The General's Daughter (17 page)

“Don’t worry about it. Meantime, you get a suspect, and we’ll scrape his skin, and take his blood, and pull his hair, and
get him to pop off inside a rubber like Cynthia here did with this guy the other day.”

“I hope there’s something here to compare to a suspect.”

“There’s always something. Where are her clothes, by the way?”

“Gone. She was wearing BDUs.”

“So’s everybody else. If I find BDU fibers, it means nothing.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Forensic’s not easy when everybody’s wearing the same clothes and boots.”

“True enough. Did you get disqualifying footprints from all the MPs on the scene?”

“Yeah.”

“Including Colonel Kent?”

“Yup.”

We got back to the road and stopped. Cynthia said, “Remember, Cal, the only pressure on you is from us. Nobody else counts.”

“I hear you.” He glanced back toward the body and offered, “She was very pretty. We have one of those recruiting posters of
her in the lab.” He looked at Cynthia and me, and said, “Hey, good luck.”

Cynthia replied, “You, too.”

Cal Seiver turned and ambled off toward the body.

Cynthia and I got in her car and she asked, “Where to?”

“Jordan Field.”

S
peed, speed, speed. The older the case,the colder the trail. The colder the trail, theharder the case.

Transference and exchange.
Officially, this relates to forensic evidence, bits and pieces of physical matter. But for the homicide investigator, it
can relate to something almost metaphysical. By using offender profiles and analyses of violent crimes, you begin to know
the murderer without having met him. By using victimology analysis and psychological autopsy, you begin to know more about
the victim than what people are telling you. Eventually, you may guess at the relationship between the victim and the murderer
and deduce that they knew each other, as is most often the case. Going on the theory that there was an emotional and psychological
transfer and exchange between the deceased and the murderer, you can start narrowing the suspect list. On the other hand,
I’d welcome a DNA marker and a fingerprint from Cal Seiver.

We headed north in the direction of the main post, but turned left at a sign that said, “Jordan Field.” I informed Cynthia,
“Based on Cal’s findings with the tent pegs and rope, I don’t think you have to be staked out.”

She replied, “Karl is the typical armchair detective.”

“True.” Among Karl’s other annoying traits was his bad habit of coming up with bright ideas. He’d sit there in Falls Church
and read lab reports, witnesses’ statements, and look at photos, then formulate theories and avenues of investigation. The
men and women in the field love this. Karl fancies himself as some sort of European savant, and the fact that he’s batting
zero doesn’t seem to bother him.

But Karl is a good commander. He runs a tight operation, kisses no ass, and stands up for his people. In this particular case,
Colonel Karl Gustav Hellmann would undoubtedly be called to the Pentagon to report. Standing, perhaps, in the chief of staff’s
office before the secretary of the Army, the head of the FBI, the judge advocate general, and other assorted brass and steely-eyed
presidential flunkies, he would announce, “My best man, Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner, is on the case, and he tells me
he needs no outside assistance, and he assures me he can successfully conclude this case within a matter of days. An arrest
is imminent.” Right, Karl. Probably mine.

Cynthia glanced toward me. “You look a little pale.”

“Just tired.”

We approached Jordan Field, an Army installation that is part of Fort Hadley. Most of Hadley is an open post, and people come
and go as they please, but Jordan Field is a security area, and we were stopped at the gate by an MP. The MP looked at Cynthia’s
ID and asked, “Are you working on the murder case, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she replied. “This is my father.”

The MP smiled. “Hangar three, ma’am.”

Cynthia put the car in gear and we proceeded toward hangar three. Jordan Field was originally built by the now-defunct Army
Air Corps in the 1930s and looks like a set for a World War II movie. It was too small to be taken over by the new Air Force
after the war, but it is much bigger than the Army needs for its limited air arm, and, as a troop staging area, it is redundant
and superfluous. In fact, if this whole military complex, including Hadley and Jordan, belonged to General Motors, half of
it would be moved to Mexico and the other half closed. But the Army issues no P&L statements, and the end product, national
defense, is somewhat of an abstract, like peace of mind, and therefore priceless. In reality, however, Hadley and Jordan are
no more than government work projects for the local economy. What the war booms created, the peace dividend would maintain.

