"Just investigate the murder."
"That's what I want to hear."
"You've heard it. Anything further?"
"Yes. I want Ms. Sunhill removed from the case."
"I didn't assign her to the case. Why is she on the case?"
"For the same reason I'm on the case. We were here. We're not connected to the power structure or personalities here. Kent asked us to help him until you officially assign a team."
"You're officially assigned. Why don't you want her on the case?"
"We don't like each other."
"You never worked together. So what is the basis of that dislike?"
"We had a personal falling-out. I have no knowledge of her professional abilities."
"She's quite competent."
"She has no homicide experience."
"You have very little rape experience. Now, here we have a rope homicide, and you two will make an excellent team."
"Karl, I thought we discussed this once. You promised not to assign us to the same duty station at the same time. Why was she here?"
"I never made such a promise. The needs of the Army come first."
"Fine. The needs of the Army would best be served if you reassigned her today. Her case here is finished."
"Yes, I have her report."
"So?"
"Hold on."
He put me on hold. Karl was being particularly insensitive and difficult, which I know is his way of telling me he has every confidence in my ability to handle a tough assignment. Still, it would have been nice to hear a word or two acknowledging that I'd caught a bad squeal. Yes, Paul, this will be very sensitive, very difficult, and potentially harmful to your career. But I'm behind you all the way. Yes, Paul, this will be very sensitive, very difficult, and potentially harmful to your career. But I'm behind you all the way. Maybe even a few words about the victim and her family. Maybe even a few words about the victim and her family. Tragic, yes, tragic. Such a young, beautiful, and intelligent woman. Her parents must be devastated. Tragic, yes, tragic. Such a young, beautiful, and intelligent woman. Her parents must be devastated. I mean, get human, Karl. I mean, get human, Karl.
"Paul?"
"Yes?"
"That was Ms. Sunhill on the line."
I thought it might be. I said, "She has no business going over my head-"
"I reprimanded her, of course."
"Good. You see why I don't-"
"I told her you don't wish to work with her, and she claims that you are discriminating against her because of her sex, her age, and her religion."
"What? I don't even I don't even know know her religion." her religion."
"It's on her dog tags."
"Karl, are you jerking me around?"
"This is a serious charge against you."
"I'm telling you, it's personal. personal. We don't get along." We don't get along."
"You got along very well in Brussels, from what I've been told."
Fuck you, Karl. "Look, do you want me to spell it out?" "Look, do you want me to spell it out?"
"No, I've already had it spelled out for me by someone in Brussels last year and by Ms. Sunhill a minute ago. I trust my officers to behave properly in their personal lives, and, while I don't require that you be celibate, I do require that you be discreet, and that you don't compromise yourself, the Army, or your assignment."
"I never did."
"Well, if Ms. Sunhill's fiance had put a bullet through your head, you would have left me me with the mess." with the mess."
"That would have been my last thought as my brain exploded."
"Good. So you are a professional, and you will establish a professional relationship with Ms. Sunhill. End of discussion."
"Yes, sir." I asked him, "Is she married?"
"What difference does it make to you?"
"There are are personal considerations." personal considerations."
"Neither you nor she has a personal life until you conclude this case. Anything further?"
"Did you tell Ms. Sunhill about your rather odd experiment?"
"That's your job." Karl Gustav hung up, and I sat a moment, considering my options, which boiled down to resigning or pushing on. Actually, I had my twenty years in, and I could put in my papers anytime, get out with half pay, and get a life.
There are different ways to end an Army career. Most men and women spend the last year or so in a safe assignment and fade away into oblivion. Some officers stay too long, fail to make the next grade, and are asked to leave quietly. A fortunate few go out in a blaze of glory. And then there are those who go for that last moment of glory and crash in flames. Timing is everything.
Career considerations aside, I knew that if I pulled out, this case would haunt me forever. The hook was in, and, in fact, I don't know what I would have said or done if Karl had tried to take me off the case. But Karl was a contrary and counter-suggestible son-of-a-bitch, so when I said I didn't want the case, I had the case, and when I said I didn't want Cynthia, I had Cynthia. Karl is not as smart as he thinks.
