The General's Daughter (39 page)

“I’m kind of overbooked, Major. Someone from Falls Church will be calling you if they haven’t already. Have a bag packed.
Good day.”

“Wait! We should talk about this. Who knows about this? I think I can explain this—”

“Explain the photos I found in her basement.”

“I… I can’t be linked to those photos…”

“The mask didn’t hide your dick or your ass, Major. Maybe I’ll have your wife pick you out of the photos.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“You’re a cop, for Christ’s sake. And an officer. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

After about five seconds, he replied, “I fucked up.”

“You sure did.”

“Can you cover me?”

“I suggest you make a full confession and throw yourself on the mercy of the bosses in Falls Church. Bluff a little, and threaten
to go public. Cut a deal, take half pay, and get out.”

“Right. Thanks for nothing.”

“Hey, I didn’t fuck the general’s daughter.”

“You would have.”

“Major, regarding on-the-job sex, the thing to remember is you never get your meat where you get your bread.”

“Depends on the meat.”

“Was it worth it?”

He laughed. “Hell, yeah. I’ll tell you about it someday.”

“I’ll read about it in her diary. Have a good day, Major.” I hung up.

Cynthia put down the phone and said, “Why were you being so hard on him? These men didn’t commit a real crime, Paul.”

“No, but they’re stupid. I’m sick of stupid men.”

“I think you’re jealous.”

“Keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I rubbed my temples. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“Do you want to see the Yardley boys now?”

“No. Fuck ’em. Let them cool their heels.” I picked up the telephone and called the staff judge advocate’s office and asked
to speak to Colonel Weems, the commanding officer. I got his clerk-typist, a man who wanted to know my business. I said, “Tell
Colonel Weems this has to do with the murder case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cynthia picked up her extension and said to me, “Be nice.”

Colonel Weems got on the line and inquired, “Are you the investigating officer in charge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ve been instructed to draw up a charge sheet against Colonel Charles Moore, and I need some information.”

“Well, here’s your first piece of information, Colonel. Colonel Moore is not to be charged until I say so.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Brenner, but I’ve received these instructions from the Pentagon.”

“I don’t care if you received them from Douglas MacArthur’s ghost.” Army lawyers, even colonels, can be pushed around a little
because, like Army doctors, psychologists, and such, their rank is basically a pay grade, and they know they shouldn’t take
it too seriously. In fact, they should all be warrant officers, like I am, and they’d be much happier, and so would everyone
else. I said to him, “Your name has come up in connection with that of the victim.”

“Excuse me?”

“You married, Colonel?”

“Yes…”

“You want to stay married?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I have information that you were sexually involved with the victim, that you committed offenses under the Uniform Code of
Military Justice, to wit: Article 125, unnatural carnal copulation, plus Article 133, conduct unbecoming an officer and a
gentleman, and Article 134, disorders and neglects to the prejudice of good order and discipline, and conduct of a nature
to bring discredit upon the armed forces.” I asked him, “How’s that, Counselor?”

“That’s not true.”

“Do you know how you can tell when a lawyer is lying? No? His lips move.”

He didn’t appreciate the joke, and said, “You’d better have damn good evidence to back that up.”

Spoken like a true lawyer. I said, “Do you know what three hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean are called? No? A good
start.”

“Mr. Brenner—”

“Have you lost any sleep over that basement playroom? I found it, and you’re in a videotape.” Maybe.

“I was never… I…”

“Polaroid photos.”

“I…”

“And in her diary.”

“Oh…”

“Look, Colonel, I don’t care, but you really can’t be involved with this case. Don’t compound your problem. Call the judge
advocate general, or better yet, fly to Washington and ask to be relieved of your command. Draw up a charge sheet on yourself
or something. Meanwhile, turn this over to someone who kept his dick in his pants. No, better yet, who’s the ranking woman
on your staff?”

“Uh… Major Goodwin…”

“She’s in charge of the Campbell case.”

“You can’t give me orders—”

“Colonel, if they could bust officers, you’d be a PFC tomorrow. In any case, by next month you’ll be looking for a job in
a small firm, or you’ll be the attorney-in-resident at Leavenworth. Don’t stonewall this. Cut a deal while you can. You may
be called as a witness.”

