This sort of took me by surprise. I said to Moore, "He treated treated her her badly?" badly?"
"Yes. He wouldn't call, he went out with other women, he saw her when it suited him."
This wasn't computing. If I was in love with Ann Campbell, why wasn't every other man following her around like a puppy dog? I said to Moore, "Why would she put up with that? I mean, she was... desirable, attractive..." Incredibly beautiful, sexy, and she had a body you could die for. Or kill for.
Moore smiled, almost knowingly, I thought. This guy made me uncomfortable. He said, "There is a type of personality-I'll put this in layman's terms: Ann Campbell liked the bad boys. Whoever showed her the slightest bit of attention, she considered weak and contemptible. That included most men. She was drawn to men who treated her badly, almost abusive men. Wes Yardley is such a man. He's a Midland policeman like his father, he is a local playboy and has many women friends, he's good-looking, I suppose, and has some of the charm of a southern gentleman and all of the macho posturing of a good ol' boy. Rogue or scoundrel might be good words to describe him."
I was still having trouble with this, and I said, "And Ann Campbell was involved with him for two years?"
"On and off."
Cynthia said, "She discussed all of this with you?"
"Yes."
"Professionally?"
He nodded at her astuteness. "Yes, I was her therapist."
I was not as astute, perhaps because my mind was unsettled. I was extremely disappointed in Ann Campbell. The playroom and the photos didn't upset me, perhaps because I knew that these men were just objects and she used them as such. But the idea of a boyfriend, a lover, someone who abused her, a relative of Burt Yardley at that, really pissed me off.
Cynthia said to Moore, "You know just about everything there is to know about her."
"I believe so."
"Then we'll ask you to help us with the psychological autopsy."
"Help you? You couldn't even scratch the surface, Ms. Sunhill." you? You couldn't even scratch the surface, Ms. Sunhill."
I composed myself and said to him, "I'll need all your notes and transcripts of all your sessions with her."
"I never took a single note. That was our arrangement."
Cynthia said, "But you will assist assist us?" us?"
"Why? She's dead."
Cynthia replied, "Sometimes a psychological autopsy helps us develop a psychological profile of the killer. I assume you know that."
"I've heard of it. I know very little about criminal psychology. If you want my opinion, it's mostly nonsense, anyway. We're all criminally insane, but most of us have good control mechanisms, internal and external. Remove the controls and you have a killer. I've seen well-adjusted men in Vietnam kill babies."
No one spoke for a while, and we just sat there with our own thoughts.
Finally, Cynthia said, "But we expect you, as her confidant, to tell us everything you know about her, her friends, her enemies, her mind."
"I suppose I have no choice."
"No, you don't," Cynthia assured him. "But we'd like your cooperation to be voluntary, if not enthusiastic. You do want to see her killer brought to justice."
"I'd like to see her killer found because I'm curious about who it may be. As for justice, I'm fairly certain that the killer thought he was administering justice."
Cynthia asked, "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, when a woman like Ann Campbell is raped and murdered almost under her father's nose, you can be certain that someone had it in for her, her father, or both, and probably for a good reason. At least good in his own mind." He stood. "This is very upsetting for me. I feel a strong sense of loss. I'm going to miss her company. So if you'll excuse me..."
Cynthia and I stood also. He was a colonel, after all. I said, "I'd like to speak to you tomorrow. Please keep your day loose, Colonel. You interest me."
He left and we sat down.
The food came and I picked at my cheeseburger. Cynthia said, "Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"I think Ann Campbell's choice of lovers has upset you. You kind of went into a funk when he said that."
I looked at her. "They say never get emotionally involved with witnesses, suspects, or victims. But sometimes you can't help it."
"I always get emotionally involved with rape victims. But they're alive and hurting. Ann Campbell is dead."
I didn't respond to that.
Cynthia continued, "I hate to say this, but I know the type. She probably took sadistic delight in mentally torturing men who couldn't keep their eyes or minds off her good looks, then she masochistically gave herself to a man who she knew was going to treat her like dirt. Most likely, on some dim level, Wes Yardley knew his part and played it well. Most probably, she was sexually jealous of his other women, and, most probably, he was indifferent to her threats to find another boyfriend. They had a good relationship within the unhealthy world they created. Wes Yardley is probably the least likely suspect."
"How do you know all that?"
"Well... I haven't been there myself, but I know lots of women who have. I see too many of them."
"Really?"
"Really. You know men like that, too."
"Probably."
"You're showing classical symptoms of fatigue. You're getting dull and stupid. Go get some sleep and I'll wake you later."
"I'm fine. Did you get me a room?"
"Yes." She opened her purse. "Here's the key. The stuff you asked for is in my car, which is open."
"Thanks. How much do I owe you?"
"I'll put it on my expense account. Karl will get a laugh out of the men's underwear." She added, "You can walk to the VOQ from here, unless you want to borrow my car."
"Neither. Let's go to the provost marshal's office." I stood.
"You could use a little freshening up, Paul."
"You mean I stink?"
"Even a cool guy like you sweats in Georgia in August."
"All right. Put this stuff on my tab."
"Thanks."
"Wake me at 2100."
"Sure."
