The General's Daughter (15 page)

I left the holding cells and found my assigned office. I flipped through Ann Campbell’s address book, which held about a hundred
names, mine not included. She used no stars or hearts or anything like that to denote a romantic interest or a rating system,
but as I said, there was probably another list of names and phone numbers somewhere, possibly in her basement rec room, or
perhaps buried in her personal computer.

I scribbled out a rather perfunctory and annoyingly terse report for Karl—not the one I’d made up in my mind, but one that
neither the judge advocate general nor the attorney for the defense could criticize later. There wasn’t a document in the
country that was safe anymore, and the Confidential classification might as well say, “Widest Possible Distribution.”

The report completed, I hit the intercom button on the telephone and said, “Have a clerk report to me.”

Army clerks are sort of like civilian secretaries, except that many of them are men, though I’m seeing more female clerks
these days. In either case, like their civilian counterparts, they can make or break a boss or an office. The one who reported
to me was a female, dressed in the green B uniform, which is basically a green skirt and blouse, suitable for hot offices.
She reported well enough, with a crisp salute and a good voice. “Specialist Baker, sir.”

I stood, though this is not required of me, and extended my hand. “I am Warrant Officer Brenner, CID. I am working on the
Campbell case. Do you know all of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

I regarded Specialist Baker a moment. She was about twenty-one, looked alert enough, not beautiful, but sort of bright-eyed
and perky. Maybe cute. I asked her, “Do you want to be detailed to this case?”

“I work for Captain Redding in Traffic Enforcement.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. You will report only to me and to Ms. Sunhill, who is also on this case, and you will speak to no one else. Everything
you see and hear is highly confidential.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Type this report, photocopy this address book, send the copies to this fax number in Falls Church, and leave the originals
on my desk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put a sign on this door that says, ‘Private, authorized personnel only.’ You, me, and Ms. Sunhill are the only authorized
personnel.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the military, where honesty, honor, and obedience are still held in high regard, you theoretically don’t need locks on
doors, but I’m seeing more locks these days. Nevertheless, being from the old school, I didn’t order one. However, I did tell
Specialist Baker, “You will empty the wastebaskets every evening and put the contents through a shredder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“Who will speak to Captain Redding?”

“I will speak to Colonel Kent about that. Any further questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

She took the address book and my handwritten report, saluted, turned, and left.

It’s not easy being a traveling pain-in-the-ass. Anyone can be a pain-in-the-ass on the home court, but it takes a unique
individual to come into an environment whose pecking order, nuances, and personalities have already been shaped and fit into
place. Yet, if you don’t get the upper hand on the first day, you’ll never get it, and they’ll mess you around until you become
worse than useless.

Power, I’ve learned, is derived in many legitimate ways. But if the institution has not fully empowered you, but has given
you a job that is very important and really sucks, then you have to take the power you need to get it done. I think the Army
expects that, expects you to demonstrate initiative, as they constantly tell you. But you have to be careful, because this
only works if you’re getting the job done. If you’re not getting the job done, then they get you. Worse, when the job is successfully
completed, they pat you on the head like an exhausted sled dog, then eat you, which is why I never stay around for cocktails
when a case is completed. Karl says I hide under his desk for a week, which is not true, but I have been known to take a few
weeks in Switzerland.

It was 1400 hours and Warrant Officer Sunhill had not made an appearance yet, so I left the provost building to get my vehicle
and discovered my partner parked at the front door, sleeping behind the wheel, the Grateful Dead on the CD player, which may
have been appropriate.

I got in and slammed the door, waking her up. “Sleeping?” I asked.

“No, resting my eyes.”

She always used to say that, and we exchanged quick smiles of recognition. I said, “Rifle range six, please.”

C
ynthia shifted into high gear as we cleared the main post and broke out into the wooded reservation. She said, “Nice suit.”

“Thank you.” The Grateful Dead was singing “A Touch of Grey.” I shut off the CD player.

“Did you have lunch?” she inquired.

“No.”

