The General's Daughter (47 page)

Burt Yardley, cunning bastard that he was, had feigned surprise that I knew about the room, but he knew that Ann Campbell
wouldn’t have glued it shut—therefore, he suspected that Brenner did. Burt Yardley took that information to Kent, and Kent
decided to confess to sexual misconduct, but hedged his bet and never mentioned the room. Now the contents of the room were
in Yardley’s possession, and I didn’t know who had whom by the balls, and what the relationship was of those two men, but
if either of them killed her, the other didn’t know about it.

I recalled how Kent resisted my decision to go directly to the victim’s off-post house. That was understandable on the face
of it—it was an irregular procedure—but I thought now that Kent had intended to call Yardley early that morning, or may have
tried to call him before or after he called me, and intended to say something like, “Chief, Ann Campbell has been murdered
on post. You should probably get a court order and go through her house, ASAP. Collect evidence.” And Yardley would know what
evidence had to be collected and disposed of, ASAP. But Yardley, according to his own statement, had been inconveniently or
conveniently in Atlanta, and Kent found himself in a bind.

Right. So I got there first, and Kent had to make a different kind of call to Yardley in Atlanta, explaining what had happened.
Then Kent and Yardley crossed their fingers, hoping that the hidden room would stay that way. Just as Cynthia and I had hoped
for the same thing, not knowing that the Midland police chief and the Fort Hadley provost marshal had both been guests in
that room.

Kent, too, had dragged his feet about notifying General and Mrs. Campbell. That could be an understandable human reaction,
a natural aversion to being the bearer of bad news, though it was uncharacteristically unprofessional of Kent. But if Kent
had killed the general’s daughter, then I could see why he couldn’t get up the courage to do his duty.

And Kent would not call Major Bowes, because Kent knew that Bowes knew about the room, the major having been entertained there
as well. And Kent did not want Bowes to go there and collect evidence on Kent. And Kent could not get to that room in Ann
Campbell’s house himself, because, if he was the one who killed her, the place where he had to be was at home, and damned
quick, to wait for the call from the MPs when she was found.

I could almost picture it. . . almost. Kent, for some reason that I still didn’t know, was out there on or near rifle range
six. I didn’t know how or if he knew what was going to go on there, but I could sort of picture him after General Campbell
left: big, tall Bill Kent, probably in his uniform, walking that fifty meters from the road, toward the naked and bound Ann
Campbell. He stops and they look at each other, and he realizes that fate has dropped this in his lap. His problem was Ann
Campbell and her willingness to take everyone down with her. The answer to his problem was the rope that was already around
her neck.

He may or may not have known what this scenario was all about, he may or may not have heard the exchange with her father.
If he hadn’t, then perhaps he mistook what he saw for a sexual rendezvous with another man, and he was jealous, enraged. In
any event, they certainly spoke, and it was very possible that Ann Campbell said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Or perhaps it didn’t matter what she said—Kent had had enough. He knew that there was trace evidence from other people at
the scene, and he knew he’d be back in an official capacity within hours, and any evidence of his presence was explainable
and expected. He’s a cop, and he computes all of it very quickly. Not only would this be the perfect crime, but it was the
necessary crime. All he has to do is kneel down and tighten the rope. But did he have the will to act? Didn’t she plead with
him? Could he have been that cold and callous? Or was it heat and rage that drove him?

What did I know about this man whom I’d seen maybe a dozen times in the last ten years? I searched my memory, but all I could
say for sure about him was that he was always more concerned about the appearance of propriety than with propriety itself.
He was very aware of his reputation as Mr. Clean Cop. He never made sexual comments or jokes, and he was tough on the men
in his command who did not live up to his high standards of conduct and appearance. But then he was seduced by the general’s
daughter. He knew he was the butt of jokes, according to Ms. Kiefer, he knew he was losing respect, and he knew you don’t
get to be a general by fucking one of their daughters.

And was it possible, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, that he
knew
that certain people on post, certainly people under his command, would wonder in awe if it was Colonel Kent who had done
it, if the top cop at Hadley had solved not only his problem but the problems of thirty senior officers and their wives? The
average person might feel revulsion against a killer, but a killer can also command fear and respect, especially if there’s
a sense that the killer was doing something not quite all bad.

