The General's Daughter (31 page)

Right. Whatever happened tonight with Cynthia would be the real thing. Something good had to come out of this mess.

B
ethany Hill is Fort Hadley’s Shaker Heights, though considerably smaller and not as well manicured. There are about thirty
solid brick colonial-style homes set in an area of some sixty acres of oaks, beech, maple, and other high-ranking trees, while
the lowly southern pine is specifically absent. All of the houses go back to the 1920s and ’30s, when officers were gentlemen,
were expected to live on post, and there weren’t so many of them

Times change, and the officer population has swelled beyond the Army’s needs and its ability to give each one a house, a horse,
and a manservant. But the top dogs on post still get the houses on the hill if they want them, and Colonel Fowler probably
felt that living on post was good politics. Mrs. Fowler may have also preferred Fort Hadley. Not that Midland is a bastion
of Old South attitudes toward blacks; it is not, having been influenced by decades of close proximity to the fort. But Bethany
Hill, sometimes called the colonels’ ghetto, was probably more comfortable in social terms than a similar neighborhood in
town.

Bethany Hill’s only disadvantage was its proximity to the rifle ranges, range number one being about five miles south of the
hill. I could imagine that during a night firing exercise, with the wind from the south, you could hear the gunfire. But for
some of the old infantry types, it was probably as soothing as a lullaby.

Cynthia was wearing a green silk blouse and a tan skirt, and, presumably, clean undergarments. I said to her, “You look very
nice this morning.”

“Thank you. How long do I have to see that blue suit?”

“Think of it as the duty uniform of the week.” I added, “Your makeup didn’t cover the dark circles under your eyes, which
are also bloodshot and puffy.”

“I’ll look fine with a good night’s sleep. You need a more recent birthday.”

“Are you a little grumpy this morning?”

“Yes. Sorry.” She put her hand on my knee. “These aren’t the best circumstances for us to renew our friendship.”

“No. But we got real close there.”

We found the house, a good-sized brick structure with standard green door, green trim, and green shutters. A Ford station
wagon and Jeep Cherokee were parked in the driveway. American-made vehicles are not de rigueur for high-ranking officers,
but it’s not a bad idea, either.

We parked on the street, got out of Cynthia’s Mustang, and proceeded up the front walk. It was still cool on the hill at 0700
hours, but the hot sun was slanting in at a low angle under the trees, and it felt like another one of those days in the making.

I said to Cynthia, “Colonels with enough time in grade and time in service to be a general, such as Colonels Fowler and Kent,
are extremely sensitive to career-limiting problems.”

Cynthia replied, “Every problem is an opportunity.”

I said, “Sometimes every problem is a problem. Kent, for instance, is finished.” It was exactly 0700 hours and I knocked on
the green door.

An attractive black woman, wearing a nice aqua summer dress, opened the door and forced a smile. Before I could announce ourselves,
which is customary, she said, “Oh… Ms. Sunhill and Mr. Brenner. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I was willing to forgive her for recognizing the younger and obviously lower-ranking warrant officer first.
Civilians, even colonels’ wives, sometimes got it wrong, and to be honest, rank among warrant officers is like virginity among
prostitutes: there ain’t none.

We stood there awkwardly a moment, then she showed us in and escorted us down the center hall.

Cynthia said to her, “This is a beautiful home.”

She replied, “Thank you.”

Cynthia asked her, “Did you know Captain Campbell well?”

“Oh… no… not well.”

Which was a rather odd reply. I mean, how could General Campbell’s adjutant’s wife not know General Campbell’s daughter? Clearly,
Mrs. Fowler was distracted, forgetting all sorts of little social courtesies that should be second nature to a colonel’s wife.
I asked her, “Have you seen Mrs. Campbell since the tragedy?”

“Mrs. Campbell? No… I’ve been… too upset…”

Not as upset as the victim’s mother, however, and that was a sympathy call that should have been made by now.

I was about to ask another question, but we reached our destination, a screened porch in the rear of the house where Colonel
Fowler was speaking on the telephone. He was already dressed in his green A uniform, his shirt buttoned and his tie snug,
though his jacket was draped over a chair. He motioned us into two wicker chairs opposite him at a small table, and we sat.