Sitting on the tarmac were two Huey helicopters and three Army artillery spotter planes. We proceeded to hangar three, in
front of which was parked Kent’s staff car, and a blue and white Ford with police markings. In fact, a gold shield on the
door of the police car was emblazoned with the words “Midland Police Chief.”

Cynthia said, “That will be Chief Yardley’s car. I worked with him once. Have you?”

“No, and I don’t intend to start now.”

We walked into the cavernous hangar, where I noticed, first, a white BMW 325 convertible, which I assumed was Ann Campbell’s
car. At the far end of the hangar were Ann Campbell’s household effects, arranged, I assumed, in some sort of room-by-room
order, with the ripped-up carpeting laid out according to the floor plan of the town house. As I got closer, I noticed her
office furniture, as well. As we got even closer, I saw a long table covered with Polaroid photos of her house and office.
There were a few MPs on the fringes of the layout, and there was Colonel Kent, and there was a man wearing a cowboy hat who
looked like he could have been, and probably was, Police Chief Yardley. The man was big, bursting out of his tan poplin suit,
and his face was red, leading me to wonder if he was sunburned, had high blood pressure, or was monumentally pissed-off.

Yardley and Kent were conversing and glancing toward Cynthia and me as we approached. Yardley finally turned and came toward
me as I came toward him. He greeted me with these words: “You got a shitload of explaining to do, son.”

I thought not, and informed him, “If you’ve touched anything or come in contact with anything, I will need prints from you,
and fibers from your clothing.”

Yardley stopped a foot from me and sort of stared for a long time, then laughed. “You son-of-a-bitch.” He turned to Kent.
“You hear that?”

Kent forced a smile, but he was not happy.

I continued, “Please keep in mind that you are on a military reservation and that I have the sole responsibility for this
case.”

Kent, a bit belatedly, said, “Chief Yardley, may I introduce Mr. Brenner and Ms. Sunhill.”

“You may,” replied Yardley, “but I’m not real delighted.”

Yardley, you may have guessed, had a rural Georgia accent that grates on my nerves in the best of circumstances. I can only
imagine how my South Boston accent sounded to him.

Yardley turned to Cynthia, and, all southern charm now, he touched his cowboy hat. “I believe we’ve met, ma’am.”

I mean, was this guy out of central casting, or what? I asked Yardley, “Can you tell me what your official business is here?”

Again he smiled. I seemed to amuse him. He said, “Well, now, my official business is to ask you how all this stuff got here.”

Remembering Karl’s nearly intelligent advice and wanting this guy gone, I replied, “The deceased’s family asked that I take
charge of these items and transport them here.”

He mulled that over a moment, then said, “Good thinkin’, son. You skunked me.”

“Thank you.” Actually, I liked this guy. I’m partial to assholes.

Yardley said, “Tell you what—you give me and the county lab access to this stuff, and we’ll call it even.”

“I’ll consider that after the CID lab is finished with it.”

“Don’t mess with me, son.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. Hey, how’s this sound—you let us in on this matter, and I’ll give you access to the deceased’s house, which we got
all locked up and guarded now.”

“I don’t care about the house.” Except the basement. The guy had an ace he didn’t know about.

“Okay, I got some official files on the deceased.”

The deal was getting better, but I said, “I’ll subpoena your files if I have to.”

Yardley turned to Kent. “This is a horse trader.” He turned back to me. “I got things up here”—he tapped his head, which sounded
hollow—“things that you can’t subpoena.”

“You knew the deceased?”

“Hell, yeah, boy. How ’bout you?”

“I didn’t have the pleasure.” Double entendre, perhaps.

“I know the old man, too. Hey, tell you what,” said Chief Yardley, using that annoying expression, “you come on down to my
office and we’ll jawbone this one.”

Recalling how I had suckered poor Dalbert Elkins inside a cell, I replied, “If we do speak, we’ll do it in the provost marshal’s
office.”

The mention of Kent’s title seemed to arouse him and he said, “We will all cooperate in the sharing of files, leads, and forensic
reports.”