On the desk in my new office were Captain Ann Campbell's personnel and medical files, and I flipped through the former. These files contain a soldier's entire Army career, and they can be informative and interesting. Chronologically, Ann Campbell entered West Point some twelve years before, graduated in the top ten percent of her class, was given the traditional thirty-day graduation leave, and was assigned, at her request, to the Military Intelligence Officer Course at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. From there, she went to graduate school at Georgetown and received her master's in psychology. Her next step was to apply for what we call a functional area, which in this case was psychological operations. She completed the required course at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg, then joined the 4th Psychological Operations Group, also at Bragg. From there, she went to Germany, then back to Bragg. Then the Gulf, the Pentagon, and finally Fort Hadley.
Her officer efficiency reports, at first glance, looked exceptional, but I didn't expect otherwise. I found her Army test battery of scores and noted that her IQ put her into the genius category, the top two percent of the general population. My professional experience has been that an inordinate number of two-percenters wind up on my desk as suspects, usually in homicide cases. Geniuses don't seem to have much tolerance for people who annoy them, or hinder them, and they tend to think they are not subject to the same rules of behavior as the mass of humanity. They are often unhappy and impatient people, and they can also be sociopaths, and sometimes psychopaths who see themselves as judge and jury and, now and then, as executioner, which is when they come to my attention.
But here I had not a suspect, but a victim who was a two-percenter, which could be a meaningless fact in this case. But my instinct was telling me that Ann Campbell was a perpetrator of something before she became a victim of that something.
I opened the medical file and went directly to the back, where psychological information, if any, is usually placed. And here I found the old psychological evaluation report, which is required for entry into West Point. The reporting psychiatrist wrote: This is a highly motivated, bright, and well-adjusted person. Based on a two-hour interview and the attached testing results, I found no authoritarian traits in her personality, no delusional disorders, mood disorders, anxiety disorders, personality disorders, or sexual disorders. This is a highly motivated, bright, and well-adjusted person. Based on a two-hour interview and the attached testing results, I found no authoritarian traits in her personality, no delusional disorders, mood disorders, anxiety disorders, personality disorders, or sexual disorders.
The report went on to say that there were no apparent psychological problems that would prevent her from fulfilling her duties and obligations at the United States Military Academy. Ann Campbell was a normal eighteen-year-old American girl, whatever that meant in the latter part of the twentieth century. All well and good.
But there were a few more pages in the psychological section, a short report dated in what would have been the fall semester of her third year at West Point. Ann Campbell had been ordered to see a staff psychiatrist, though who had ordered this, and why, was not stated. The psychiatrist, a Dr. Wells, had written: Cadet Campbell has been recommended for therapy and/ or evaluation. Cadet Campbell claims "There is nothing wrong with me." She is uncooperative, but not to the extent that I can forward a delinquency report on her to her commanding officer. In four interviews, each lasting approximately two hours, she repeatedly stated that she was just fatigued, stressed by the physical and academic program, anxious about her performance and grades, and generally overworked. While this is a common complaint of first-and second-year cadets, I have rarely seen this degree of mental and physical stress and fatigue in third-year students. I suggested that something else was causing her stress and feelings of anxiety, perhaps a love interest or problems at home. She assured me that everything was fine at home and that she had no love interest here at the academy or anywhere. Cadet Campbell has been recommended for therapy and/ or evaluation. Cadet Campbell claims "There is nothing wrong with me." She is uncooperative, but not to the extent that I can forward a delinquency report on her to her commanding officer. In four interviews, each lasting approximately two hours, she repeatedly stated that she was just fatigued, stressed by the physical and academic program, anxious about her performance and grades, and generally overworked. While this is a common complaint of first-and second-year cadets, I have rarely seen this degree of mental and physical stress and fatigue in third-year students. I suggested that something else was causing her stress and feelings of anxiety, perhaps a love interest or problems at home. She assured me that everything was fine at home and that she had no love interest here at the academy or anywhere. I observed a young woman who was clearly underweight, obviously distracted, and, in general terms, troubled and depressed. She cried several times during the interviews, but always got her emotions under control and apologized for crying. I observed a young woman who was clearly underweight, obviously distracted, and, in general terms, troubled and depressed. She cried several times during the interviews, but always got her emotions under control and apologized for crying. At times, she seemed on the verge of revealing more than common cadet complaints, but always drew back. She did say once, however, "It doesn't matter if I go to class or not, it doesn't matter what I do here. They're going to graduate me anyway." I asked if she thought that was true because she was General Campbell's daughter, and she replied, "No, they're going to graduate me because I did them a favor." At times, she seemed on the verge of revealing more than common cadet complaints, but always drew back. She did say once, however, "It doesn't matter if I go to class or not, it doesn't matter what I do here. They're going to graduate me anyway." I asked if she thought that was true because she was General Campbell's daughter, and she replied, "No, they're going to graduate me because I did them a favor." When I asked what she meant by that, and who "they" were, she replied, "The old boys." Subsequent questions elicited no response. When I asked what she meant by that, and who "they" were, she replied, "The old boys." Subsequent questions elicited no response.I believe we were on the threshold of a breakthrough, but her subsequent appointments, originally ordered by her commander, were canceled without explanation by a higher authority whose name I never learned. My belief is that Cadet Campbell is in need of further evaluation and therapy, voluntary or involuntary. Lacking that, I recommend a psychiatric board of inquiry to determine if Cadet Campbell should be given a psychiatric separation from the academy. I further recommend a complete medical examination and evaluation. My belief is that Cadet Campbell is in need of further evaluation and therapy, voluntary or involuntary. Lacking that, I recommend a psychiatric board of inquiry to determine if Cadet Campbell should be given a psychiatric separation from the academy. I further recommend a complete medical examination and evaluation.