“To what?”

“I’ll think about it. Have a good day.” I hung up.

Cynthia put down the phone and inquired, “Have you caused enough misery for one day?”

“I told them to have a good day.”

“Paul, you’re going a little overboard. I realize you hold most of the cards—”

“I have this post by its collective balls.”

“Right. But you’re exceeding your authority.”

“But not my power.”

“Take it easy. It’s not personal.”

“Okay… I’m just angry. I mean, what the hell is the officer code about? We’ve sworn to do our duty, to uphold high standards
of morality, integrity, and ethics, and we’ve agreed that our word is our bond. So now we find out that about thirty guys
threw it all away, for what?”

“Pussy.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Right. Pussy. But it was pussy from hell.”

“We’re not so pure, either.”

“We never compromised our duty.”

“This is a murder case, not an ethics inquiry. One thing at a time.”

“Right. Send in the clowns.”

Cynthia called Baker on the intercom and said, “Send in the… civilian gentlemen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cynthia said to me, “Now calm down.”

“I’m not angry at those bozos. They’re civilians.”

The door opened, and Specialist Baker announced, “Chief Yardley and Officer Yardley.”

Cvnthia and I stood as the Yardlevs, dressed in tan uniforms, came into the office. Burt Yardley said, “Don’t appreciate bein’
kept waitin’. But we’ll let that slide.” He looked around the small room and commented, “Hell, I got holdin’ cells bigger
an’ nicer than this.”

“So do we,” I informed him. “I’ll show you one.”

He laughed and said, “This here’s my son Wes. Wes, meet Miss Sunhill and Mr. Brenner.”

Wes Yardley was a tall, extremely lean man of about twenty-five, with long swept-back hair that would have gotten him in trouble
on most police forces, except the one he was on. We didn’t shake hands, but he did touch his cowboy hat and nod to Cynthia.

The southern male doesn’t usually remove his hat indoors when he’s calling on inferiors or peers, because to arrive with his
hat literally in his hand is to admit he’s in the presence of social superiors. It all goes back to plantation houses, gentlemen,
sharecroppers, slaves, white trash, good families and bad families, and so on. I don’t quite get it, but the Army is heavy
on hat rules, too, so I respect the local customs.

Lacking enough chairs, we all remained standing. Burt Yardley said to me, “Hey, I got all your stuff packed nice and neat
in my office. You come on down and pick it up any ol’ time.”

“That’s very good of you.”

Wes sort of smirked, and I wanted to bury my fist in his bony face. The guy looked hyperactive, sort of jiggling around, like
he was born with two thyroids.

I said to Burt, “Did you bring the government property with you?”

“Sure did. Don’t need no trouble with the government. I gave it all to your little girl out there. That’s sort of a peace
offering, Paul. Can I call you Paul?”

“Sure thing, Burt.”

“Good. And I’m thinkin’ about lettin’ you into the deceased’s house.”

“I’m real pleased, Burt.”

“Now, you want to talk to my son about this business?” He looked at Wes and said, “Tell these people everything you know about
that girl.”

Cynthia said, “She was a woman, an officer in the United States Army. Specialist Baker is also a woman, a soldier in the United
States Army.”

Burt did a little bow and touched his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

I really felt like pulling my Glock on these two yahoos, and I would have painted them red in a heartbeat, except that I had
a short deadline on this case.

Anyway, Wes started his spiel. “Yeah, I was seein’ Ann now and then, but I seen other women, too, and she was seein’ other
men, and neither of us took it real personal. The night she was killed, I was ridin’ patrol in North Midland, midnight-to-eight
shift, and I got about a dozen people who seen me, includin’ my partner and gas station guys, 7-Eleven guys, and like that.
So that’s all you got to know.”

“Thank you, Officer Yardley.”

No one spoke for a few seconds, then Cynthia asked Wes, “Are you upset over Ann Campbell’s death?”

He seemed to think that over, then replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

I asked him, “Can I get you a sedative or something?”

Burt laughed and said to his son, “Forgot to tell you, boy, this here guy’s real funny.”

I said to Burt, “I’d like to speak to you alone.”

