The General's Daughter (7 page)

I could see this was going to be a long day, and I hadn’t even had my breakfast yet. I said, “Do you know why her panties
were under the rope around her neck?”

“No, why?”

“Check the homicide manual under sexual asphyxia.”

“Okay.”

“Also, did you notice that there seemed to be a blacktop stain on the sole of her right foot?”

“I didn’t.”

“If it came from the road, why was she barefoot on the road?”

“He made her strip in, or near, the jeep.”

“Then why was her underwear on the rifle range?”

Cynthia replied, “She may have been forced to take off her clothes at, or in, the jeep, then she or the perpetrator carried
them to where she was staked out.”

“Why?”

“Part of the script, Paul. Sex offenders have incredibly involved fantasies that they perfect in their minds, things that
have a strong sexual meaning for them but for no one else. Making a woman strip, then walk naked carrying her own clothes
to a place where he intends to rape her may be his unique fantasy.”

“So you know this stuff? I’m not in sole charge of perversions.”

“I’m familiar with pathological sex acts and criminal deviations. I don’t know much about consenting sexual perversions.”

I let that one alone and pointed out, “The line between the two is a bit thin and indistinct on occasion.”

“I don’t believe that Ann Campbell was a consenting partner. Certainly, she didn’t consent to being strangled to death.”

“There are many possibilities,” I mused, “and it’s a good idea not to get married to any of them.”

“We need forensic, we need the autopsy, and we need to question people.”

We?
I looked out at the landscape as we drove in silence. I tried to recall what I knew about Cynthia. She was originally from
rural Iowa, a graduate of the state university, with a master’s in criminology, which she received at some civilian university
through the Army’s Technological Enhancement Program. Like a lot of women, as well as minorities that I’ve known in the Army,
the military offered more money, education, prestige, and career possibilities than they would have hoped for back on the
farm, in the ghetto, or whatever disadvantaged background they came from. Cynthia, I seemed to recall, expressed positive
views toward the Army—travel, excitement, security, recognition, and so on. Not bad for a farm girl. I said to her, “I’ve
thought about

you.”

No reply.

“How are your parents?” I inquired, though I never met them.

“Fine. Yours?”

“Fine. Still waiting for me to get out, grow up, get hitched, and make them grandparents.”

“Work on growing up first.”

“Good advice.” Cynthia can be sarcastic at times, but it’s just a defense mechanism when she’s nervous. People who’ve had
a prior sexual relationship, if they’re at all sensitive and human, respect the relationship that existed, and perhaps even
feel some tenderness toward the ex-partner. But there’s also that awkwardness, sitting side by side as we were, and neither
of us, I think, knew the words or the tone of voice we should adopt. I said again, “I’ve thought about you. I want you to
respond to that.”

She responded, “I’ve thought about you, too,” and we fell into a long silence as she drove, head and eyes straight ahead.

A word about Paul Brenner in the passenger seat. South Boston, Irish Catholic, still don’t recognize a cow when I see one,
high school graduate, working-class family. I didn’t join the Army to get out of South Boston; the Army came looking for me
because they’d gotten involved in a large ground war in Asia, and someone told them that the sons of working-class stiffs
made good infantrymen.

Well, I must have been a good infantryman, because I survived a year over there. Since that time, I’ve taken college courses,
compliments of the Army, as well as criminology courses and career courses. I’m sufficiently transformed so that I don’t feel
comfortable back in South Boston any longer, but neither do I feel comfortable at the colonel’s house, watching how much I
drink and making small talk with officers’ wives who are either too ugly to talk to or too good-looking to stick to small
talk.

So there we were, Cynthia Sunhill and Paul Brenner, from opposite ends of the North American continent, different worlds,
lovers in Brussels, reuniting in the Deep South, having just had the common experience of looking at the naked body of a general’s
daughter. Can love and friendship flourish under those circumstances? I wasn’t putting money on it.

She said, “I was sort of startled to see you last night. I’m sorry if I was rude.”

“No ifs about it.”

“Well, then, I apologize unequivocally. But I still don’t like you.”