I digested this brief report, wondering, of course, how a well-adjusted eighteen-year-old had turned into a depressed twenty-year-old. The rigors of West Point could easily explain that, but obviously Dr. Wells wasn't buying it, and neither was I.
I leafed through the file, intending at some early date to read it from cover to cover. As I was about to close the folder, an errant scrap of paper caught my eye and I read the handwritten words: Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.-Nietzsche. Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.-Nietzsche. What that quote was doing there, I don't know, but it was appropriate in the file of a psy-ops officer and would have been appropriate in the file of a CID man as well. What that quote was doing there, I don't know, but it was appropriate in the file of a psy-ops officer and would have been appropriate in the file of a CID man as well.
CHAPTER NINE.
I did not need to be, nor did I want to be, Sergeant Franklin White any longer, especially since Sergeant White had to salute every snot-nosed lieutenant he passed. So I made the half-mile walk to the Infantry Training Brigade and retrieved my pick-up truck, then headed out to Whispering Pines to change into civvies. did not need to be, nor did I want to be, Sergeant Franklin White any longer, especially since Sergeant White had to salute every snot-nosed lieutenant he passed. So I made the half-mile walk to the Infantry Training Brigade and retrieved my pick-up truck, then headed out to Whispering Pines to change into civvies.
I drove past the post armory, but didn't see Sergeant Elkin's POV parked in the lot. I had this unsettling thought that Elkins was going to consummate the deal behind my back and take off for parts unknown, leaving me to explain how I let a few hundred M-16s and grenade launchers get into the hands of Colombian banditos.
But first things first. I left post and got onto the highway. The drive to Whispering Pines took about twenty minutes, during which time I reconstructed the events of the morning from the time the phone rang in the armory. I do this because my employer, the United States Army, is big on chronology and facts. But in a murder investigation, what you see and when you saw it is not the whole game, because by the nature of the act of murder, the crucial things happened before you got there. There is sort of a spirit world that coexists with the world of empirical observation, and you have to get in touch with that world through the detective's equivalent of the seance. You don't use a crystal ball, though I'd like one that worked-but you do clear your mind and listen to what isn't said and see things that aren't there.
That aside, Karl needed a written report, so I drafted one in my mind: Further to our phone conversation, the general's daughter was a whore, but what a magnificent whore. I can't get her out of my mind. If I had been obsessively in love with her and found out she was fucking for everyone, I would have killed her myself. Nevertheless, will find son-of-a-bitch who did it and see that he faces a firing squad. Thanks for the case. (Signed) Brenner. Further to our phone conversation, the general's daughter was a whore, but what a magnificent whore. I can't get her out of my mind. If I had been obsessively in love with her and found out she was fucking for everyone, I would have killed her myself. Nevertheless, will find son-of-a-bitch who did it and see that he faces a firing squad. Thanks for the case. (Signed) Brenner.
That might need a little work. But it's important, I think, to admit to yourself the truth of how you feel about things. Everyone else is going to lie, posture, and dissemble.
