"You didn't go into details about her condition, the possible rape?"
"No... He did ask how she died, and I said she was apparently strangled."
"And he said?"
"Nothing."
"And you gave him my name and phone number?"
"Yes. Well, he asked if the CID was doing everything possible. I told him I'd taken advantage of your presence here, and Ms. Sunhill's presence, and that I'd requested that you take the case."
"And he said?"
"He said he wanted Major Bowes, the CID commander here, to take the case, and that you and Ms. Sunhill were relieved of your responsibility."
"And you said?"
"I didn't want to get into it with him, but he understands that this is one thing that he has no control of on this post."
"Indeed not."
Cynthia asked, "And how did Mrs. Campbell take it?"
Kent replied, "She was stoic, but about to fall apart. Appearances are important with general officers and their ladies, and they're both from the old school."
"All right, Bill. Forensic will be here after dark, and they'll stay through the night. Tell your people here that no one else is allowed in, except us."
"Right." He added, "Don't forget-the general would like to see you at his home, soonest."
"Why?"
"Probably to get the details of his daughter's death, and to ask you to brief Major Bowes, and to ask you to step aside."
"Sounds good to me. I can do that over the phone."
"Actually, I got a call from the Pentagon. The judge advocate general agrees with your boss that you and Ms. Sunhill, as outside parties and being more experienced than the local CID people at Hadley, are best equipped to handle this. That's the final word. You can pass that on to General Campbell when you see him. And I suggest you do so now."
"I'd rather speak to Charles Moore now."
"Make an exception, Paul. Do the politics first."
I looked at Cynthia and she nodded. I shrugged. "Okay. General and Mrs. Campbell."
Kent walked with us across the hangar. He said, "You know, it's ironic... Ann had a favorite expression, a sort of personal motto that she got from... some philosopher... Nietzsche.The expression was, 'What does not destroy us, makes us stronger.' " He added, "Now she's destroyed."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
We headed toward the general's quarters on main post. Cynthia said, "I'm starting to see a picture of a tortured, unhappy young woman."
"Adjust your rearview mirror."
"Cut it out, Paul."
"Sorry."
I must have drifted off because the next thing I remember is Cynthia poking me. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes. Cut it out."
"I said, I think Colonel Kent knows more than he's telling."
I sat up and yawned. "One gets that impression. Can we stop for coffee someplace?"
"No. Tell me, is Kent really a suspect?"
"Well... in a theoretical sense. I didn't like it that his wife was out of town and he had no corroboration for his alibi. Most married men, in the early morning hours, are in bed with their wives. When the wives are out of town, and something like this happens, you have to wonder if it was his bad luck or something else."
"And Chief Yardley?"
"He's not as stupid as he sounds, is he?"
"No," confirmed Cynthia, "he is not. I worked a rape case with him about a year ago when I returned from Europe. The suspect was a soldier, but the victim was a Midland girl, so I had the pleasure of meeting Chief Yardley."
"He knows his business?"
"He's been at it a long time. As he pointed out to me then, officers and soldiers come and go from Hadley, but he's been a Midland cop for thirty years, and he knows the territory, on and off post. He's actually very charming when he wants to be, and he's extremely cunning."
"He also leaves his fingerprints in places where he suspects they might already be."
"So did Kent. So did we."
"Right. But I know I didn't kill Ann Campbell. How about you?"
"I was sleeping," Cynthia said coolly.
"Alone. Bad luck. You should have invited me up to your room. We'd both have an alibi."
"I'd rather be a murder suspect."
The road was long, straight, and narrow, a black slash between towering pines, and heat waves shimmered off the hot tar. "Does it get this hot in Iowa?"
"Yes," she replied, "but it's drier."
"Did you ever think about going home?"
"Sometimes. How about you?"
"I get back fairly often. But there's less there each time. South Boston is changing."
"Iowa stays the same. But I've changed."
"You're young enough to get out and start a civilian career."
"I like what I do," she replied.
"Do it in Iowa. Join the county police force. They'd love to have your experience."
"The last felon in the county was found dead of boredom ten years ago. There are ten men on the county police force. They'd want me to make coffee and screw for them."
"Well, at least you make good coffee."
"Fuck off, Paul."
Score another zinger for me. As I said, it's hard to hit on just the right tone and tint when speaking to someone you've seen naked, had sexual intercourse with, lain in bed with, and talked through the night with. You can't be stiff and cold, as if it never happened, yet you can't be too familiar because it's not happening anymore. You watch your language and watch your hands. You don't pinch the other person's cheek, or pat their butt, though you may want to. But neither do you avoid a handshake, and I guess you can put your hand on the other person's shoulder, or poke your finger in their stomach as Cynthia did to me. There really ought to be a manual for this kind of thing, or, lacking that, a law that says that exlovers may not come within a hundred yards of each other. Unless, of course, they're trying to get it on again. I said to her, "I always had the feeling that we left things up in the air."