But given all that, given the fact that these speculations and deductions made sense and fit the facts, did that make Colonel
William Kent, provost marshal of Fort Hadley, a suspect in the murder of Captain Ann Campbell? With all the other possible
men, and perhaps women, on post who had a motive—revenge, jealousy, concealment of a crime, to avoid humiliation or disgrace,
or even homicidal mania—why Kent? And, if Kent, how would I go about proving it? In the rare cases when a cop at the scene
of a crime may be the perpetrator of the crime, the investigating officer has a real problem.

I stood in front of Kent’s door a moment, then knocked.

I
pointed the Blazer toward the Officers’ Club, and we drove in silence, then I asked Cynthia, “Why do you think it was Kent?”

“Instinct.”

“Instinct is what put Kent between Ann Campbell’s thighs. Why do you think he murdered her?”

“I don’t know that he did, Paul. But we’ve eliminated other suspects. The Yardley boys have tight alibis, we know what Colonel
Moore did, and the Fowlers are each other’s witnesses, and the general, and, for that matter, Mrs. Campbell, are clean as
far as I’m concerned. Sergeant St. John and MP Casey, who found the body, are not likely suspects, and neither is anyone else
we’ve spoken to or heard about.”

“But there’s Major Bowes, Colonel Weems, Lieutenant Elby, the head chaplain, the medical officer, and about thirty other officers
who had a motive. Plus, there are the wives of those officers, if you think about that. That’s a possibility.”

“True. And there could very well be someone else out there whom we haven’t even heard of. But you have to consider opportunity
and the will to commit murder.”

“Right. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to interview all the men in her diary. And I’d hate to think of the FBI doing
that, because they’ll write a two-hundred-page report on every one of them. Kent is a possible suspect, but I don’t want him
to be a convenient suspect like he—and some others here—tried to make of Colonel Moore.”

“I understand that. But it just struck me at some point that Kent fits.”

“When did it strike you?”

“I don’t know. In the shower.”

“I’ll pass on that.”

“Do you think he’ll join us for a drink?”

“He was vague. But if he’s the murderer, he’ll be there. I’ve never seen it fail yet. They want to be close, to see, to hear,
to try to manipulate the investigation. And the bright ones are not obvious about it. I certainly wouldn’t say that if Kent
joined us for a drink he is the murderer. But if he doesn’t show up, I’d bet money that he isn’t.”

“I understand.”

In my years in the CID, I had managed to avoid every Department of the Army mandated personnel management class, sensitivity
session, race and gender relations course, and so on, which was obviously why I was having problems in the new Army. But I
did take lots of leadership classes, and within those classes was everything you needed to know about human relations, such
as: respect subordinates and superiors, don’t ask your people to do anything you wouldn’t do, earn respect, don’t demand it,
give praise when it’s due. So, in that spirit, I said to Cynthia, “You’re doing a fine job, you’ve shown good initiative,
good judgment, and poise under pressure. You’re very professional, very knowledgeable, and very hardworking. It’s a pleasure
to be working with you.”

“Is this a recorded message?”

“No, I—”

“No feeling, Paul. Completely atonal. Speak from your heart, if you have one.”

“I resent that.” I pulled into the Officers’ Club parking lot and nosed into a space. “That’s judgmental, very—”

“I love you. Say it.”

“I said it last year. How many times—?”

“Say it!”

“I love you.”

“Good.” She jumped out of the Blazer, slammed the door, and began walking across the parking lot. I followed and caught up.
We didn’t exchange another word until we got into the main lounge. I found an empty table in the corner and checked my watch,
which gave me the civilian time of eight-fifteen P.M. The dining room was full, but the lounge was half-empty now that half-price
Happy Hour was over. The new Army officially frowns on half-price Happy Hour, but the clubs are quasi-independent, and some
of them still honor the ancient and honorable tradition of cheap whisky for an hour or two, a minor reward for putting up
with bullshit that no civilian—except a recent immigrant from a military dictatorship—would put up with. But the Army has
its moments. Unfortunately, there are fewer of them these days. A waitress came around, and Cynthia ordered her bourbon and
Coke, and I ordered a Scotch with a beer chaser. I said, “I’m dehydrated. God, it’s hot out there.”