Cynthia spoke for the first time. “Chief, I understand your feeling that we’ve acted improperly, but don’t take that personally,
or view it as a professional insult. If the victim had been almost anyone else, we would have asked you to join us at the
house and conferred with you regarding the best way to proceed.”

Yardley was pursing his lips, as though he were contemplating this statement or was forming the word “bullshit.”

Cynthia continued, “We get just as upset when a soldier is arrested in town for some minor infraction that a local boy would
get away with.”

Unless the local boy was black, of course. Don’t say it, Brenner.

“So,” Cynthia continued with sweet reason, “we will sit down at a mutually convenient time tomorrow and formulate a good working
relationship.” And so on and so forth.

Yardley nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he replied, “Makes sense to me.” He said to Kent, “Thanks, Colonel. Call
me at home tonight.” He turned to me and slapped me on the shoulder. “You skunked me, boy. I owe you one.” He strode away,
across the long floor of the hangar, looking like a man who would be back.

After he exited the small personnel door, Kent said, “I told you he would be ripped.”

I replied, “Who cares?”

Kent replied, “I don’t want to get into a pissing match with this guy. The fact is, he can be very helpful. Half the military
personnel live off post on his turf, and ninety percent of the civilian workers on post live in Midland. When we get a list
of suspects, we’ll need Yardley.”

“Maybe. But I think every suspect will wind up on government land at some point. If not, we’ll kidnap them.”

Kent shook his head, which seemed to stir his brain, and he asked, “Hey, did you see the general yet?”

“No. Am I supposed to?”

“He wants to see you, ASAP. He’s home.”

“All right.” The bereaved have many things on their minds, but talking to the investigating officer is not usually one of
them. But a general, I suppose, is another species of human being, and General Campbell, perhaps, had a need to make things
happen, to show he was still in command. I said to Kent, “I just saw Cal Seiver, the forensic OIC. You met him?”

“Yes,” replied Kent. “He seems to have things under control. Has he come up with anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you?”

“I have a preliminary list of possible suspects.”

Kent looked almost startled. “Already? Who?”

“Well, you, for one.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, Brenner?”

“My suspects are everyone who had contact with the crime scene and/or the victim’s town house. Forensic will pick up traces,
footprints, and fingerprints of those people, and I have no way of knowing if those traces were left before, during, or after
the crime.” I added, “The preliminary suspects, then, are Sergeant St. John, PFC Casey, who responded to the call, you, any
other MPs who were at the scene, Cynthia, and me. These are not likely suspects, but I have to deal with the forensic evidence.”

Kent said, “Then you’d better start getting alibis.”

“Okay. What’s yours?”

“All right… I was home in bed when I got a call from my duty sergeant.”

“You live on post, correct?”

“Correct.”

“What time did you get home?”

“At about midnight. I had dinner in town, then went to the office, worked late, then went home.”

“Your wife can verify that?”

“Well… no, she’s visiting her parents in Ohio.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, fuck off, Paul. Just fuck off.”

“Hey, take it easy, Colonel.”

“You know, you think you’re funny, but you’re not. There’s nothing funny about making a joke about murder and murder suspects.”

I looked at him and saw he was truly agitated.

He continued, “There’s going to be enough of that crap as it is. Enough rumors, whispering, finger-pointing, and suspicion.
We don’t need you here making it worse.”

“All right,” I said, “I apologize. But I assumed that three law officers could speak their minds. Nothing we say is leaving
this hangar, Bill, and if we speculate, or even make a few idiotic remarks, we understand that it’s between us. Okay?”

But he didn’t look mollified, and he snapped at me, “Where were
you
last night?”

I said, “Home alone in my trailer until about 0430 hours. Got to the post armory around 0500 hours. No witnesses.”

“A likely story,” snorted Kent, who seemed inordinately happy that I had no alibi. He turned to Cynthia, “And you?”

“I got to the VOQ about 1900 hours and wrote my report on the Neely case until about midnight, then went to bed, alone, and
was awakened by an MP knocking on my door at about 0530 hours.”