

“It’s a standard procedure. You must know that it’s to establish if any vehicles were anyplace that—”

“I know that. And you wanted MP patrol reports, the desk sergeant’s log, and tapes of the radio transmissions for that night.
Are you looking for any vehicle in particular?”

Actually, yes. Your vehicle. But I replied, “No. Where is Baker?”

“I relieved her of her duties and ordered her out of the building.”

“I see. Well, I’m going to ask you, officially, to rescind that order.”

“I’ve assigned you another clerk. I will not tolerate any breach of internal security by anyone, for any reason. You have
broken the rules, and perhaps the law. I’ll take this up with the staff judge advocate tomorrow.”

“That’s certainly your right, Colonel. Though I think Colonel Weems has other things on his mind at the moment.”

Kent seemed to know what I was talking about and replied, “The Uniform Code of Military Justice is not dependent on any single
individual, and everyone here is subject to that law, including both of you.”

“That’s very true. I take full responsibility for what Baker did.”

Cynthia stood now and said, “It’s actually my responsibility, Colonel. I ordered Baker to do that.”

Kent looked at her and replied, “All you had to do was ask me first.”

“Yes, sir.”

Having taken the offensive, Kent continued his attack, though he seemed to have no enthusiasm for it. He said to me, “I didn’t
say anything when you had Colonel Moore confined to jail, but I will make an official report regarding your treatment of him.
You don’t treat officers that way.” Obviously, Kent was thinking into the future, and his complaint had nothing to do with
Colonel Moore.

I replied, “Officers don’t usually act that way. He abused his rank, his profession, and his office.”

“Nevertheless, he could have been restricted to post and given suitable quarters until an official inquiry was completed,
and charges recommended or not recommended.”