The General's Daughter (43 page)

“Sexist nonsense.”

“Right. Anyway, I get the feeling that the family dynamics among the Campbells was so pathological that love and happiness
could never flourish, and God help anyone who got caught in their misery and pain.”

She nodded. “Do you think they were all right before she was raped at West Point?”

“Well… according to Colonel Moore, yes. I think that’s an accurate picture. And speaking of pictures, I’m thinking back to
that photo album we found in Ann’s house… If you think about the pictures as before and after—before and after the rape in
the summer between her first and second year at West Point—you can see a difference.”

“Yes. You can almost pinpoint any family tragedy that way if you know what you’re looking for.” She added, “Those men who
gang-raped her had a little fun and went on with their lives, and they never thought about the human wreckage they left behind.”

“I know. We both see that if we stay around long enough after an act of violence. But usually we can get some justice. In
this case, nobody called the cops.”

“No, not then. But we’re here now.” She asked me, “How do you want to handle General Campbell?”

“I’d like to rough him up. But I think he’s already paid the supreme price for his great mistake. I don’t know… tough call.
Play it by ear. He’s a general.”

“Right.”

The Post Headquarters parking lot was nearly empty, but there were a few cars left, including the general’s olive-drab staff
car. There was also a humvee, a few of which are usually authorized for Post Headquarters, and I assumed that the one sitting
in the hangar at Jordan Field had been replaced.

Cynthia and I stood in the parking lot to the right of the headquarters building, and I said, “She walked out that side door
at about 0100 hours, got into one of the humvees, and drove off to confront the ghosts of the past.”

“And the ghosts won.”

We walked around to the front of the headquarters building. The two-story, dark brick structure vaguely resembled a public
school built in the 1930s, except that the walk was lined with spent 105mm howitzer shell casings, each one sprouting flowers,
which was unintentionally ironic. Also on the lawn were old field artillery pieces from different eras, a graphic display
of the progression of the boom factor.

We entered the front doors, and a young PFC at the information desk stood. I told him we had an appointment with General Campbell.
He checked his appointment sheet and directed us down a long corridor toward the rear of the building.

Cynthia and I walked down the deserted, echoing corridor with the spit-shined linoleum floor. I said to her, “I’ve never arrested
a general before. I’m probably more nervous than he is.”

She glanced at me and replied, “He didn’t do it, Paul.”

“How do you know?”

“I can’t picture it, and if I can’t picture it, it didn’t happen.”

“I don’t remember that in the manual.”

“Well, in any case, I don’t think you’re allowed to arrest a general officer. Check the manual.”

We came to a sort of second lobby, which was deserted, and straight ahead was a closed door with a brass plate that said,
“Lt. General Joseph I. Campbell.”

I knocked on the door, and it was opened by a female captain whose nametag read Bollinger. She said, “Good evening. I’m General
Campbell’s senior aide.”

We shook hands all around, and she showed us into a small secretarial area. Captain Bollinger was about thirty-five, chunky,
but friendly-looking and animated. I said to her, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a female aide to a male general since
Ike’s lady friend.”

She smiled and replied, “There are a few. The general’s other aide is a male, Lieutenant Elby.”

“Yes, we’ve met him.” It occurred to me that if Lieutenant Elby was a pawn in the game between father and daughter, then Captain
Bollinger was certainly not; she was not seducible by Ann, and she was also homely enough for Mrs. Campbell’s requirements.
It really sucks at the top.

Captain Bollinger escorted us into an empty outer office and said, “The general has allocated all the time you want. But please
understand that he’s… well, he’s just plain grief-stricken.”

Cynthia replied, “We understand.”

I also understood that this interview was scheduled for after-duty hours so that if it got messy, the troops wouldn’t be around
to see or hear it.

Captain Bollinger knocked on a nice oak door, opened it, and announced us as Warrant Officers Brenner and Sunhill. She stepped
aside and we entered.

The general was standing and came forward to greet us. We exchanged quick salutes, then shook hands.

