The General's Daughter - The General's Daughter Part 5
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The General's Daughter Part 5

I turned on the TV, expecting that it would be tuned to a fitness or news channel. But instead it was on the VCR channel. I rummaged through the videotape collection, which consisted of a few old black-and-white classics, a few exercise tapes, and some hand-labeled tapes marked "Psy-Ops, Lecture Series."

I put one of them in the recorder and pushed the play button. "Take a look."

Cynthia turned around and we both watched as Captain Ann Campbell's image filled the screen, dressed in battle fatigues and standing at a rostrum. She was, indeed, a very good-looking woman, but beyond that she had bright and alert eyes that stared into the camera for a few seconds before she smiled and began, "Good morning, gentlemen. Today we are going to discuss the several ways in which psychological operations, or psy warfare, if you wish, can be used by the infantry commander in the field to decrease enemy morale and fighting effectiveness. The ultimate objective of these operations is to make your job as infantry commanders somewhat easier. Your mission-to make contact with and destroy the enemy-is a tough one, and you are aided by other branches of the Army, such as artillery, air, armor, and intelligence. However, a little-understood and too-little-used tool is available to you-psychological operations."

She went on, "The enemy's will to fight is perhaps the single most important element that you must calculate into your battle plans. His guns, his armor, his artillery, his training, his equipment, and indeed even his numbers are all secondary to his willingness to stand and fight." She looked out over her offscreen audience and let a moment pass before continuing. "No man wants to die. But many men can be motivated to risk their lives in defense of their countries, their families, and even an abstraction, or a philosophy. Democracy, religion, racial pride, individual honor, unit and interpersonal loyalty, the promise of plunder, and, yes, women... rape. These are among the historical motivators for frontline troops."

As she spoke, a slide projection screen behind her flashed images of ancient battle scenes taken from old prints and paintings. I recognized "The Rape of the Sabines," by Da Bologna, which is one of the few classical paintings I can name. Sometimes I wonder about myself.

Captain Campbell continued, "The objective of psychological warfare is to chip away at these motivators, but not to tackle them head-on, as they are often too strong and too ingrained to be changed in any significant way through propaganda or psy-ops. The best we can hope to do is to plant some seeds of doubt. However, this does not crack morale and lead to mass desertions and surrender. It only lays the groundwork for stage two of psy-ops, which is, ultimately, to instill fear and panic into the enemy ranks. Fear and panic. Fear of death, fear of grotesque wounds, fear of fear. Panic-that least understood of all psychological states of mind. Panic-a deep abiding, free-floating anxiety, often without any reason or logical basis. Our ancestors used war drums, war pipes, bloodcurdling shouts, taunts, and even breast beating and primal screams to induce panic in the enemy camps."

The image on the screen behind her now looked to be a depiction of a Roman army in full flight, being chased by a horde of fierce-looking barbarians.

She continued, "In our pursuit of technical excellence and high-tech solutions to battlefield problems, we have forgotten the primal scream." Ann Campbell hit a button on the rostrum and a high-decibel, bloodcurdling scream filled the room. She smiled and said, "That will loosen your sphincter." A few men in the classroom laughed, and the microphone picked up some guy saying, "Sounds like my wife when she climaxes." More laughter, and Captain Campbell, reacting to the remark, laughed too, an almost bawdy laugh, completely out of character. She looked down a moment, as if at her notes, and when she looked up again, her expression had returned to business and the laughter died down.

I had the impression she was playing the crowd, getting them on her side the way most male Army instructors did with an off-color joke or an occasional personal comment. Clearly, she had reached out and touched the audience, had shared a moment of sexual complicity and revealed what was beneath the neat uniform. But only for a moment. I turned off the VCR. "Interesting lecture."

Cynthia said, "Who would want to kill a woman like that? I mean, she was so alive. alive. So vital and so self-assured..." So vital and so self-assured..."

Which may be why someone wanted to kill her. We stood in silence a moment, sort of in respect, I suppose, as if Ann Campbell's presence and spirit were still in the room. In truth, I was quite taken with Ann Campbell. She was the type of woman you noticed, and once seen, was never forgotten. It wasn't only her looks that grabbed your attention, but her whole demeanor and bearing. Also, she had a good command voice, deep and distinct, yet feminine and sexy. Her accent was what I call Army brat-a product of ten or twenty duty stations around the world, with an occasional southern pronunciation taking you by surprise. All in all, this was a woman who could command the respect and attention of men, or drive them to distraction.

As for how women related to her, Cynthia seemed impressed, but I suspected that some women might find her threatening, especially if their husbands or boyfriends had any proximity to Ann Campbell. How Ann Campbell related to other women was, as yet, a mystery. Finally, to break the silence, I said, "Let's finish this business."