She replied, "I always had the feeling that you chose to avoid a confrontation with my... my fiance and walked away." She added, "I wasn't worth the trouble."
"That's ridiculous. The man threatened to kill me. Discretion is the better part of valor."
"Maybe. But sometimes you have to fight for what you want. If you want it. Weren't you decorated for valor?"
I was getting a little annoyed now, of course, having my manhood questioned. I said, with some anger, "I received a Bronze Star for valor, Ms. Sunhill, for charging up a fucking hill that I didn't particularly need or want. But I'll be damned if I'm going to put on a show for your amusement." I added, "Anyway, I don't recall getting any encouragement from you."
She replied, "I wasn't quite sure which of you I wanted, so I thought I'd just go with whoever was left alive."
I looked at her, and she gave me a glance, and I saw she was smiling. I said, "You're not funny, Cynthia."
"Sorry." She patted my knee. "I love it when you get angry."
I didn't reply, and we rode in silence.
We entered the outskirts of the main post, and I saw the cluster of old concrete buildings with the sign that said, "U.S. Army Training School-Psy-Ops-Authorized Personnel Only."
Cynthia commented, "Can we hit that place after we see the general?"
I looked at my watch. "We'll try." Speed, speed. Beyond the problems of cold trails, I had the feeling that the more time everyone in Washington and Fort Hadley had to think, the more likely they'd start screwing me up. Within seventy-two hours, this base would be knee-deep in FBI guys and CID brass trying to score points, not to mention the media, who, even now, were probably in Atlanta trying to figure out how to get here from there.
Cynthia asked me, "What are we going to do about the stuff in her basement?"
"I don't know. Maybe we won't need it. That's what I'm counting on. Let it sit for a few days."
"What if Yardley finds that room?"
"Then it's his problem what to do with the information. We saw enough to get the idea."
"The clue to her killer may be in that room."
I stared out the side window and watched the post go by. After a minute, I said, "Here's what's in that room-enough compromising evidence to ruin careers and lives, including her parents' lives, not to mention the deceased's posthumous reputation. I don't know that we need anything more from that room."
"Is this Paul Brenner speaking?"
"It's Paul Brenner the career Army officer speaking. Not Paul Brenner the cop."
"Okay. I understand that. That's good."
"Sure." I added, "I'd do the same for you."
"Thanks. But I have nothing to hide."
"Are you married?"
"None of your business."
"Right."
We arrived at the general's official residence, called Beaumont, a huge brick plantation house complete with white columns. The house was set in a few acres of treed grounds on the eastern edge of the main post, an oasis of magnolias, stately oaks, flower beds and such, surrounded by a desert of military simplicity.
Beaumont is an antebellum relic, the former home of the Beaumont clan, who still exist in the county. Beaumont House escaped Sherman's March to the Sea, being not in the direct path of the march, but it had been looted and vandalized by Yankee stragglers. The locals will tell you that all the women in the house had been raped, but, in fact, the local guidebook says the Beaumonts fled a few steps ahead of the Yankees.
The house was expropriated by the Union occupation forces for use as a headquarters, then at some point returned to the rightful owners, then, in 1916, sold along with the plantation acreage to the federal government, who designated it Camp Hadley. So, ironically, it is again Army property, and the cotton fields around the house have become the main post, while the remainder of the 100,000 wooded acres is the training area.
It's hard to gauge how much of history impacts on the local population, but in these parts, I suspect the impact is greater than a kid from South Boston or an Iowa farm girl can fully understand. I deal with this as best I can and calculate it into my thinking. But in the end, when someone like me meets someone like Yardley, there is very little meeting of minds and souls.
We got out of the car and Cynthia said, "My knees are shaking."
"Walk around the gardens. I'll take care of this."
"I'll be all right."
We climbed the steps to the columned porch and I rang the bell. A handsome young man in uniform answered. He was a lieutenant, and his name tag said Elby. I announced, "Warrant Officers Brenner and Sunhill to see General and Mrs. Campbell at the general's request."
"Oh, yes." He looked over Cynthia's informal attire, then stepped aside, and we entered. Elby said, "I'm the general's personal aide. Colonel Fowler, the general's adjutant, wishes to speak to you."
"I'm here at the general's request to see the general."
"I know, Mr. Brenner. Please see Colonel Fowler first."
Cynthia and I followed him into the large foyer decorated in the style and period of the house, but I suspected that this wasn't original Beaumont stuff, but bits and pieces collected from the down-and-out minor gentry since the Army bought the place. Lieutenant Elby showed us into a small front room, a sort of official waiting room for callers with lots of seating and little else. The life of a plantation owner was, I'm certain, different from the life of a modern-day general, but what they had in common was callers, and lots of them. Tradesmen went around back, gentry were shown directly to the big sitting room, and callers on official business got as far as this room, until a decision could be made regarding their status.
Elby took his leave, and Cynthia and I remained standing. She said, "That was the young man who Colonel Kent said dated Ann Campbell. He's quite good-looking."
"He looks like a wimp and a bed wetter."