I smiled. “But you’d like to have this case.”

“Yes, so I’ll be nice to you.”

“You’ll he nice to me because I’m your superior officer. If you’re not nice, I’ll send you packing.”

“Cut the posturing, Paul. You’re not sending me anywhere, and I’m not going anywhere.” She added, “We’ve got a case to solve,
and a personal relationship to straighten out.”

“In that order.”

“Yes, in that order.”

V
ictory Drive, formerly Pine Hollow Road, had been renamed during World War II in a frenzy of Orwellian name changing. It was
once a two-lane country road heading south out of Midland, but by the time I saw it first in 1971, it was becoming a mixture
of garden apartments and commercial garishness. Now, almost a quarter century later, there wasn’t even a hint of Pine Hollow
Road.

There is something uniquely ugly and depressing about commercial strips in the old South, great expanses of parking lots,
motels, fast-food places, discount stores, car dealers, and what passes for nightclubs hereabouts. The old South, as I remember
it, was perhaps not so prosperous, but it was picturesque with its tiny gas stations with the Coke cooler next to the fish-bait
cooler, the sagging pine houses, the country stores, and the baled cotton bursting from sheds along the railroad sidings.
These were the things that grew organically out of the soil, the lumber from the forests, the gravel roads from nearby quarries,
and the people themselves a product of their environment. These new things seem artificial, transplanted. Convenience stores
and shopping strips with mammoth plastic signs and no relationship to the land or the people, to history, or to local custom.

But, of course, the new South had embraced all of this, not quickly, as we had done up North, but embraced it nonetheless.
And in some strange way, the garish commercial strip was now more associated with the South than with anywhere else in the
country. The carpetbaggers have finally taken over.

Within fifteen minutes of leaving the post, we arrived at Victory Gardens and parked the Mustang near unit forty-five.

Victory Gardens was actually a pleasant sort of place, comprised of about fifty attached town houses around a central courtyard,
with landscaping and ample parking. There were no signs that said, “Officers Only,” but the place had that air about it, and
the rents probably approximated the offpost quarters’ allowance for lieutenants and captains. Money aside, there are unwritten
rules about where officers may live off post, and thus, Ann Campbell, daughter of a general and good soldier that she was,
had not gone to the funky side of town, nor had she opted for the anonymity of a newer high-rise building, which, in this
town, is somewhat synonymous with swinging singles. Yet, neither did she live in her parents’ huge, government-issue house
on post, which suggested that she had a life of her own, and I was about to discover something about that life.

Cynthia and I looked around. Though the Army workday starts early, there were still a few cars parked in front of the units.
Most of them had the blue post bumper stickers signifying an officer’s car, and some had the green bumper sticker of a civilian
post employee. But mostly, the place looked as deserted as a barracks after morning mess call.

I was still wearing the battle dress uniform I’d had on in the armory, and Cynthia was, as I said, in jeans and windbreaker.
As we approached the front door of unit forty-five along the row of red brick façades, I said to her, “Are you armed?”

She nodded.

“All right. You wait here. I’ll go in through the back. If I flush somebody out the front, you stop them right here.”

“Okay.”

I made my way around the row of units and came to the back. The rear yard was a common stretch of grass, but each unit had
a patio separated from the next by a wooden fence for privacy. On Ann Campbell’s patio was the standard barbecue grill and
lawn furniture, including a lounge chair on which lay suntan oil and a travel magazine.

There were sliding glass doors facing onto the patio, and I was able to see through the vertical blinds into the dining area
and part of the living room. There didn’t appear to be anyone home. Certainly, Ann Campbell was not home, and I couldn’t imagine
a general’s daughter having a live-in male lover, or even a female roommate, who would compromise her privacy. On the other
hand, you never know who’s inside a house, and when the subject is murder, you proceed with caution.

Where the patio met the back wall of the house was a basement window well, which meant these units had basements, which also
meant a tricky descent down an exposed staircase. Maybe I’d send Ms. Gung Ho down there first. In any case, the window well
was covered with a Plexiglas bubble that was bolted to the outside wall, so that no one could get out that way.