We went back to our search of the study. Cynthia and I both went through a photo album we found on the shelf. The photos appeared to be entirely en famille: en famille: General and Mrs. Campbell, a young man who was probably the son, shots of Daddy and Ann in mufti, uncle and aunt types, West Point, picnics, Christmas, Thanksgiving, ad nauseam, and I had the impression her mother put the album together for her daughter. This was documentary proof positive that the Campbells were the happiest, most loving, best adjusted, most socially integrated family this side of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, with Mary taking most of the snapshots. "Pablum," I said. "But it General and Mrs. Campbell, a young man who was probably the son, shots of Daddy and Ann in mufti, uncle and aunt types, West Point, picnics, Christmas, Thanksgiving, ad nauseam, and I had the impression her mother put the album together for her daughter. This was documentary proof positive that the Campbells were the happiest, most loving, best adjusted, most socially integrated family this side of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, with Mary taking most of the snapshots. "Pablum," I said. "But it does does tell one something, does it not?" tell one something, does it not?"

"What?" asked Cynthia.

"They probably all hate one another."

"You're being cynical," she said. "And jealous," she added, "because we don't have families like this."

I closed the album. "We'll soon find out what's behind their cheesy smiles."

At this point, the enormity of what we were doing seemed to hit Cynthia and she said, "Paul... we have to question General Campbell... Mrs. Campbell..."

I replied, "Murder is unpleasant enough. When it's rape and murder and it doesn't appear random, and the victim's father is a national hero, then the idiots who are going to examine the victim's life had better know what they're getting into. Understand?"

She contemplated this a moment and informed me, "I really want this case. I feel... you know... some affinity for her. I didn't know her, but I know life wasn't easy for her in this man's Army."

"Spare me, Cynthia."

"Well, really, Paul, how would you know?"

"Try being a white man these days."

"Give me a break."

"Now I remember what we used to fight about."

"Neutral corners."

We walked to opposite sides of the room, though not the corners, and continued our search. I looked at the framed things on the wall-Ann Campbell's West Point diploma, her Army commission, training certificates, commendations, and a few other Department of the Army and Department of Defense certificates, including one that recognized her contribution to Operation Desert Storm, though the nature of the contribution was not specified. I cleared my throat and said to Ms. Sunhill, "Did you ever hear about Operation Bonkers during Desert Storm?"

She replied, "Not that I recall."

"Well, some smart cookie in psy-ops had this idea of dropping hard-core porno photos on the Iraqi positions. Most of those poor bastards had not seen a woman in months or years, so this psy-ops sadist wants to bury them in photos of hot, pink flesh, which will drive them bonkers. The idea goes all the way up to the joint command, and it's a definite winner, a go, until the Saudis hear about it and go ballistic. You know, they're a little tight and not as enlightened as we are about bare tits and ass. So the thing was squashed, but the word was that the idea was brilliant and could have shortened the ground war from four days to fifteen minutes." I smiled.

Cynthia replied frostily, "It's disgusting."

"Actually, I agree in theory. But if it saved one life, it might have been justified."

"The means do not justify the ends. What's the point?"

"Well, what if the idea of the porno bombardment had come from a woman instead of some male pig?"

"You mean Captain Campbell?"

"Certainly that idea came out of the Special Operations School here. Let's check it out."

Cynthia went into one of her contemplative moods, then looked at me. "Did you you know her?" know her?"

"I knew of of her." her."

"What did you know of of her?" her?"

"What most everyone else knew, Cynthia. She was perfect in every way, made in the USA, pasteurized and homogenized by the Public Information Office, and delivered fresh to your doorstep, creamy white and good for you."

"And you don't believe that?"

"No, I don't. But if we discover that I'm wrong, then I'm in the wrong business and I'll resign."

"You may wind up doing that anyway."

"Most probably." I added, "Please consider how she died, how bizarre it was, and how unlikely it would be for a stranger to have gotten the drop on a soldier who was alert, bright, armed, and ready to shoot."

She nodded, then said as if to herself, "I have considered what you are suggesting. It's not uncommon for a female officer to lead two lives-public rectitude and private... whatever. But I've also seen women, rape victims, married and single, who led exemplary private lives and who wound up as victims by pure chance. I've also seen women who lived on the jagged edge, but whose rape had not a thing to do with their promiscuity or the crazies they hung out with. Again, it was pure chance."

"That's a possibility, and I don't discount it."

"And don't be judgmental, Paul."

"I'm not. I'm no saint. How about you?"

"You know better than to ask." She walked over to where I was standing and put her hand on my shoulder, which sort of took me by surprise. She said, "Can we do this? I mean together? Are we going to screw this up?"

"No. We're going to solve it."

Cynthia poked her finger in my stomach, sort of like I needed a punctuation mark for that sentence. She turned and walked back to Ann Campbell's desk.

I turned my attention back to the wall and noticed now a framed commendation from the American Red Cross in appreciation for her work on a blood donor drive, another commendation from a local hospital thanking her for her work with seriously ill children, and a teaching certificate from a literacy volunteer organization. Where did this woman find the time to do all that, plus her regular job, plus volunteering for extra duty, plus the mandatory social side of Army life, plus have a private life? Could it be, I wondered, that this extraordinarily beautiful woman had had no private life? Could I be so far off base that I wasn't even in the ballpark? no private life? Could I be so far off base that I wasn't even in the ballpark?

