The General's Daughter (6 page)

I asked her, “Then what did you do?”

“I returned to my vehicle and called for assistance.”

“You followed the same path to and from the body?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you touch anything except the body? The ropes, the tent pegs, the undergarments?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you touch the victim’s vehicle?”

“No, sir. I did not touch the evidence beyond determining that the victim was dead.”

“Anything else you want to mention?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you.”

PFC Casey saluted, turned, and resumed her position.

Kent, Cynthia, and I glanced at one another, as if trying to see what the others were thinking, or feeling. Truly, moments
like this try the soul and become indelibly burned into the mind. I have never forgotten a death scene, and never want to.

I looked down at Ann Campbell’s face for a full minute, knowing I would not see it again. This is important, I think, because
it establishes a communion between the living and the dead, between the investigator and the victim. Somehow it helps—not
her, but me.

We went back to the road and walked around the humvee that Ann Campbell had driven, then looked inside the driver’s side window,
which was open. Many military vehicles have no ignition keys, only a starter button switch, and the switch on the humvee was
in the off position. On the front passenger seat was a black leather nonmilitary-issue handbag. Cynthia said to me, “I would
have gone through the bag, but I didn’t want to do that without your permission.”

“We’re off to a good start. Retrieve the handbag.”

She went around to the passenger side, and, using a handkerchief, opened the door, took out the bag with the handkerchief,
then sat on the lower bench of the bleachers and began laying out the contents.

I got down on the road and slid under the humvee, but there was nothing unusual on the blacktop. I touched the exhaust system
at various points and found it slightly warm in spots.

I stood, and Colonel Kent said to me, “Any ideas?”

“Well, a few possible scenarios come to mind. But I have to wait until forensic gets finished. I assume you called them.”

“Of course. They’re on their way from Gillem.”

“Good.” Fort Gillem is outside Atlanta, about two hundred miles north of Hadley, and the CID lab there is a state-of-the-art
operation that handles all of North America. The people who work there are good, and like me they go where they’re needed.
Major crimes are still relatively rare in the Army, so the lab can usually muster the resources it needs when a big one comes
down. In this case, they’d probably show up with a caravan. I said to Colonel Kent, “When they get here, tell them to be very
curious about a black smudge on the sole of her right foot. I want to know what it is.”

Kent nodded, probably thinking to himself,
Typical CID bullshit.
And he might well have been right.

“Also, I want you to do a grid search. Let’s say two hundred meters in each direction from the body, excluding an area fifty
meters immediately around the body.” This would mess up any footprints, but there were hundreds of bootprints in the area
of the rifle range anyway, and the only ones I was interested in were those within fifty meters of the body. I said to Kent,
“I want your people to gather up anything that isn’t natural flora—cigarette butts, buttons, paper, bottles, and all that,
and record the grid where they found it. All right?”

“No problem. But I think this guy got in and got out clean. Probably by vehicle, just like the victim.”

“I think you’re right, but we’re creating files.”

“We’re covering our asses.”

“Right. We go by the book.” Which was safe and sometimes even effective. Bottom line on this one, though, I was going to have
to get real creative, and I was going to piss off a lot of important people. That’s the fun part.

I said to Kent, “I need Captain Campbell’s personnel and medical files sealed and in your office before noon.”

“Okay.”

“And I need an office at your place, and a clerk.”

“One desk or two?”

I glanced at Cynthia. “I guess two desks. But I’m not committing to this yet.”

“Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Paul. You in or not?”

“I’ll see what they say at Falls Church. Okay, delay notifying the public information officer until about ten hundred hours.
Send two guys to Captain Campbell’s office and physically remove her desk, furniture, and all her personal possessions, and
have everything locked up in your evidence room. And have Sergeant St. John and PFC Robbins remain in the provost marshal’s
office until I can see them. I don’t want anyone speaking a word of this until they’ve spoken to me. And it is your unpleasant
duty, Colonel, to pay an official call on General and Mrs. Campbell at their home. Go unannounced and with an appropriate
chaplain and a medical officer in case anyone needs a sedative or something. They may not view the body at the scene. Okay?”