The military is perhaps the last American bastion of fixed and clearly defined social customs, rank, responsibilities, and
required courtesies, and in case you needed guidance, there’s an entire six-hundred-page book for officers, explaining what
your life is and should be about. So when things seem a little askew, you start wondering.

Mrs. Fowler excused herself and disappeared. Colonel Fowler was listening on the phone, then said, “I understand, sir. I’ll
tell them.” He hung up and looked at us. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Colonel.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He poured two cups of coffee and indicated the sugar. He began without preamble, “I’ve encountered very little discrimination
in the Army, and I can speak for other minorities when I say that the Army is, indeed, a place where race and religion are
not a factor in advancement or in any other area of Army life. There may be racial problems among the enlisted personnel,
but there is no systemic racial discrimination.”

I wasn’t sure where this was going, so I put sugar in my coffee.

Colonel Fowler looked at Cynthia. “Have you experienced any discrimination based on your sex?”

Cynthia hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps… yes, on a few occasions.”

“Have you ever been harassed because of your gender?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been the subject of rumors, innuendos, or lies?”

“Maybe… once that I know of.”

Colonel Fowler nodded. “So you see that I as a black man have had fewer problems than you as a white woman.”

Cynthia replied, “I know that the Army is less accepting of females than of males. But so is the rest of the world. What is
the point, Colonel?”

“The point, Ms. Sunhill, is that Captain Ann Campbell had a very difficult time here at Hadley. If she had been the general’s
son, for instance, and had fought in the Gulf, Panama, or Grenada, she would have been idolized by the troops as so many sons
of great warriors have been throughout history. Instead, the rumor going around is that she fucked for everyone on post. Excuse
my language.”

I offered, “And if Captain Campbell had been the son of a fighting general who came home covered with glory and fucked all
the female personnel on post, he’d never have to buy another drink in the O Club.”

Colonel Fowler looked at me. “Precisely. We have that odd double standard for men and women that we would not tolerate if
it were racial. So if you have some hard information concerning Captain Campbell’s sexual conduct, I’d like to hear it, though
I don’t care if it’s true or not.”

I replied, “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources at this time. My only interest in Captain Campbell’s sexual conduct is
how or if it relates to her murder. I have no prurient interest in her sex life as an entertaining sidelight to her rape and
strangulation out there on the rifle range.” Actually, of course, she wasn’t raped, but I wasn’t giving out free copies of
the autopsy.

Colonel Fowler said, “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Brenner, and I didn’t mean to question your professional ethics. But you’d
damned well better keep that connection in mind and not let your investigation become a witch-hunt.”

“Look, Colonel, I appreciate your distress, and the distress of the deceased’s family. But we’re not talking about rumor and
innuendo, as you suggested. We’re talking about hard facts that I have. Ann Campbell had not only an active sex life, which
in her position in this man’s Army is not solely her business, but she led a potentially dangerous sex life. We can argue
about double standards all morning, but when I hear that a general’s daughter slept with half the senior married officers
on post, I think of suspects, not tabloid headlines. The words ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ don’t pop into my detective’s mind. But
the words ‘blackmail’ and ‘motive’ do. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

Colonel Fowler must have thought so, because he was nodding, or perhaps he was agreeing with some thought in his head. He
said to me, “If you make an arrest, do I have your assurances that only the minimal amount of this information appears in
your report?”

I had half a mind to tell him about Ann Campbell’s hidden store of sexual delights and how I had already compromised myself
to minimize the damage. I said, “The evidence in Captain Campbell’s house could have and should have been shared with Chief
Yardley. But Ms. Sunhill and I took a precautionary move to ensure that anything in the house of an unmarried, attractive
female officer that would be embarrassing to her family or the Army did not wind up as a public amusement. Actions speak louder
than words, and that’s the only assurance I can give you.”

Again, he nodded, then said quite unexpectedly, “I’m very pleased with both of you. I’ve checked you both out, and you come
to us with the highest recommendations. It’s our privilege to have you assigned to this case.”