“Did you do anything useful?” she asked.

“Probably not.”

“Are you annoyed about something?”

“Yes.”

“Karl can be annoying.”

“If you call him again regarding this case, I’ll have you up on charges.”

“Yes, sir.”

We drove in silence awhile, then she said, “I need your phone number and address.”

I gave them to her and she said, “I’m staying in the visiting officers’ quarters.” She added, “Why don’t you move in? I mean,
into the VOQ. It’s more convenient.”

“I like Whispering Pines Trailer Park.”

“Trailer parks in the woods are spooky.”

“Not for real men.”

“Oh, do you have one living with you?” She thought this was funny and laughed at her own joke, then covered her mouth in a
theatrical gesture and said, “Oops, sorry, I should be trying to get on your good side.”

“Don’t waste your time.”

Cynthia is not a manipulator, but she has been known to manipulate. A fine distinction, but an important one. She’s basically
ingenuous and honest, and if she likes the way a man looks or acts, she tells him. I’ve told her to be a little less sincere,
that some men take this as a come-on. But she doesn’t get it, and this is a woman who handles rape cases.

I said to her, “We have a clerk-typist, a Specialist Baker.”

“Male or female?”

“I don’t notice these things. And by the way, what religion are you?”

She smiled and pulled her dog tags out of her shirt, and read them as she drove. “Let’s see… AB… American Baptist? No, that’s
my blood type… Here it is. Presbyterian.”

“I’m not amused.”

“I’m sorry about that. Karl knew it was a joke.”

“Karl can’t identify a joke unless people around him are laughing.”

“Come on, Paul. You don’t take any of this sensitivity stuff seriously anyway. If I may give you a suggestion—be careful.
You don’t have to talk newspeak or confess to your prejudices, but don’t make fun of the new stuff, either. There’s no upside
to that, professionally speaking.”

“Are you a commissar?”

“No, I’m your partner.” She poked my arm. “Don’t get old on me.”

“Okay.” Obviously, Cynthia was in a somewhat less confrontational mode. Either something good had happened to her in her two-hour
absence, or she had rethought or remembered things about Paul Brenner that weren’t all bad. To get back to business, I inquired,
“Did you look up ‘sexual asphyxia’?”

“Of course. It’s totally weird.”

“Sex is weird if you think about it.”

“Maybe for you.”

“Tell me about sexual asphyxia.”

“All right… it’s basically having a tightened cord around your neck during sexual arousal. Usually men do it to themselves
while masturbating. Autoerotic. But women have been known to practice autoerotic asphyxia, too. Sometimes heterosexual and
homosexual partners do it to each other during sex. It’s usually consensual, but not always, and sometimes it leads to a fatality,
either accidental or on purpose. That’s when it becomes a police matter.”

“Correct. Have you ever seen it in practice?”

“No. Have you?”

“Have you ever done it?”

“No, Paul. Have you?”

“No, but I have seen it once. A guy rigged up something to hang himself while he masturbated, looking at a porno video. He
didn’t mean to die, but the stool he was standing on slipped away and he hanged himself for real. An autoerotic fatality.
The MPs thought it was suicide, of course. But when the victim is naked, and there is erotic paraphernalia around, then you
can be pretty sure it was an accident. Try explaining that to the family.”

“I can imagine.” She shook her head and said, “I’m not sure how that’s fun. Didn’t say in the manual.”

“Well, it’s in other manuals. Here’s how it’s fun: When you get a disruption of blood supply and oxygen to the brain, certain
sensations are heightened, partly as a result of diminished ego controls. A temporary lack of oxygen causes giddiness, lightheadedness,
and even exhilaration. It’s a high without drugs or alcohol. In this state, many people experience a more intense sexual arousal
and feeling.” I added, “I’ve heard that when you come, you
really
come, but if you misjudge, then you’ve come and gone. You’re history.”

“That’s not fun.”

