The General's Daughter (56 page)

The news media, according to a memo I’d seen on my desk, were limited to a pool of selected print journalists, and the only
photographers present were two from the Army Public Information Office. The memo, signed by Colonel Fowler, had suggested
not giving direct quotes to the journalists.

We climbed the steps and went into the narthex, where a dozen men and women stood conversing in hushed funereal tones. We
all signed the guest book, and I walked into the dark chapel, which was no cooler than outside, and noted that the pews were
nearly all full. The funeral of the commanding officer’s daughter was not a command-attendance situation, but only a moron
would fail to show up here, or at least at the ceremonies later.

In fact, not all of Fort Hadley’s officers and spouses, or Midland’s civilian dignitaries, could fit into the chapel, which
held about five or six hundred people, but I was certain that there were people already assembling at Jordan Field for the
final send-off.

The organ was playing softly in the choir loft above us, and we stood in the center aisle a moment, each of us, I think, trying
to decide if we should walk to the casket, which sat on a catafalque at the foot of the altar steps. Finally, I began the
long walk, and Cynthia and Karl followed.

I approached the flag-draped and half-opened casket on the left, stopped, and looked down at the deceased.

Ann Campbell looked peaceful, as Kent had indicated, her head resting on a pink satin pillow, and her long hair sort of fanned
out around her head and face. I noted that she had more makeup on in death than she’d probably ever worn in life.

They had dressed her in the evening white uniform that a female officer would wear to formal functions, and it was an appropriate
choice, I thought, the white waistcoat with gold braid and the white ruffled blouse, making her appear gossamery, if not virginal.
She wore her medals on her left breast, and her sheathed West Point saber was laid on her body so that her clasped hands,
which might hold a cross or rosary beads depending on one’s religion, held, instead, the hilt of her sword at her midriff.
The sheathed blade disappeared beneath the half-lid of the casket.

It was quite a striking sight, to be honest: the beautiful face, the golden hair, the gold braid, the glittering brass and
steel of the saber, and the snow-white uniform against the pink satin lining of the casket.

I took all this in very quickly, of course, no more than five seconds, then, good Catholic that I am, I made the sign of the
cross and moved around the casket and started down the center aisle.

I saw the Campbells in the first two rows on the right: the general, Mrs. Campbell, a young man whom I recognized from the
family album in Ann Campbell’s house as their son, and various other family members, old and young, all wearing black outfits
and black mourning bands, which are still customary in the military.

I avoided eye contact with any of them and proceeded up the aisle slowly until my coterie caught up with me.

We found three seats together in the same pew that held Major Bowes, whom I knew only from his name tag, and a woman I presumed
to be Mrs. Bowes. Bowes nodded to Colonel Hellmann, who failed to acknowledge the presence of an adulterer and jackass. Mrs.
Bowes, incidentally, was rather attractive, proving once again that men are basically pigs.

Despite having just viewed the mortal remains of a young woman, I was feeling slightly better, as people do who consider their
position relative to less fortunate souls, such as people with big career problems, like Bowes, murder suspects, like Kent,
or married people in general, and the sick, dying, and dead.

The chaplain, Major Eames, wearing only the green dress uniform with no ecclesiastic vestments, came to the pulpit, and a
hush fell over the crowd. Major Eames began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God to bid farewell
to our sister, Ann Campbell.”

A lot of people sobbed.

I whispered to Karl, “The chaplain fucked her, too.”

Karl’s jaw dropped this time. The day still had possibilities.

T
he simple service proceeded with prayers, organ music, and a few hymns. Senior military officers are great churchgoers, of
course; it comes with the territory of God and Country. But they tend to be nondenominational, which is safe, gray, and nondescript,
like most of their careers.

The upside of this at military weddings and funerals is that you get to pick and choose the best aspects of each denomination’s
liturgy, hymns, and prayers, and you can make it short. I can tell you from experience that a Catholic funeral mass can be
long and arduous enough to kill off a few of the old folks.

