The General's Daughter (52 page)

“You know, Colonel, I personally think that the higher you are, the harder you should fall. Young enlisted personnel who screw
up because of ignorance, immaturity, or high spirits get the book thrown at them. I think that mature officers who screw up
should be made an example of.”

“But rank still has its privilege, and one of those privileges is that an officer should not be subject to pretrial confinement,
Mister Brenner.”

“But when you break the law, your punishment should be in direct proportion to your rank, your job, and your knowledge of
the law. An officer’s rights and privileges carry a heavy responsibility, and any breach of duty and discipline should carry
a proportionately heavy punitive burden.”
I’m talking about you, Bill, and you know it.

He replied, “A soldier’s past performance has to be factored into that. If a person has performed honorably for twenty years—as
Colonel Moore has—then he should be treated with honor and respect. A court-martial will decide his punishment, if any.”

I looked at Kent for a long moment, then responded, “An officer, I believe, having been given special privileges and having
taken an oath of office, has an obligation to fully confess his crimes and to relieve a court-martial board of the unpleasant
duty of convening for a public trial. In fact, I sort of like the ancient tradition of an officer falling on his sword. But
since no one has the balls for that anymore, I think that an officer who has committed a capital crime or has dishonored himself
and his uniform should at least consider blowing his brains out.”

Kent replied, “I think you’re crazy.”

“Probably. Maybe I should talk to a shrink. Charlie Moore could square me away. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve signed a
release order for him, and he should be gone by now, probably riding around looking for a place to sleep tonight. You should
try the Psy-Ops School officers’ quarters if you want to find him. He thinks, by the way, that the general murdered his own
daughter. I know the general didn’t. So whoever did murder her will have to decide if he is going to let Moore tell the FBI
what he suspects, and allow that suspicion to hang over the head of a basically honorable man. Or will this person who committed
the crime redeem his honor and confess?”

Kent and I looked at each other, then Kent said, “I think whoever killed her didn’t think it was a crime. You like to talk
about honor, ancient customs, and the rights and duties of an officer. Well, I’ll bet that the murderer feels no reason to
bother the military justice system with this act of. . . of personal justice and honor. There’s your philosophy looked at
from the other point of view.”

“True enough. Unfortunately, these are the legalistic times we live in, and my personal feelings are as unacceptable as yours.
I’ve investigated homicides for over ten years, Colonel, and you’ve seen enough of them, too. In almost all cases, the murderer
thinks he or she was justified. Civilian juries are starting to buy it, too. Bottom line on that, though, is if you felt it
was justified, then let’s hear it.” Somehow, we had gotten from the general to the almost specific, depending on how one interpreted
the personal pronoun “you.”

Kent looked at me, then at Cynthia, then said, “I went to the chapel earlier. I’m not a religious man, but I said a prayer
for her. She looked very peaceful, by the way. I guess that’s the undertaker’s art, but I’d like to think that her soul is
free and her spirit is happy again. . .” He turned and left.

Cynthia and I sat in the silence of the dark office for a few seconds, then Cynthia spoke. “Well, we know where Ann Campbell’s
anguish and torment are residing at the moment.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll confess?”

“I don’t know. Depends on who wins the battle he’s going to fight between now and dawn.”

“I don’t believe in suicide, Paul, and you had no right to even mention it to him.”

I shrugged. “The thought of suicide is a great consolation, and it’s gotten people through many a bad night.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, Nietzsche.”

“Sick.” She stood. “Let’s find Baker.”

“Kiefer.” I stood also, took the folder with the printouts, and we left the office and the building and went out into the
night.

Outside, on the steps of the provost marshal’s building, I could see heat lightning in the distance, and a wind was picking
up. “Storm coming.”

“Typical Georgia,” Cynthia replied. She said, “If it had stormed two nights ago. . .”

“Right. But more to the point, if men didn’t rape, and if institutions didn’t try to cover their institutional asses, and
if parents and children could communicate, and if revenge wasn’t so sweet, and if monogamy was a biological imperative, and
if everyone treated everyone else the way they would like to be treated, then we’d be out of a job, and they could use the
cell blocks to breed bird dogs.”

Cynthia put her arm through mine, and we walked down the steps to the Blazer.

We got into the vehicle as the first few drops of rain fell, and she asked, “How will we find Kiefer?”