Regarding that, I thought about Cynthia. In truth, I couldn't get the woman out of my mind. I kept seeing her face and hearing her voice, and I was right then missing her. This is presumptive evidence of a strong emotional attachment, perhaps a sexual obsession, and, God forbid, love. This was worrisome, not only because I wasn't ready for this but because I wasn't sure how she felt. Also, there was the murder. When you get handed a murder, you have to give it everything you've got, and if you don't have much left to give, you have to draw on psychic energy that you've been saving for other things. Eventually, of course, there's nothing left to borrow, and people like Cynthia, young and filled with a sense of duty and enthusiasm, call you cold, callous, and cynical. I deny this, of course, knowing I'm capable of emotions and feelings, of love and warmth. I was sort of like that in Brussels last year, and look at what it got me. Anyway, murder deserves one's undivided attention.
I looked out the windshield as I approached Whispering Pines Trailer Park. Up ahead, on the left, I saw a county road crew making a blacktop repair, and I recalled two and a half decades ago when I saw my first Georgia chain gang. I don't think they use chain gangs on the roads anymore, and I hope they don't. But I recall the sight vividly, the prisoners, filthy and bowed, their ankles connected by chains, and the guards in sweaty tan uniforms, carrying rifles and shotguns. I couldn't believe at first what I was seeing. Paul Brenner, late of South Boston, simply could not comprehend that men were chained together, working like slaves in the blistering sun, right here in America. I actually felt my stomach tighten as though someone had punched me.
But that Paul Brenner no longer existed. The world had become softer, and I'd become harder. Somewhere on the time line, the world and I had been harmonious for a year or two, then went our separate ways again. Maybe my problem was that my worlds changed too much: Georgia today, Brussels last year, Pago Pago next week. I needed to stop in one place for a while, I needed to know a woman for more than a night, a week, or a month.
I passed between two stripped pine trees to which had been nailed a hand-painted sign overhead that once read "Whispering Pines." I parked the pickup truck near the owner's mobile home and began the trek to my aluminum abode. I think I liked rural southern poverty better when it was housed in wooden shacks with a rocking chair and a jug of corn squeezings on the front porch.
I did a walk around the trailer, checking for open windows, footprints, and other signs that someone had been there. I came around to the entrance and inspected the strand of sticky filament I'd placed across the door and the frame. It's not that I'd seen too many movies where the detective goes into his house and gets clubbed over the head. But I spent five years in the infantry, one of them in 'Nam, and about ten years in Europe and Asia dealing with everyone from drug traffickers, to arms smugglers, to just plain murderers, and I know why I'm alive, and I know how to stay that way. In other words, if you have your head up your ass, four of your five senses aren't working.
I entered the mobile home and left the door open as I checked to see that I was the only one there. I seemed to be alone, and the premises seemed to be the way I'd left them.
I walked to the back bedroom. This was the room I used for my office where my pistols were kept, along with my notes, reports, codebooks, and other tools of the trade. I had put a hasp and padlock on this bedroom door so no one, including the owner of the trailer park, could get into it, and I'd also put epoxy glue in the sliders of the only window. I unlocked the padlock and went inside.
The bedroom furniture came with the place, but I'd signed out a camp desk and chair from the post quartermaster, and on the desk I saw that the light on the telephone answering machine was blinking. I hit the message button, and a prerecorded male voice with a nasal problem announced, "You have one message." Then another male voice said, "Mr. Brenner, this is Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant. General Campbell wishes to see you. Report to his home, ASAP. Good day."
Rather curt. All I could deduce from that was that Colonel Kent had finally got around to informing the deceased's next of kin and had volunteered the information that this Brenner guy from Falls Church was the investigating officer and had given Colonel Fowler my phone number. Thanks, Kent.
I had no time for General or Mrs. Campbell at the moment, so I erased the message from the tape and from my mind.
I went to the dresser and took my 9mm Glock automatic with holster, then exited the spare bedroom, closing the padlock behind me.
I entered the master bedroom, changed into a blue tropical wool suit, adjusted the holster, went into the kitchen, popped a cold beer, then exited the trailer. I left the pickup truck where it was and got into the Blazer. Thus transformed, I was outwardly prepared to deal with rape and murder, though somewhere along the line I had to log some cot time.
I took a few pulls on the beer as I drove. This state has a law about open alcoholic beverage containers which the locals say means, if you open it, you have to finish it before you throw it out the window.