Anyway, at the designated time, Colonel Fowler mounted the lectern to deliver the eulogy.

Colonel Fowler acknowledged the presence of family, friends, fellow officers, coworkers, and Midland dignitaries. He said,
“In our chosen profession, more than in any other profession, we see and hear of the untimely deaths of young men and women.
We do not grow accustomed to death, and we do not become hardened to death, but rather we cherish life more because we know
and accept the fact that Army life puts us in harm’s way. When we took the oath, we fully understood that we could be called
upon to risk our lives in the defense of our country. Captain Ann Campbell understood that when she accepted her commission
from the Military Academy, she understood that when she went to the Gulf, and she understood that when, at an hour when most
people are safe in their homes, she volunteered to go out and see that all was secure at Fort Hadley. This was a completely
voluntary act, not specifically related to her duties, but the sort of thing that Ann Campbell did without being told.”

I listened, and it occurred to me that, if I didn’t know better, I’d buy it. Here was a gung-ho young female officer volunteering
for night duty officer, then taking the initiative to go out to check the guard and being murdered while she was doing a good
deed. How sad. That’s not the way it happened, but the truth was even sadder.

Colonel Fowler went on, “I’m reminded of a line from Isaiah 21:11—‘Watchman, what of the night?’ ” He repeated it,“ ‘Watchman,
what of the night?’ and the watchman replied, ‘Morning is coming.’ And aren’t we all watchmen? This is our calling in life,
as soldiers, to stand the watch, each day, each night, eternally vigilant so that others may sleep peacefully until morning,
until the day when it pleases God to call us into His Kingdom, and we need not stand the watch, nor fear the night.”

Fowler had a good, deep speaking-voice, and his delivery was flawless. Clearly, the man could have been a preacher, or a politician,
if he weren’t so obsessed with right and wrong.

I’m not a good public listener, and I tend to drift. So I drifted to Ann Campbell’s open casket, her face, the sword, and
her folded hands around the hilt, and I realized what was wrong with that picture: someone had slipped a West Point ring on
her finger. But was it
her
ring? And if it was, who had put it there? Fowler? General Campbell? Colonel Moore? Colonel Kent? Where did it come from?
But did it make any difference at this point?

Colonel Fowler was still speaking, and I tuned back in.

He said, “I knew Ann as a child—a very precocious, high-spirited, and bratty child.” He smiled, and there was subdued laughter.
He became serious again and continued, “A beautiful child, not only physically but spiritually beautiful, a special and gifted
child of God. And all of us here who knew her and loved her…”

Fowler, smooth as he was, couldn’t slide over that double entendre, but it was only a momentary breath pause, noticed solely
by those who
had
known her intimately and loved her well.

“… all of us will miss her deeply.”

Colonel Fowler had a lot of people sobbing now, and I could see one reason why the Campbells had asked him to deliver the
eulogy. The other reason, of course, was that Colonel Fowler had not slept with the deceased, putting him on the short list
of potential eulogizers. But I’m being cynical again. Fowler’s eulogy was moving, the deceased had suffered a great wrong,
a wrongful and untimely death had occurred, and I was feeling like crap again.

Colonel Fowler did not mention specifically how she died, but did say, “The battlefield, in modern military jargon, is described
as a hostile environment, which it most certainly is. And if you expand the meaning of battlefield to include any place where
any soldier is standing and serving, then we can truthfully say that Ann died in battle.” He looked out over the crowd and
concluded, “And it is only proper and fitting that we remember her not as a victim, but as a good soldier who died doing her
duty.” He looked at the casket and said, “Ann, that’s how we’ll remember you.” Colonel Fowler came down from the lectern,
stopped at the casket, saluted, then took his seat.

The organ began playing, and the service continued for a few more minutes. Chaplain Eames led the mourners in the Twenty-third
Psalm, everyone’s favorite, and concluded with a benediction that ended with “Go in peace.”

The organist played “Rock of Ages,” and everyone stood.