“Kiefer will find us.”

“Where will she find us?”

“Where she knows we will be. The VOQ.” I started the car, put it into gear, and turned on the headlights.

The rain got heavier, and I put on the wipers. We drove in silence through the nearly deserted streets of the main post. My
civilian clock said ten to midnight, but, despite the hour and the short sleep the night before, I felt fine. Within a few
minutes, I pulled into the VOQ lot, which was when the sky burst open, and the rain was so heavy I could hardly hear myself
say to Cynthia, “Do you want me to drive you to the door?”

She called back over the beating rain, “No. Do you want me to drive
you
to the door?”

There’s an upside to modern women; they don’t melt in the rain. Actually, my suit looked far more expensive than her outfit,
and I nearly took her up on it, but after a minute of waiting for the rain to slacken, we dashed for it.

The lot was flooded, compliments of the Army Corps of Engineers, and by the time we got to the door, less than fifty meters
away, we were soaked. Actually, it felt good.

In the small lobby, the CQ, a young corporal, informed me, “Some Midland cop came by and left some luggage here for you, sir.”

I shook myself off. “Right.” My buddy Burt was showing me he was true to his word. “Where is it?” I asked. “In my room, all
unpacked for me, pressed and hung?”

“No, sir, it’s over there on the floor.”

“How many stars does this place have, Corporal?”

“Well, if we got one more, we’d be up to zero.”

“Right. Any messages?”

“Two.” He handed me two message slips. Kiefer and Seiver. I went over to my luggage, which consisted of two civilian suitcases,
an Army duffel bag, and an overnight bag. Cynthia offered to help and took a suitcase and the overnight bag. Together we climbed
the interior staircase, and, within a few minutes, we were in my room and dumping the luggage on the floor.

Cynthia caught her breath and said, “I’m going to change. Are you going to return those calls?”

“Yes.” I threw my wet jacket over a chair, sat on the bed, and slipped my shoes off as I dialed the number Kiefer had left.
A woman answered, “Five-four-five MP Company, CQ speaking.”

“This is Colonel Hellmann,” I said, as much for kicks as for identification, “may I speak to Specialist Baker, please.”

“Yes, sir, hold on.”

Cynthia had left, and as I waited with the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder, I peeled off my wet shirt and tie and
got out of my socks and trousers. Baker-Kiefer had chosen to live in the barracks, which was good for cover, but inconvenient
for life. I knew that the CQ runner had gone off to get her, which was the Army’s answer to private telephones in each room.

The line clicked, and I heard her voice, “Specialist Baker here, sir.”

“Can you talk?”

“No, sir, but I’ll call you back from a pay phone here as soon as one opens up. VOQ?”

“Right.” I hung up and sat on the floor, opening my suitcases and looking for my robe. That bastard Yardley had stuffed everything
together, including dirty laundry, shoes, and shaving gear. “Bastard.”

“Who?”

I looked over my shoulder and saw that Cynthia was back in the room, wearing a silk kimono and drying her hair with a towel.
I said, “I’m looking for my robe.”

“Here, let’s get you organized.” And she began sorting and hanging things in the closet, and folding things, and so on.

Women have this incredible knack with fabrics, and they make it look easy, but I can’t even get a pair of pants to hang straight
on a hanger.

I felt a little silly in my undershorts, rooting around on the floor, but I finally found my robe jammed into the duffel bag,
and I slipped it on as the phone rang. I said to Cynthia, “Kiefer calling back.”

I picked up the phone and said, “Brenner here.”

But it was not Kiefer, it was Cal Seiver. He said to me, “Paul, I studied that footprint chart until I went blind, and I studied
plaster casts until I got a hernia. I can’t find any further evidence that Colonel Kent was at the scene earlier than he says
he was. I figured, since we know what we’re looking for now, I could have the footprint team do it again tomorrow, but this
rain is a washout.”

“Did you leave the tarps and pavilion there?”

“No. Maybe I should have, but Colonel Kent said he’d take care of scene security and cover the whole area with rolled canvas.
But I was out there a little while ago, and there’s no canvas down, and not even an MP to secure the scene. The crime scene
is ruined, polluted.”

“Yup. Sure is.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Did you get the cast off to Oakland?”

“Yeah. Chopper to Gillem, and they’ll find a military flight to the left coast. I’ll hear something by morning.”