I walked a few paces from the table, then came back and said, "If she didn't have anything to do with the officers on post, and she was crazy over this Midland cop, who were those guys in the photos?"
Cynthia looked up from her sandwich. "Go to bed, Paul."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
The phone in my room rang at 2100 hours, waking me out of a restless sleep. The voice said, "I'll be downstairs."
"Give me ten minutes." I hung up, went into the bathroom, and washed my face. The visiting officers' quarters at Fort Hadley is a two-story structure of tan brick that vaguely resembles a civilian motor inn. It's okay, and the rooms are clean, but, in typical military fashion, there's no airconditioning, and there's a common bathroom between every two rooms just in case you get the idea that the Army is getting soft on its junior officers. When you use the bathroom, you're supposed to bolt the door that leads to the other room, then remember to unbolt it when you leave so the person next door can get in. This rarely works out right.
I brushed my teeth with the recently purchased items, then went into the bedroom and unwrapped my new shirt, wondering how I was going to get my stuff from Whispering Pines to here without running into the local fuzz. This was not the first time I'd become persona non grata in town, and it wouldn't be the last. Usually, we can straighten things out so I can drive away after I'm finished with a case. But once, at Fort Bliss, Texas, I had to be helicoptered out and didn't see my car for a few weeks, until someone was detailed to drive it to Falls Church. I put in for the nineteen cents a mile, but Karl turned it down on a technicality.
Anyway, the jockey shorts were small, not medium. Women can be petty. I got dressed, complete with Glock 9mm accessories, and went out into the hall, where I saw Cynthia coming out of the next room. I asked her, "Is that your room?"
"No, I'm cleaning it for a total stranger."
"Couldn't you get me a room down the hall or something?"
"Actually, this place is full of summer reservists doing their two weeks. I had to pull my CID routine to get you any any room." She added, "I don't mind sharing a bathroom with you." room." She added, "I don't mind sharing a bathroom with you."
We got outside and into her Mustang. She said, "Rifle range six?"
"Right." She was still wearing the black pants and white blouse, but had put on running shoes and a white sweater. The flashlight I asked her to bring was on the console between the seats. I asked her, "Are you carrying?"
"Yes. Why? Are you expecting trouble?"
"A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime."
"Nonsense."
The sun had set, a full moon was rising, and I hoped that the conditions at this hour were close enough to those of the early morning hours out on the rifle ranges to get a sense of what may have happened, and to give me inspiration.
We drove past the post movie theater, where a crowd was letting out, then past the NCO Club, where the drinks are better than in the Officers' Club, the food is cheaper, and the women are friendlier.
Cynthia said, "I went to the provost marshal's office and saw Colonel Kent."
"Good initiative. Anything new?"
"A few things. First, he wants you to go easy on Colonel Moore. Apparently, Moore complained about your aggressive behavior."
"I wonder who Kent complains to."
"Here's more good news. You had a message from Karl, and I took the liberty of calling him at home. He's royally pissed-off about someone called Dalbert Elkins, who he says you transformed from a criminal into a government witness with immunity."
"I hope someone does the same for me someday. Anything else?"
"Yes. Karl, round two. He has to report to the judge advocate general at the Pentagon tomorrow, and he'd like a more comprehensive report than the one you filed earlier today."
"Well, he can wing it. I'm busy."
"I typed out a report and faxed it to his home."
"Thank you. What did the report say?"
"There's a copy of it on your desk. Do you trust me or not?"
"Of course. It's just that if this case goes bad, you may be safe if you don't have your name on things."
"Right. I signed your name to it."
"What?"
"Just kidding. Let me worry about my career"
"Fine. Anything from forensic?"
"Yes. The hospital sent a preliminary protocol to the provost marshal's office. Death occurred no earlier than midnight and no later than 0400 hours."
"I know that." The autopsy report, known for some unexplained reason as the protocol, generally picked up where forensic left off, though there was some overlap, which is fine. The more ghouls, the better.
"Also, death was definitely a result of asphyxia. There were internal traumas discovered in her neck and throat, and she'd bitten her tongue. All consistent with strangulation."
I've seen autopsies, and, as you can imagine, they are not pleasant things to watch. Being murdered and naked is undignified enough, but being sliced up and examined by a team of strangers is the ultimate violation. "What else?" I asked.
"Lividity and rigor were consistent with the position of the body as it was found, so it appears that death occurred there, and there was no movement of the body from another location. Also, there were no other wounds aside from the ligature around her neck, no other trauma to exposed tissue or to bones, brain, vagina, anus, mouth, and so forth."
I nodded, but made no response. "What else?"
Cynthia gave me a rundown of stomach contents, bladder and intestine contents, conditions of the internal organs, and anatomical findings. I'm glad I hadn't finished that cheese-burger, because my stomach was getting jumpy. Cynthia said, "There was was some erosion of the cervix, which could be consistent with an abortion, a prior disease, or perhaps insertions of large objects." some erosion of the cervix, which could be consistent with an abortion, a prior disease, or perhaps insertions of large objects."
"Okay... is that it?"
"That's it for now. The coroner hasn't done microscopic examinations of tissue and fluids yet, or toxology, which they want to do independent of the forensic lab." Cynthia added, "She didn't keep any secrets from them, did she?"