“Anything you got to say, you can say in front of my boy.”

“Not everything, Chief.”

He looked at me a moment. “Well…” He said to his son, “I’m gonna leave you alone with this young lady, Wes, and you behave
now.” He laughed. “She don’t know what a mover you are. Probably thinks you just fell off the turnip truck.”

On that note, Burt and I left the office, and I found an empty interview room. We sat across a long table, and Burt said,
“Damned reporters out there are gettin’ too damn nosy. Startin’ to ask about these rumors that the general’s daughter got
around. Understand?”

I didn’t recall a single question of that nature from the press, but I said, “Law officers don’t engage in speculation in
front of the press.”

“Hell, no. Me and the general get along fine, and I wouldn’t want to see his girl talked about after she’s dead.”

“If you’re leading up to something, Chief, spit it out.”

“Well, it occurs to me that maybe people think the Army CID pulled a fast one on me, and when y’all catch this guy, my organization
won’t get no credit.”

Double negatives annoy me, but Burt Yardley annoyed me more. I said, “Rest assured, Chief, your department will get all the
credit it deserves.”

He laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of, son. We need to get involved in this here case.”

“Take it up with the FBI. They’re in charge as of tomorrow.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Sure is.”

“Okay. Meantime, you write a nice report sayin’ how the Midland police helped you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re runnin’ around talkin’ about subpoena’n’ my records, because the goddamn reporters are askin’ questions
about my boy’s involvement with the deceased, because you’re startin’ to make me look like a damn fool ‘cause I don’t know
shit, and because you goddamn well need me.” He added, “You’re goin’ to make things right.”

The man was obviously annoyed, and I really couldn’t blame him. There is a strange symbiotic relationship between an Army
post and the local community, especially in the South. At its worst, the relationship seems like one of an army of occupation
ensconced in the defeated old Dixieland. At its best, the locals realize that most of the officers and enlisted personnel
are southerners themselves, and the post is no more intrusive than a big auto factory. But big auto factories don’t have their
own laws and customs, so the reality is somewhere in between. Anyway, in the spirit of cooperation, I said to Burt Yardley,
“I’ll introduce you to the FBI man in charge when I know who it is and give him a glowing report of your assistance and accomplishments.”

“That’s real decent of you, Paul. You write somethin’ out, too. Bill Kent’s doin’ that right now. Why don’t we call him in
here, and we’ll have that big sit-down your little assistant there talked about.”

“I don’t have a lot of time for big sit-downs, Chief. You’ll be involved in the continuing investigation to the fullest extent
possible. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why do I think you’re bullshittin’ me, Paul?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you why. ’Cause you don’t think I got one goddamn thing you want, and you don’t give nothin’ for nothin’. Fact
is, I think I got what you need to wrap up this here case.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Sure is. I found some evidence in the deceased’s house that you overlooked, son. But it’s goin’ to take a lot of work between
us to sort it out.”

“Right. You mean the stuff in the basement bedroom.”

His eyes got wide, and he didn’t speak for a second, which was a treat, but then he said, “Why’d you leave all that shit there?”

“I thought you were too stupid to find it.”

He laughed. “Now who’s stupid?”

“But I didn’t leave it all. We carried some bags of photos and videotapes out of there.” I didn’t, but I should have.

He regarded me closely for a moment, and I could tell he was not real happy with that possibility. He said, “Well, ain’t you
a smart boy.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Where’s that stuff?”

“In my trailer. You missed it.”

“Don’t mess with me, son. There ain’t nothin’ in that trailer.”

“Why do you care where the stuff is?”

“ ’Cause it’s my stuff.”

“Wrong.”

He cleared his throat and said, “There’s some dumb-ass guys who got a shitload of explainin’ to do when I do fingerprints
in that there room, and when we match those pictures and those movie tapes to their buck-naked bodies.”

“Right. Including you.”

He stared at me, and I stared back. Finally, he said, “I don’t bluff real easy.”

“You see, Chief, I think that Wes and Ann had more going for them than Wes is letting on. They weren’t the happiest couple
who ever came down the pike, but they did go out for almost two years, and my information says they were hot and heavy. Now
the question I have for you is this—did your son know you were fucking his girlfriend?”