“Fine.”

“You still want the latent-footprint team?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s all muck out there.”

“Okay, forget it. We got lucky enough for one case. Where’s Grace?”

“Glued to her screen. She wanted me to tell you that she pulled up a recent letter from the deceased to Mrs. William Kent—you
were interested in Kent.”

“Still am. What did the letter say?”

“Basically, it said that Colonel Kent was making more of a platonic friendship than he should, and would Mrs. Kent be so kind
as to speak to her husband before she—Captain Campbell—had to make an official complaint. Captain Campbell suggested counseling
for the Kents.” He added, “Wouldn’t want one of those to go to my wife.”

“What was the date of the letter?”

“Hold on.”

I watched Cynthia separating underwear from toilet articles. That bastard Yardley.

Cal came back on the line. “Ten August.”

That would be eleven days ago, and I assumed that Mrs. Kent had decamped Bethany Hill upon receipt of that letter. Obviously,
too, the letter was written as a result of Kent’s unscheduled visit to Ann Campbell’s house, not to mention his bad manners
in throwing her boyfriend of the evening out, and raping his hostess. My goodness. So Ann Campbell had decided to do something
about Kent, but she was handling unstable explosives, and that letter was the detonator. I said to Cal, “Need a printout of
that. Hold it for me.”

“Right. Also, three gentlemen of the Federal Bureau of Investigation arrived about a half hour after you left.”

“Were they charming?”

“Couldn’t have been nicer. Complimenting me on the setup here, congratulating me on every fucking fingerprint I took. They
poked around and grilled me for about an hour. Grace played possum on a cot. One of the guys was messing with the computer,
but the disk was in the cot with Grace.” He added, “They said they’d be back in the morning with their own forensic people.”

“Okay. Turn it all over to them at noon. Anything else?”

“Nope. It’s late, raining, too wet to plow, and I’m too tired to dance.”

“Right. Get on the footprint guy in Oakland. This case is hanging on the question of who stepped on whose bootprint. Talk
to you tomorrow.” I hung up and briefed Cynthia while I helped her get me straightened out.

I’ve had live-in friends on occasion, and I enjoy the presence of a woman in the house for brief periods of time. They fall
into two categories: the organizers and the slobs. There’s probably a third category—the naggers, who try to get you to do
things, but I’ve never run into one of those. Oddly, I have no preference regarding organizers or slobs, as long as they don’t
try to pick my clothes for me. Basically, all women are nurturers and healers, and all men are mental patients to varying
degrees. It works fine if people stick to their fated roles. But nobody does, so you have six or seven good months, then you
discover exactly what it is you hate about each other, then you run the moving-in and unpacking tape in reverse and watch
the door slam.

Cynthia folded the last pair of socks and said to me, “Who does your laundry and ironing?”

“Oh, I have a sort of housekeeper. Farm woman, keeps an eye on things when I’m gone.”

“Are you the helpless type?”

“Well, yes, with fabrics and stuff, and needles and thread, but I can field-strip an M-16 rifle blindfolded and have it together
again within three minutes.”

“So can I.”

“Good. I have one at home you can clean for me.”

The phone rang, and I motioned to Cynthia to answer it. It was Kiefer, and I went into the bathroom and dried my hair with
a towel. Cynthia had laid out my toilet articles, and I combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and slipped my shorts off under
my robe. Second greatest feeling in the world.

I ditched the shorts in the trash can and went back into the bedroom. Cynthia was sitting at the edge of the bed, listening
on the phone, her legs crossed, rubbing her foot with her free hand. Cynthia, I noted in passing, had good legs.

She looked up and smiled at me, then said into the phone, “Okay, thanks. Good work.” She hung up and stood. “Well, Kiefer
turned up one interesting tidbit. Seems that Mrs. Kent drives a black Jeep Cherokee, and that Mrs. Kent is known in MP radio
circles as the Bat Lady, and the Jeep is called the Batmobile. Kiefer heard one reference on the master radio tape to the
Batmobile. An unidentified MP on mobile patrol said, ‘Niner-niner, Batmobile with Randy Six parked in library lot. Heads up.’
” Cynthia added, “That’s a typical officer-in-the-area kind of warning to the troops. Also, in case you never noticed, the
library is across the road from Post Headquarters.”