General Campbell indicated a grouping of upholstered chairs, and we all sat. Generals, like CEOs, have varying degrees of
seating in the office, but generals also have the option of letting you stand at attention or, if they’re being nice, at parade
rest or at ease. But Cynthia and I were being shown far more courtesy than our rank required. It must have had something to
do with the fact that we’d just heard two confessions of criminal conduct from two wives, to wit: accessory after the fact,
and conspiracy. But perhaps he just liked us.

He asked, “Would either of you like a drink?”

“No, thank you, sir.” But in truth, the cannon had sounded and the flag was down, and in the Army that is the equivalent of
Pavlov’s starving dogs hearing the dinner bell.

No one spoke for a minute or so, and I looked around the office. The walls were white plaster, and the trim and moldings were
natural oak, as were the desks, tables, and so forth. The area rug over the oak floor was a red Oriental, probably picked
up overseas. There was not much in the way of war trophies, souvenirs, framed certificates, or any of that, but on a small
round table in the corner was a blue cape laid out like a tablecloth on which lay a sheathed saber, an old long-barreled pistol,
a blue dress hat, and other odds and ends.

The general saw me looking and said, “Those are my father’s things. He was a colonel in the old horse cavalry back in the
1920s.”

I replied, “I was in the First Battalion of the Eighth Cavalry in Vietnam, minus horses.”

“Really? That was my father’s regiment. Old Indian fighters, though that was before his time.”

So, we had something in common after all. Almost. Cynthia was probably immediately bored by the old boola-boola routine, but
a little male bonding is a good thing before you go for the balls.

General Campbell asked me, “So you weren’t always a detective?”

“No, sir. I used to do honest work.”

He smiled. “Awards? Decorations?”

I told him and he nodded. I think he was better able to accept what I had to do to him if I was a combat vet. Even if I hadn’t
been, I’d have told him I was. I’m allowed to lie in the pursuit of truth, and an unsworn witness may also lie, while a sworn
witness better not, and a suspect can exercise his or her right against self-incrimination anytime. Often, however, the problem
is deciding who’s who.

The general looked at Cynthia, not wanting to exclude her, and asked her about her military background, civilian roots, and
so forth. She told him, and I learned a few things myself, though she may have been lying. Generals, and sometimes colonels,
I’ve noticed, always ask enlisted personnel and lower-ranking officers about their hometowns, civilian schools, military training,
and all that. I don’t know if they care, or if it’s some kind of imported Japanese management tool they learned at the War
College, or what the hell this is all about, but you have to play the game, even if you’re about to broach the subject of
criminal activity.

So, with all the time allotted that we needed, we chewed the fat for about fifteen minutes, then finally the general said,
“I understand that you’ve spoken to Mrs. Fowler and Mrs. Campbell, so you know something of what went on that evening.”

I replied, “Yes, sir, but to be perfectly frank, we had figured out a lot of what went on prior to our speaking to Mrs. Fowler
and Mrs. Campbell.”

“Had you? That’s very impressive. We do a good job training our CID people.”

“Yes, sir, and we’ve had a lot of on-the-job experience, though this case presented unique problems.”

“I’m sure it did. Do you know who killed my daughter?’

“No, sir.”

He looked at me closely and asked, “It wasn’t Colonel Moore?”

“It may have been.”

“I see you’re not here to answer questions.”

“No, sir, we’re not.”

“Then how would you like to conduct this interview?”

“I think it may be easier on everyone, sir, if you just start by telling us what happened on the evening in question. Beginning
with the phone call at 0145 hours. I may interrupt when I need a point clarified.”

He nodded. “Yes, all right. I was sleeping, and the red phone rang on my nightstand. I answered it, but there was no reply
to my saying, ‘Campbell here.’ Then there was a sort of click, then… then my daughter’s voice came on the line, and I could
tell it was recorded.”

I nodded. There were telephones in the fire control towers on the ranges, but they were secured at night. Ann Campbell and
Charles Moore obviously had a mobile phone with them and a tape player.

He continued, “The message—the recorded message said, ‘Dad, this is Ann. I want to discuss something extremely urgent with
you. You must meet me at rifle range six no later than 0215 hours.’ ” The general added, “She said if I didn’t come, she’d
kill herself.”

Again I nodded. I said to him, “Did she tell you to bring Mrs. Campbell with you?”