“No. Also, only part of the kick is physiological. The other thing is the ritualistic behavior that accompanies most acts
of sexual asphyxia—the nakedness or the wearing of unusual clothes, the sexual paraphernalia and erotic materials, the fantasy,
the setting, and ultimately the danger.”

“Who invented this one?”

“Undoubtedly, it was discovered accidentally. Maybe there’re pictures of it in Egyptian pyramids. Human beings are ceaselessly
ingenious when it comes to self-gratification.”

She stayed silent while she drove, then glanced at me, and finally asked, “And you think something like this happened to Ann
Campbell?”

“Well… the panties around her neck were put there so as not to leave a telltale rope mark. That’s very specific for sexual
asphyxia when it is not meant to lead to death.” I added, “That is one way to interpret the scene that presented itself to
us, but let’s examine the forensic evidence.”

“Where were her clothes?”

“She may have dropped them off somewhere.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of the danger and the fantasy. As you mentioned earlier, we have no way of knowing what was sexually significant
to her, or what elaborate constructs she had developed in her mind. Think, if you will, of your own secret garden of delights,
and try to imagine how those scenarios would be viewed by another person.” To fill the awkward silence, I added, “This type
of personality is ultimately only satisfied with his or her own elaborate fantasies, with or without a partner. I’m beginning
to think that what we saw on rifle range six was produced, directed, and scripted by Ann Campbell, not by her partner or assailant.”

Cynthia said nothing, so I continued, “Most likely, it was a consensual act that included sexual asphyxia in which her partner
strangled her to death by accident, or on purpose, in a moment of anger. An assailant, a stranger, who was bent on rape and
murder would not have put the panties around her neck to minimize tissue damage.”

“No, but as we discussed, consider that perhaps the partner did not kill her in a moment of anger. Consider that the partner
intended
to kill her, and she
thought
it was a game.”

“That’s another possibility.”

Cynthia said, “I keep thinking about that room in the basement. There may have been men who wanted her dead out of jealousy
or revenge, or she may have been blackmailing someone.”

“Right. She was a homicide victim waiting to happen. But we need more information. You’ll write all of that in your case book.
Okay?”

Again she nodded but said nothing. Clearly, Cynthia, who dealt with garden-variety rapes that did not lead to murder, was
somewhat overwhelmed by these new facets of human depravity and sexual diversity. Yet, I was sure she had seen women brutalized
by men, but she must have compartmentalized those crimes or categorized them in some fashion that she could deal with. She
didn’t seem to hate all men—in fact, she liked men—but I could see how she could, or would, one day begin to hate. I asked
Cynthia, “The Neely case. Who was the guy?”

“Oh… some young trainee at the Infantry School. He fell in love with this nurse and followed her out to her car one night
as she left the hospital. He made a full confession and will make a full apology, then plead guilty and take five to ten.”

I nodded. It was not Army policy, but it was becoming more common to have the convicted or confessed criminal apologize to
the victim or the family, and also to his or her own commanding officer. This sounded more Japanese than English common law
to me, but I suppose it’s okay. Ironically, General Campbell had instituted this policy here at Fort Hadley. I said, “Good
God, I wouldn’t want to be the guy who had to apologize to the general for raping and murdering his daughter.”

“It would be hard to find just the right words,” Cynthia agreed. She added, “Are we back to rape and murder?”

“Perhaps. But it could have been murder and rape. Do you want to discuss necrophilia?”

“No. Enough.”

“Amen.” Up ahead, I could see the outline of a huge green open-sided tent, like a pavilion that you see at lawn parties. The
forensic people pitch these over an outdoor crime scene to protect the evidence from the elements.

Cynthia said, “I appreciate the confidence in me that you’ve expressed to Karl.”

I didn’t recall that conversation with Karl, so I let that pass and said, “Karl wants us to reconstruct the crime. Complete
with tent pegs, ropes, and so forth. You’re Ann Campbell.”

She thought about this a moment, then said, “All right… I’ve done that before…”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

We had arrived at the scene, and Cynthia pulled over behind a forensic unit van. She said, “Are we going to see the body again?”