To the right of the sliding doors was a door that opened into the kitchen. There was a buzzer there, and I pushed it. I waited
and rang again, then tried the doorknob, which is a good idea before breaking and entering.

I should have gone straight to the Midland city police, of course, as Colonel Kent suggested, and the police would have been
happy to get a search warrant, and happier still to be included in the search of the victim’s house. But I didn’t want to
bother them with this, so I found the house key on Ann Campbell’s key chain and unlocked the door. I entered the kitchen,
then closed the door behind me and relocked it.

On the far side of the kitchen was a solid-looking door that probably led to the basement. The door had a bolt, which I slid
closed, so if someone was down there, he or she was locked in.

Having secured my rear, or perhaps having cut off my line of retreat, I moved unarmed and cautiously went through the house
to the front door and opened it, letting Cynthia in. We stood there in the cool, air-conditioned foyer a moment, looked around,
and listened. I motioned for Cynthia to draw her pistol, which she did, a .38 Smith &; Wesson. That done, I shouted, “Police!
Stay where you are and call out!” But there was no reply. I said to Cynthia, “Stay here and he prepared to use that.”

“Why do you think I’m carrying the fucking thing?”

“Good point.”
Bitch.
I walked first to the coat closet and pulled the door open, but no one was standing there with a tent peg in his hand. I
moved from room to room on the ground floor, feeling a little silly, ninety-nine percent sure the house was empty, but remembering
a case when it wasn’t.

A staircase led from the foyer to the second floor, and staircases, as I indicated, are dangerous, especially if they squeak.
Cynthia positioned herself at the base of the stairs, and I bounded up three steps at a time and flattened myself against
the upstairs hallway wall. There were three doors coming off the upstairs hallway, one open, two closed. I repeated my order
to stay put and call out, but again no answer.

Cynthia called up to me, and I looked down the stairs. She was halfway up and pitched the Smith &; Wesson underhand. I caught
it and motioned her to stay where she was. I flung open one of the closed doors, dropped into a firing stance, and shouted,
“Freeze!” But my aggressiveness did not provoke a response. I peered into the unlit room and saw what appeared to be a spare
bedroom, sparsely furnished. I closed the door, then repeated the procedure with the second closed door, which turned out
to be a large linen closet. Despite all the acrobatics, I knew that if there was anyone up there with a gun who wanted to
use it, I’d be dead by now. But you have to go through the drill. So I spun back against the hallway wall and glanced inside
the door that had been open. I could see a large bedroom and another door that led to a bathroom. I motioned Cynthia to come
up the stairs and handed her the Smith &; Wesson. “Cover me,” I said, and entered the large master bedroom, keeping an eye
on the sliding doors of the closet, and the open bathroom. I picked up a bottle of perfume from the dressing table and threw
it in the bathroom, where it shattered. Recon by fire, as we used to say in the infantry, but again I did not provoke a response.

I gave the bedroom and bathroom a quick look, then rejoined Cynthia, who was in a crouched firing stance off to the side door,
covering all the doors. I half expected, half wanted someone to be in this house so I could arrest him—or her—wrap the case,
and get the hell back to Virginia. But that was not to be.

Cynthia looked into the large bedroom and commented, “She made her bed.”

“Well, you know how those West Pointers are.”

“I think it’s sad. She was so neat and orderly. Now she’s dead and everything will be a mess.”

I glanced at Cynthia. “Well, let’s begin in the kitchen.”

I
ndeed, there is something sad and eerie about intruding into a dead person’s house, walking through rooms they will never
see again, opening their cabinets, closets, and drawers, handling their possessions, reading their mail, and even listening
to the messages on their answering machine. Clothes, books, videotapes, food, liquor, cosmetics, bills, medicine… a whole
life suddenly ended away from home, and no one left behind, and a house filled with the things that sustain, define, and hopefully
explain a life—room by room with no living guide to point out a favorite picture on the wall, to take you through a photo
album, to offer you a drink, or tell you why the plants are dry and dying.