He glanced at me and Cynthia, wondering how much we actually knew, thinking perhaps we’d somehow found that tape. He replied,
“Yes, she did say that, but I had no intention of doing that.”

“Yes, sir. Did you have any idea of what she wanted to speak to you about that was so urgent that she wanted you to get out
of bed and drive out to the rifle range?”

“No… I… Ann, as you may have learned, was emotionally distressed.”

“Yes, sir. I think, though, that someone mentioned to me that you had given her an ultimatum and a deadline. She was to give
you her answer at breakfast that morning.”

“That’s correct. Her behavior had become unacceptable, and I told her to shape up or ship out.”

“So when you heard her voice at that hour, you realized that this was not just a random emotional outburst, but was in fact
connected to your ultimatum and her response.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I did realize that.”

“Why do you think she communicated with you by recorded message?”

“I suppose so there would be no argument. I was very firm with her, but since I couldn’t reason or argue with a recorded voice,
I did what any father would do and went to the designated meeting.”

“Yes, sir. And as it turned out, your daughter was already out on the rifle range, and she called you from there with a mobile
phone. She’d actually left Post Headquarters at about 0100 hours. Did you wonder why she picked a remote training area for
this meeting? Why didn’t she just show up at breakfast and give you her answer to your ultimatum?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Well, perhaps he didn’t know at first, but when he saw her, he knew. I could see that he was genuinely grieved and was barely
holding it together. But he
would
hold it together no matter how hard I pushed, and he’d tell the obvious truths relating to fact and hard evidence. But he
would not voluntarily reveal the central truth of
why
his daughter presented herself to him staked out and naked.

I said to him, “She mentioned killing herself if you didn’t come. Did you think that she might be contemplating killing
you
if you
did
come?”

He didn’t reply.

I asked him, “Did you take a weapon with you?”

He nodded, then said, “I had no idea what I was going to find out there at night.”

No, I’ll bet you didn’t. And that’s why you didn’t take Mrs. Campbell along.
I said, “So you dressed in civilian clothes, took a weapon, took your wife’s car, and drove out to rifle range six with your
headlights on. What time did you reach your destination?”

“Well… about 0215 hours. At the time she designated.”

“Yes. And you put your lights out, and…”

There was a long silence while General Campbell considered my hanging conjunction. Finally, he said, “I got out of the car
and went to the humvee, but she wasn’t there. I became concerned and called her name, but there was no reply. I called again,
then heard her call to me, and I turned in the direction of the rifle range and saw… I saw her on the ground, or I saw this
figure on the ground, and I thought it was her and that she was hurt. I moved quickly toward the figure… she was naked, and
I was… I suppose I was shocked, confused… I didn’t know what to make of this, but she was alive, and that’s all I cared about.
I called out and asked if she was all right, and she replied that she was… I got up to her… you know, it’s difficult to talk
about this.”

“Yes, sir. It’s difficult for us, too. That’s not to try to compare your loss with our feelings, but I think I speak for Ms.
Sunhill, too, when I say that during the course of this investigation, we’ve come to… well, to like your daughter.” Well,
maybe I wasn’t speaking for Ms. Sunhill. I continued, “Homicide detectives often have feelings for the deceased even though
they’ve never met them. This is an unusual case in that we’ve viewed hours of videotapes of your daughter’s lectures, and
I felt that your daughter was someone I’d like to have known… but I should let you tell us what happened next.”

General Campbell was starting to lose it again, and we all sat there awkwardly for a minute or so while he took a lot of deep
breaths, then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, then I tried to untie her… it was very embarrassing, I mean to her and
to me… but I couldn’t get the rope untied, and I couldn’t get the stakes out of the ground… I tried… I mean, whoever did it
drove those stakes very deep, and tied those knots… so I said to her I’d be right back… and I went to the car and to the humvee,
but I couldn’t find anything to cut the ropes… so I went back to her and told her… I told her… I said that I’d drive up to
Bethany Hill and get a knife from Colonel Fowler… Bethany Hill is less than ten minutes from range six… In retrospect, I should
have… well, I don’t know what I should have done.”