The General's Daughter (22 page)

“Ah.” I wrote that down.

I asked him a few more questions, but clearly neither of us was getting anything interesting out of this. What I wanted from
this meeting was to get an impression of him before he knew whom he was talking to. Once they know you’re a cop, they go into
an act. On the other hand,
Army Times
reporters can’t ask questions like “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?” But cops can, so I asked him, “Did you
have a sexual relationship with her?”

He stood. “What the hell kind of question is that? I’m going to make an official complaint—”

I held up my badge case. “CID, Colonel. Have a seat.”

He stared at the badge a second, then at me, and those eyes shot red death rays at me,
zip, zip,
like in a bad horror flick.

I said again, “Sit down, Colonel.”

He looked furtively around the half-filled room, sort of like he was wondering if he was surrounded or something. Finally,
he sat.

There are colonels, and then there are colonels. Theoretically, the rank transcends the man or woman wearing it, and you pay
respect to the rank, if not the person. In reality, this is not so. Colonel Fowler, for instance, had the power and the authority,
and you had to be careful with him. Colonel Moore was not connected to any power structure that I knew about. I said to him,
“I am investigating the murder of Captain Campbell. You are not a suspect in this case, and I am not going to read you your
rights. Therefore, you will answer my questions truthfully and fully. Okay?”

“You have no right to pass yourself off as—”

“Let me worry about my split personality. Okay? First question—”

“I refuse to speak to you without an attorney present.”

“I think you’ve seen too many civilian movies. You have no right to an attorney and no right to remain silent unless you are
a suspect. If you refuse to cooperate voluntarily, then I
will
consider you a suspect and read you your rights and take you down to the provost marshal’s office and announce that I have
a suspect who requires an attorney. You are in what is called a military bind. So?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I have absolutely nothing to hide, and I resent your having put me in a defensive position
like this.”

“Right. First question. When was the last time you saw Captain Campbell?”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his attitude, then replied, “I last saw her yesterday at about 1630 hours in my office.
She said she was going to go to the club to get something to eat, then report for duty.”

“Why did she volunteer for duty officer last night?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did she call you from Post Headquarters during the evening, or did you call her?”

“Well… let me think…”

“All phone calls on post can be traced, and there is a duty officer’s log.” In fact, intra-post calls could not be traced,
and Captain Campbell would not have logged any incoming or outgoing calls of a personal nature.

Moore replied, “Yes, I did call her…”

“What time?”

“About 2300 hours.”

“Why so late?”

“Well, we had some work to discuss for the next day, and I knew things would be quiet by that hour.”

“Where were you calling from?”

“From my home.”

“Where is that?”

“Off post. Victory Drive.”

“Isn’t that where the deceased lived?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to her house?”

“Of course. Many times.”

I tried to imagine what this guy looked like naked with his back to the camera, or with a leather mask on. I wondered if the
forensic lab had an official pecker checker, some man (or woman) who could compare a blow-up photo of a pecker with this guy’s
equipment. Anyway, I asked him, “Were you ever sexually involved with her?”

“No. But you can be sure you’ll hear rumors. Rumors have followed us wherever—”

“Are you married?”

“I was. Divorced about seven years ago.”

“Do you date?”

“Occasionally.”

“Did you find Ann Campbell attractive?”

“Well… I admired her mind.”

“Did you ever notice her body?”

“I don’t like this line of questioning.”

“Neither do I. Did you find her sexually attractive?”

“I was her superior officer, I am almost twenty years older than she, she is a general’s daughter. I never once said anything
to her that could be construed as sexual harassment.”

“I’m not investigating a charge of sexual harassment, Colonel. I’m investigating a rape and murder.” I said to him, “Then
why were there rumors?”

“Because people have dirty minds. Even Army officers.” He smiled. “Like yourself.”

On that note, I ordered two more drinks; another sherry to loosen him up, a beer to calm my impulse to deck him.

Cynthia arrived, wearing black pants and a white blouse. I introduced her to Colonel Moore, then said to her, “We’re not with
the Army Times anymore. We’re CID. I was asking Colonel Moore if he was ever sexually involved with the deceased, and he assures
me he wasn’t. We’re in a confrontational mode at the moment.”

Cynthia smiled and said to Moore, “Mr. Brenner is extremely tense and tired.” She sat and we all chatted for a few minutes
as I brought Cynthia up to date. Cynthia ordered a bourbon and Coke and a club sandwich for herself and a cheeseburger for
me. She knows I like cheeseburgers. Colonel Moore declined to dine with us, explaining that he was still too upset to eat.
Cynthia asked him, “As her friend, did you know anyone who she might have been involved with?”

“You mean sexually?”

“I believe that’s the subject on the table,” she replied.

“Well… let me think… She was seeing a young man… a civilian. She rarely dated soldiers.”

“Who was the civilian?” Cynthia asked.

“A fellow named Wes Yardley.”

“Yardley? Chief of Police Yardley?”

“No, no. Wes Yardley, one of Burt Yardley’s sons.”

Cynthia glanced at me, then asked Moore, “How long were they seeing each other?”

“On and off since she arrived here. They had a stormy relationship. In fact, without pointing fingers, there’s a man you should
speak to.”

“Why?”

“
Why?
Well, it’s obvious. They were
involved.
They fought like cats and dogs.”

“About what?”

“About… well, she mentioned to me that he treated her badly.”

This sort of took me by surprise. I said to Moore, “
He
treated
her
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.”

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
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.”

T
he 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.