Cynthia announced, "Here's her address book."

"That reminds me. Did you get my Christmas card? Where are you living these days?"

"Look, Paul, I'm sure your buddies at headquarters have snooped through my file for you and told you everything about me in the past year."

"I wouldn't do that, Cynthia. It's not ethical or professional."

She glanced at me. "Sorry." She put the address book in her handbag, went over to the telephone answering machine, and pushed the play button.

A voice said, "Ann, this is Colonel Fowler. You were supposed to stop by the general's house this morning after you got off duty." The colonel sounded brusque. He continued, "Mrs. Campbell prepared breakfast for you. Well, you're probably sleeping now. Please call the general when you get up, or call Mrs. Campbell." He hung up.

I said, "Maybe she killed herself. I would."

Cynthia commented, "It certainly couldn't be easy being a general's daughter. Who is Colonel Fowler?"

"I think he's the post adjutant." I asked Cynthia, "How did that message sound to you?"

"Official. The tone suggested some familiarity, but no particular warmth. As if he was just doing his duty by calling his boss's forgetful daughter, whom he outranks, but who is nevertheless the boss's daughter. How did it sound to you?"

I thought a moment and replied, "It sounded made up."

"Oh... like a cover call?"

I pushed the play button again, and we listened. I said, "Maybe I'm starting to imagine things."

"Maybe not."

I picked up the phone and dialed the provost marshal's office. Colonel Kent was in and I got him on the line. "We are still at the deceased's house," I informed him. "Have you spoken to the general yet?"

"No... I haven't... I'm waiting for the chaplain..."

"Bill, this thing will be all over post in a matter of hours. Inform the deceased's family. And no form letters or telegrams."

"Look, Paul, I'm up to my ass in alligators with this thing, and I called the post chaplain and he's on his way here-"

"Fine. Did you get her office moved?"

"Yes. I put everything in an unused hangar at Jordan Field."

"Good. Now get a bunch of trucks out here with a platoon of MPs who don't mind hard work and know how to keep their mouths shut, and empty her house. I mean everything, Colonel-furniture, carpeting, right down to the light bulbs, toilet seats, refrigerator, and food. Take photos here, and put everything in that hangar in some semblance of the order that it's found. Okay?"

"Are you crazy?"

"Absolutely. And be sure the men wear gloves and get forensic to print everything that they'd normally print."

"Why do you want to move the whole house?"

"Bill, we have no jurisdiction here, and I'm not trusting the town police to play fair. So when the Midland police get here, the only thing they can impound is the wallpaper. Trust me on this. The scene of the crime was a U.S. military reservation. So this is all perfectly legal."

"No, it's not."

"We do this my way, or I'm out of here, Colonel."

There was a long pause, followed by a grunt that sounded like "Okay."

"And send an officer down to Dixie Bell in town and have Ann Campbell's number forwarded to a number on post. In fact, get it forwarded to a line in that hangar. Plug her answering machine in and put in a new incoming message tape. Hold on to the old tape. It's got a message on it. Mark it as evidence."

"Who do you think is going to call after the headlines are splashed all over the state?"

"You never know. Did forensic get there yet?"

"Yes. They're at the scene. So is the body."

"And Sergeant St. John and PFC Robbins?"

"They're still sleeping. I put them in separate cells. Unlocked. Do you want me to read them their rights?"

"No, they're not suspects. But you can hold them as material witnesses until I get around to them."

"Soldiers have some some rights," Kent informed me. "And St. John has a wife, and Robbins's CO probably thinks she went AWOL." rights," Kent informed me. "And St. John has a wife, and Robbins's CO probably thinks she went AWOL."

"Then make some calls on their behalf. Meantime, they're incommunicado. How about Captain Campbell's medical and personnel files?"

"Got them right here."

"What are we forgetting, Bill?"

"The Constitution."

"Don't sweat the small stuff."

"You know, Paul, I have to work with Chief Yardley. You guys are in and out. Yardley and I get along all right, considering the problems-"

"I said I'll take the rap."

"You'd damn well better." He asked, "Did you find anything interesting there?"

"Not yet. Did you?"

"The grid search hasn't turned up much beyond a few pieces of litter."

"Did the dogs find anything?"

"No more victims." He added, "The handlers let them sniff inside the jeep, and the dogs beelined right to the body. Then the dogs went back to the humvee, across the road, past the bleachers, and right out to the latrines in the trees. Then they lost the scent and doubled back to the humvee." He continued, "We can't know if the dogs picked up this guy's scent or just her scent. But somebody, maybe the victim and the perpetrator together, or one or the other, did go out to the latrines." He hesitated, then said, "I have the feeling that the murderer had his own vehicle, and since we see no tire marks in the soil anywhere, the guy never left the road. So he was parked there on the road before or after she stopped. They both dismount, he gets the drop on her and takes her out to the range and does it. He then goes back to the road..."

"Carrying her clothes."