All in all a good service, as funeral services go.

The eight honorary pallbearers stood in the front left pew and filed into the aisle at the foot of the casket, while the six
casket bearers took up their positions on either side of the casket. I noted that the six casket bearers were all young male
lieutenants, picked, perhaps, for their youth and strength, or perhaps for their lack of involvement with the deceased. Even
Lieutenant Elby, I noticed, whose intentions had been honorable, had been barred from carrying the casket.

Likewise, the honorary pallbearers, who would normally be high-ranking associates of the general or close personal friends
of the deceased, were obviously chosen for their clean hands; they were, in fact, all female officers, including the general’s
other aide, Captain Bollinger. An all-female contingent of honorary pallbearers seemed appropriate on the surface of it, but
for those who understood why senior male officers had been excluded, it seemed that the general had finally gotten his way
in keeping his daughter’s intimates away from her.

The eight female officers proceeded toward the chapel entrance, and the six casket bearers closed the top half of the lid,
covered it with the American flag, grasped the side handles of the casket, and hefted it off the catafalque.

Chaplain Eames walked in front of the casket, and the Campbells in the rear. As is customary when the casket is in motion,
everyone in the pews who was in uniform faced the body and saluted.

The chaplain led the procession to the entrance, where the eight honorary pallbearers stood at attention and saluted as the
casket passed between them. At this point, the mourners began filing out.

Outside, in the hot sun, I watched as the casket bearers secured the flag-draped casket to the old wooden caisson, which was,
in turn, hitched to a humvee.

Assembled on a large stretch of grass across from the chapel were the escort vehicles—staff cars and buses to transport the
family, the band, the pallbearers, the firing party, and the color guard. Every veteran has the right to be buried in a national
cemetery with full honors, but you only get all this hoopla if you die on active duty. If there’s a war on, however, they
may bury the numerous dead overseas, or, as in Vietnam, they send them back by the planeload for reshipment to various hometowns.
In any case, whether you’re a general or a private, you get the twenty-one-gun salute.

People mingled awhile, as people do, speaking to one another, to the chaplain, comforting the Campbells.

I spotted a few of the journalists, who were trying to figure out whom to interview, and I saw the Army PIO photographers
discreetly taking pictures from a distance. The news stories to date had been guarded and vague, but hinted at things that
I thought were best left alone.

I noticed a young man standing near the Campbells who, as I said, I recognized from the family album as the son, John. But
I would have recognized him anyway. He was tall, good-looking, and had the Campbell eyes, hair, and chin.

He looked a bit lost, standing off to the side of the clan, so I went up to him and introduced myself as Warrant Officer Brenner,
and said to him, “I’m investigating the circumstances of your sister’s death.”

He nodded.

We spoke a moment, I passed on my condolences, and we chatted about nothing in particular. He seemed a likable guy, well-spoken,
clean-cut, and alert. In many ways, he was what we called officer material; but he had not opted for that role, either because
he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps or because he felt his free spirit might be a hindrance. He may have been
right in both cases, but, like many sons of the high and the mighty, he had not found his place in the world.

John strongly resembled his sister in appearance, and my purpose in speaking to him was not solely to express my sympathy.
I said to him, “Do you know Colonel William Kent?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “Name sounds familiar. I think I met him at some parties.”

“He was a great friend of Ann’s, and I’d like you to meet him.”

“Sure.”

I led him to where Kent was standing on the sidewalk, speaking to a few of his officers, including my recent acquaintance,
Major Doyle. I interrupted the conversation and said to Kent, “Colonel Kent, may I introduce Ann’s brother, John?”

They shook hands, and John said, “Yes, we did meet a few times. Thank you for coming.”

Kent seemed not able to find the words for a reply, but he glanced at me.

I said to John, “Colonel Kent, aside from being a friend of Ann’s, has been a great help in the investigation.”

John Campbell said to Kent, “Thank you. I know you’re doing all you can.”

Kent nodded.

I excused myself and left them to chat.