Kent nodded and let out a long breath. “Jesus Christ…”

“Amen. Meanwhile, instruct your people not to say a word about what we found here, and give forensic a set of disqualifying
fingerprints from PFC Casey, and disqualifying bootprints from everyone here at the scene, including yourself, of course.”

“Right.”

“Also, tape off the latrine sheds and don’t let anyone use them. Also, the latrines are off limits to forensic until I have
a chance to check them out.”

“Okay.”

I walked over to Cynthia, who was now putting everything back in the handbag, still using a handkerchief. “Anything interesting?”

“No. Basic stuff. Wallet, money, keys, and everything appears intact. Here’s a chit from the O Club. She had dinner last night.
Salad, chicken, white wine, and coffee.” She added, “She was probably there in the dining room about the same time we were
having a drink.”

Kent had joined us and he asked, “You two had drinks together? You know each other?”

I replied, “We had drinks separately. We are nodding acquaintances.” I asked Cynthia, “Campbell’s address?”

“Off post, unfortunately. Victory Gardens on Victory Drive in Midland. Unit forty-five.” She added, “I think I know the place—a
town-house complex.”

Kent said, “I’ll call Chief Yardley—that’s the Midland police chief, and he’ll get a court order and he can meet us there.”

“No. We’ll keep this in the family, Bill.”

“You can’t go search her off-post house without a civilian search warrant—”

Cynthia handed me the keys from Ann Campbell’s bag and said, “I’ll drive.”

Kent protested, “You can’t go off post without civilian authority.”

I detached Ann Campbell’s car keys from the key chain and gave them to Kent, along with the victim’s handbag. “Find out where
her car is and impound it.”

As we walked toward Cynthia’s Mustang, I said to Kent, “You should stay here to direct things. When you write your report,
you can write that I said I was going to the Midland police. I’ll take responsibility for my change of mind.”

“Yardley is a tough, redneck son-of-a-bitch,” Kent informed me. “He’ll get your ass, Paul.”

“He has to stand in line and wait his turn.” To get Kent squared away so he didn’t do anything stupid, I said, “Look, Bill,
I have to have first look at Ann Campbell’s place. I have to remove anything that might embarrass her, her family, the Army,
or her military colleagues and friends. Right? Then we’ll let Chief Yardley have his shot at the house. Okay?”

He seemed to process this correctly and nodded.

Cynthia got behind the wheel of her Mustang and I got in the passenger seat. I said to Kent, “I may call you from there. Think
positive.”

Cynthia threw the five-liter Mustang into first gear, made a U-turn, and we were off, zero to sixty in about six seconds,
along the lonely Rifle Range Road.

I listened to the engine for a while and neither of us spoke, then Cynthia said, “I feel queasy.”

“Pretty awful,” I agreed.

“Disgusting.” She glanced at me. “Are you used to it?”

“God, no.” I added, “I don’t see that many homicides and not many like this.”

She nodded, then took a deep breath. “I think I can help you on this one. But I don’t want it to be awkward.”

“No problem,” I said. “But we’ll always have Brussels.”

“Where?”

“Belgium. The capital.”
Bitch.

We sat in silence, then Cynthia asked, “Why?”

“Why is Brussels the capital? Or why will we always have it?”

“No, Paul, why was she
murdered?”

“Oh… well, the possible motives in homicide cases,” I replied, “are profit, revenge, jealousy, to conceal a crime, to avoid
humiliation or disgrace, and homicidal mania. Says so in the manual.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, when rape precedes homicide, it usually comes down to revenge or jealousy or possibly to conceal the identity of the
rapist. She may have known him, or she could have identified him afterward if he wasn’t wearing a mask or disguise.” I added,
“On the other hand, this certainly looks like a lust murder, the work of a homicidal rapist—a person who gets his sexual release
from the killing itself, and he may not even have penetrated her with his penis. That’s what it looks like, but we don’t know
yet.”

Cynthia nodded, but offered nothing.