“You’ve been sweating like a pig all day,” she agreed. She smiled. “You need a shower.”

“Do we have time?”

“We might have to share it again.”

“This is a demanding job.”

The drinks came and we toasted. She said, “To Ann Campbell. We’ll do our best for you, Captain.”

We drank.

I said, “This case is getting to me. Is that because of the case, or because I’m tired and old?”

“It’s because of the case, Paul. Because you care. Because it’s not just a case. It’s a human tragedy.”

“What other kind of tragedies are there? We’re all a heartbeat away from tragedy.”

“Right. When we find the killer, it won’t be a time to celebrate. It will be another tragedy. It will be someone who knew
her. Maybe loved her.”

“Like Kent.”

“Yes. I keep thinking of something I read once. . . something I think about when I’m interviewing a woman who’s been raped.
It goes like this—‘Compared to shame, death is nothing.’ I think that’s what happened here, starting with Ann Campbell’s shame
and humiliation at West Point. I mean, think of it, Paul. They teach officers to be proud, to be assertive, to stand tall.
People like Ann Campbell are already predisposed to this type of personality, so they gravitate toward someplace like West
Point. Then, when something like that happens, a rape, a humiliation, they can’t handle it. They don’t bend like most people.
They stand tall, then snap.”

I nodded. “I see that.”

“Right. They pick up the pieces and go on, but they’re never the same again. I mean, no woman is after a brutal rape, but
someone like Ann Campbell can’t even begin to heal inside.”

“I understand that some people think that the only cure for shame and humiliation is revenge.”

“Correct. So take that a step further and think of the average male officer. He’s been seduced by Ann Campbell in about twenty
minutes, including drinks, he’s been led into a sex room and encouraged or coerced into engaging in kinky acts, then at some
point he’s either discarded or asked by Ann to bend a few rules for her. He has a mix of emotions—starting with a little male
vanity at his conquest, but eventually, if he’s married and if he takes any of this officer stuff seriously, he feels shame.
Most men would not feel a great deal of shame for a consensual sex act, but some men—officers, clergy, pillars of the community—will
feel shame. So we get back to ‘Compared to shame, death is nothing.’ Or call it dishonor, to put it in a military context.
This could apply to Ann Campbell, General Campbell, and to any number of men who either wished themselves or Ann Campbell
dead. That’s why I think it was someone she knew, someone who felt that the act of murder was a way to end the shame and dishonor
of the victim as well as of the murderer. Kent, as a ramrod kind of cop, an officer, might well fit that theory.”

I nodded again. I’d thought something similar, though with a different slant. But it was interesting that we both had a psychological
profile of the killer that could fit Kent. Then again, there’s nothing like hindsight. “Kent,” I said, “Kent.”

“Speaking of whom. . .”

In walked Colonel Kent, and a few heads turned. Any post’s top cop usually gets a few heads to turn, a few side glances. But
now, at Hadley, with a sensational murder still hot news, Kent was the man of the hour. He saw us and walked over.

Cynthia and I stood, as was customary. I might shove it up his butt in private, but in public I gave him the respect he was
supposed to deserve.

He sat and we sat. A waitress came over and Kent ordered drinks for us and a gin and tonic for himself. “On me,” he said.

We chatted awhile, everyone agreeing what a strain this had been and how tempers were getting short, sleepless nights, hot
days, and all that crap. As casual and chatty as Cynthia and I were, Kent was a pro and he smelled the rat, or perhaps felt
like the rat being maneuvered into the corner.

He said to us, “Will you stay on awhile after the funeral, and brief the FBI?”

“I think that’s what we’re supposed to do,” I replied. “But I’d like to be gone by nightfall tomorrow.”

He nodded, then smiled at us. “You two getting along? Or is that a leading question?”