I lifted my feet because the bullshit was getting higher, but I replied, “That’s very good of you to say that.”

He poured us more coffee and said, “So you have a prime suspect. Colonel Moore.”

“That’s correct.”

“Why is he a suspect?”

“Because,” I replied, “there is forensic evidence that he was at the scene of the crime.”

“I see… but no evidence that he actually murdered her?”

“No. It’s possible that he was there earlier or later than the time of the crime.”

“But you have no evidence that anyone
else
was there.”

“No conclusive evidence.”

“Then doesn’t that leave him as the most likely suspect?”

“As of now.”

“If he doesn’t confess, will you charge him?”

“I can only recommend in a case like this. The final decision as to charges will undoubtedly be made in Washington.”

“It seems to me that your report and recommendation will be the deciding factor.”

“It should be the only factor, considering that no one else has a clue to what happened.” I added, “I must tell you, sir,
that these rumors linking Ann Campbell to certain officers on post may or may not include people such as the staff judge advocate,
and others who may not be as objective or impartial as they should be in this matter. I hate to be the one to sow seeds of
mistrust, but I’m only advising you of what I’ve heard.”

“Heard from whom?”

“I can’t say. But it came from a good source, and I suspect you know how widespread this problem is. I don’t think you can
clean your own house here, Colonel. Your broom is dirty. But perhaps Ms. Sunhill and I can.”

He nodded. “Well, on that subject, I was speaking to General Campbell when you arrived. There’s been a new development.”

Uh-oh. I don’t like new developments. “Yes?”

“The Justice Department, in a meeting with your superior, Colonel Hellmann, and the Army judge advocate general and other
interested parties, has decided to assign the FBI to this case.”

Oh, shit.
I said to Colonel Fowler, “Well, then, the damage control is out of my hands. You and everyone else who wears a green uniform
should know that.”

“Yes. Some people are upset. Not everyone in the Pentagon knows how much damage control is necessary, so they caved in to
these demands without a good fight. But they did get a compromise.”

Neither Cynthia nor I bothered to ask what it was, but Colonel Fowler informed us, “You two are to remain on the case until
noon tomorrow. If, after that time, you haven’t made an arrest and recommended charges, you will be relieved of your investigative
duties. Though you will remain available to the FBI for consultation.”

“I see.”

“A task force is assembling right now in Atlanta consisting of FBI personnel, a team from the Judge Advocate General’s Office,
the Attorney General’s Office, and senior officers from your own CID in Falls Church.”

“Well, I hope the SOBs all have to stay in the VOQ.”

Colonel Fowler forced a smile. “We don’t want this, of course, and I suspect you don’t, either. But if you think about it,
it was inevitable.”

Cynthia said, “Colonel, Army captains are not murdered every day, but this sounds like overkill, and sounds more like PR than
good police science.”

“That point was raised. The reality, however, is that it
was
a female, she was
raped,
and it
was
General Campbell’s daughter.” He added, “There is equal justice for all, but some people get more of it.”

I said, “I realize you have nothing to do with this decision, Colonel, but you ought to discuss this with General Campbell
and see if he can get this decision reversed or at least modified.”

“I did. That’s how we got the compromise. As of about 2300 hours last night, you and Ms. Sunhill were relieved. General Campbell
and Colonel Hellmann bought you some time. They thought you were very close to an arrest. So perhaps if you have good evidence
and strong suspicions regarding Colonel Moore, you’ll make that arrest. You have our permission to do so if you feel you need
that.”

I thought a moment. Colonel Moore seemed to be the most popular candidate for scapegoat. And why not? Evidence aside, he was
a loony who did weird work in secret, and his uniform was sloppy, and General Campbell disliked his relationship with Ann
Campbell according to Kent, and he had no significant awards or medals, and he was not a popular officer. Even an MP corporal
couldn’t wait to rat him out. This guy was walking into a noose with his face buried in a book of Nietzsche nuttiness. I said
to Colonel Fowler, “Well, if I have about thirty hours, I’ll take it.”