I detoured into a depressing suburb of small ranch houses called Indian Springs. There were no Indians around, but there were plenty of cowboys, judging from the souped-up vehicles in the driveways. I pulled into the driveway of a modest home and hit the horn a few times. This is in lieu of getting out and ringing the bell, and is perfectly acceptable hereabouts. A wide woman came to the door, saw me, and waved, then disappeared. A few minutes later, Sergeant Dalbert Elkins ambled out of the house. One of the good things about pulling night duty is that you get the next day off, and Elkins was obviously enjoying the day, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, a beer in each hand. I said to him, "Get in. We got to see a guy on post."
"Aw, sheet."
"Come on. I'll get you back here, ASAP."
He yelled back into the house, "Gotta go!" Then he climbed into the passenger seat and handed me one of the beers.
I took it, backed out of the driveway, and drove off. Sergeant Elkins had four questions for me: Where'd you get this Blazer? Where'd you get that suit? How was the pussy? Who we gotta see?
I replied that the Blazer was borrowed, the suit came from Hong Kong, the other thing was A-one, and we had to see a guy in jail.
"In jail? jail?"
"A good buddy. They got him locked in the provost office. I got to see him before they take him to the stockade."
"Why? What for?"
"They got him for DWI. I got to drive his car out to his place. His old lady's nine months pregnant and she needs the wheels. They live out by you. You follow me back in the Blazer."
Sergeant Elkins nodded as if he'd done this before. He said, "Hey, tell me about the pussy."
So, wanting him to be happy, I went into my good ol' boy rap. "Well, I got me a little slopehead 'bout as tall as a pint of piss, and I just pick her up by the ears and stick her on my dick, then slap her upside the head and spin her 'round my cock like the block on a shithouse door."
Elkins roared with laughter. Actually, that wasn't bad. You'd never know I was from Boston. God, I'm good.
We made small talk and sipped beer. As we drove onto the post, we lowered the beer cans as we passed the MPs, then tucked them away under the seats. I pulled up to the provost marshal's office and we got out and went inside.
The duty sergeant stood and I put my CID badge case up to his face and kept walking. Sergeant Elkins either didn't notice or it happened too fast for him. We walked down a corridor to the holding cells. I found a nice empty one in the corner with an open door, and I nudged Sergeant Elkins inside. He seemed confused and a little anxious. He asked, "Where's your buddy...?"
"You're my buddy." I closed the cell door and it locked. I spoke to my buddy through the bars. "You are under arrest." I held up my badge case. "The charge is conspiracy to sell military property of the United States without proper authority, and frauds against the United States." I added, "Plus, you weren't wearing your seat belt."
"Oh, Jesus... oh, Lord..."
The expression on a man's face when you announce that he's under arrest is very interesting and revealing, and you have to judge your next statement by his reaction. Elkins looked like he'd just seen St. Peter giving him a thumbs-down. I informed him, "I'm going to give you a break, Dalbert. You're going to handwrite and sign a full confession, then you're going to cooperate with the government in nailing the guys we've been talking to. You do that, and I'll guarantee you no jail time. You get a dishonorable discharge and forfeiture of all rank, pay, allowances, and retirement benefits. Otherwise, it's life in Leavenworth, good buddy. Deal?"
He started to cry. I know I'm getting soft because there was a time I wouldn't have even offered such a great deal, and if a suspect started to cry, I'd slap him around until he shut up. But I'm trying to become more sensitive to the needs and wants of criminals, and I tried not to think of what those two hundred M-16s and grenade launchers could do to cops and innocent people. Not to mention the fact that Staff Sergeant Elkins had broken a sacred trust. I said to Elkins, "Deal?"
He nodded.
"Smart move, Dalbert." I fished around in my pocket and found the rights card. "Here. Read this and sign it." I handed him the card and a pen. He wiped his tears as he read his rights as an accused. I said, "Sign the damn thing, Dalbert."
He signed and handed me the card and the pen. Karl was going to fly into a monumental fit when I told him I'd turned Elkins into a government witness. Karl's philosophy is that everyone should go to jail, and no one should be able to cut a deal. Court-martial boards didn't like to hear about deals. Okay, but I had to shortcut this case to get on to the case that had the potential to harm me. Karl said to finish it. It was finished.
An MP lieutenant approached and asked me to explain and identify myself. I showed him my CID identification and said to him, "Get this man some paper and pen for a confession, then take him to the post CID and turn him over to them for further interrogation."