I asked her, “What do
you
think?”

She let a few seconds go by, then replied, “Obviously premeditated. The perpetrator had a rape kit—the tent pegs, rope, and
presumably something to drive the pegs into the ground. The perpetrator must have been armed in order to overcome the victim’s
own weapon.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the perpetrator got the drop on her, then made her toss away her weapon, then made her strip and walk out on the rifle
range.”

“Okay. I’m trying to picture how he managed to stake her out and still keep her under his control. I don’t think she was the
submissive type.”

Cynthia replied, “Neither do I. But there may have been two of them. And I wouldn’t make the assumption that the perpetrator
or perpetrators was a
he
until we have some lab evidence.”

“Okay.” I was obviously having trouble with personal pronouns this morning. “Why weren’t there any signs of struggle on her
part, or brutalization on his—on the perpetrator’s part?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. You usually get some brutalization… The ligature isn’t what you’d call friendly, however.”

“No,” I replied, “but the guy didn’t hate her.”

“He didn’t like her much, either.”

“He may have. Look, Cynthia, you do this stuff for a living. Does this resemble any rape you’ve ever seen or heard about?”

She mulled that over, then said, “It has some of the elements of what we call an organized rape. The assailant planned a rape.
But I don’t know if the assailant knew her, or if the assailant was just cruising and she was a victim of opportunity.”

“The assailant may have been in uniform,” I suggested, “which was why she was not on her guard.”

“Possible.”

I looked out the open window, smelled the morning dews and damps among the thick pines, and felt the rising sun on my face.
I rolled up the window and sat back, trying to picture what preceded what I had just seen, like running the film backward;
Ann Campbell staked out on the ground, then standing naked, then walking from the jeep, and so on. A lot of it didn’t compute.

Cynthia broke into my thoughts. “Paul, the uniform had her name tag on it, and so did her dog tags, obviously, and probably
her helmet and boots had her name stenciled inside. So what do the missing items have in common? Her name. Correct?”

“Correct.” Women bring different things to the party. And that’s okay. Really.

She said, “So this guy is into… what? Trophies? Proof?

Mementos and souvenirs? That’s consistent with the personality and profile of an organized sex offender.”

“But he left her underwear and handbag.” I added, “Actually, what all the missing items have in common is that they are all
her military issue, including her holster and sidearm, and they would not have her name on them. He left the
civilian
stuff behind, including her watch and her handbag, which has all sorts of things with her name on them. Correct?”

“Is this a contest?”

“No, Cynthia. It’s a homicide investigation. We’re brainstorming.”

“Okay. Sorry. That’s what partners are supposed to do in a homicide investigation.”

“Right.”
Partner?

Cynthia stayed silent a moment, then said, “You know this stuff.”

“I hope so.”

“Okay, why did he take only her military issue?”

“Ancient warriors stripped the arms and armor from their dead enemies. They left the loincloths.”

“That’s why he took her military issue?”

“Maybe. Just a thought. Could be a red herring. Could be some other mental derangement that I’m not familiar with.”

She glanced at me as she drove.

I added, “He may not have raped her. But he staked her out like that to draw attention to the sexual nature of his act, or
possibly to dishonor her body, to reveal her nakedness to the world.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Maybe you do.”

“I have to think about it. I’m starting to think he knew her.” Actually, I
knew
he knew her. We rode in silence a while longer, then I said to Cynthia, “I don’t know why it happened, but how does this
sound for
how
it happened: Ann Campbell leaves Post Headquarters and goes directly to the rifle range, stopping a good distance from PFC
Robbins’s guard post. She has a preplanned rendezvous with a lover. They do this often. He plays the armed bandito and gets
the drop on her, makes her strip, and they get into some kinky S&;M and bondage thing.” I glanced at Cynthia. “You know what
I mean?”

“I know nothing about sexual perversions. That’s your department.”

“Well said.”

She added, “Your scenario sounds like male fantasy. I mean, what woman would go through all that trouble to be staked out
on the cold ground and call that fun?”