The General's Daughter (40 page)

Chief Yardley seemed to be mulling over his answer, so, to fill the silence, I asked, “And did Mrs. Yardley know you were
fucking the general’s daughter? Hey, I wouldn’t want to have dinner at your house tonight, Burt.”

The chief was still mulling, so I said, “You didn’t find that room by accident, but that’s what you told Wes. Maybe Wes knew
that his girlfriend dated on the side now and then, but when he screwed her, he did it in her bedroom, because if he’d seen
that room downstairs, he’d have beat the shit out of her and left her like any good gentleman of the South. You, on the other
hand, knew all about her but never told your son, because Ann Campbell told you you’d better not. She liked Wes. You were
just someone she screwed because you had influence over Wes, and because you could fix things for her in town if she ever
needed anything fixed. You were kind of an afterthought, extra insurance, and maybe you came through for her a few times.
So, anyway, you and Wes have more in common than blood, and Ann Campbell made your life exciting and damned scary. She told
you at some point that if you broke into her place and took that stuff, it didn’t matter, because she had copies of the photos
and videotapes someplace else. It wouldn’t be too hard to identify your fat ass in those pictures. So you get to thinking
about your wife, your son, your other sons, your standing in the community, your pastor and Sunday church socials, your thirty
years on the force to get to the top, and one day, you decide to get rid of this time bomb.” I looked at him and said, “Correct?”

Yardley’s ruddy face had not gone pale, but it had gone redder. Finally, he said, “I wasn’t dumb enough to have my picture
taken.”

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure your voice isn’t on an audiotape?”

“That ain’t good enough.”

“It’s good enough to smear your name like shit on the mayor’s new carpet.”

We both sat awhile, like two checker players trying to see three moves down the road. Yardley nodded to himself, then looked
me in the eye. “I thought about killing her once or twice.”

“No kidding?”

“But I couldn’t bring myself to kill a woman for somethin’ stupid that I did.”

“Chivalry is not dead.”

“Yeah… anyway, I was in Atlanta overnight on business when it happened. Got lots of witnesses.”

“Good. I’ll talk to them.”

“You go right ahead and make a fool out of yourself.”

“I’m not the one with a motive for murder.” Actually, I didn’t think Burt Yardley was the murderer, but people get nervous
when you tell them you have to check out their alibis. It’s embarrassing and causes all sorts of awkwardness. That’s why cops
do it to people that are holding back, and who piss them off.

Yardley said, “You can take your motives, put a light coat of oil on them, and shove ’em up your butt. But I might be interested
in what you got regardin’ me and the deceased.”

“Might you? Well, I might have a photo of you when you were sleeping in her bed.”

“Then again, you might not.”

“Then again, how did I connect your fat ass to that room?”

“Well, that’s the question, ain’t it, son?” He slid back his chair as though to leave and said, “You’re blowin’ smoke up my
ass. I ain’t got no time for this.”

There was a knock on the door and it opened. Specialist Baker handed me a sealed transmittal envelope and left. I opened the
envelope, which contained about a dozen sheets of typed paper. Without a preamble to cushion the blow, I took a page at random
and read aloud, “ ‘22 April—Burt Yardley stopped by about 2100 hours. I was busy with reports, but he wanted to go downstairs.
Thank God this guy needs it only about once a month. We went down into the basement, and he ordered me to strip for a search.
I think he strip-searches every female he has half a reason to. So I stripped in front of him while he stood there with his
hands on his hips and watched, then he ordered me to turn around, bend over, and spread my cheeks, which I did. He put his
finger in my anus and told me he was looking for drugs or poison or secret messages. Then he made me lie on the gurney for
a vaginal search, and—’ ”

“Okay, son.”

I looked up from the page. “Does that ring a bell, Chief?”

“Uh… not right off.” He asked, “Where’d you get that?”

“Her computer.”

“Don’t sound like admissible evidence to me.”

“Well, in test cases, it’s been ruled admissible.”

“Could be all female craziness. You know, like some dumb make-believe.”

“Could be. I’ll turn it over to the JAG and to the Georgia attorney general for evaluation by legal and mental health professionals.
Maybe you’ll be cleared.”

“Cleared of what? Even if every goddamn word is true, I didn’t break no laws.”

“I’m not an expert on Georgia sodomy laws. But I think you may have broken your marriage vows.”

“Oh, can that shit, son. You’re a man. Act like a goddamn man. Think like a goddamn man. You some kind of queer or what? You
married?”

I ignored him and flipped through the pages. “My goodness, Burt… you used your flashlight to look up her… and here you use
your nightstick to… and your
pistol
? This is really gross. You’ve got this fetish about long, hard objects, I see. But I don’t seem to see where your own object
gets long or hard…”

Burt stood. “You keep a close eye on your ass, boy, because it’s mine if you stick it anyplace off this post.” He went to
the door, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, so I paid no attention. He came back to the table, took the chair beside me,
and spun it around, then sat on it and leaned toward me. I’m not sure what the reversed chair symbolizes beyond the obvious
fact that it’s the opposite of sitting down and relaxing. Maybe it’s protective, maybe aggressive, but whatever it is, it’s
annoying. I stood, and sat on the table. “Okay, Burt, what I want from you is every damned piece of evidence you took out
of that room.”

“No way.”

“Then I’ll send copies of these diary pages to everyone in the Midland phone book.”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

We were getting somewhere now, so I said, “We’ll swap evidence.”

“Hell, no. I got enough stuff to fuck up most of the top boys on this here post. You want that to happen?”

“You’ve only got masked photos. I have the diary.”

“I got goddamned fingerprints all over the place down there. We’re gonna run those through the FBI and the Army.”

“Are the contents still in the room?”

“My business.”

“Okay, how about a bonfire? We’ll use these pages of your sexual perversions to start it. Probably won’t even need a match.”

He thought a minute. “Can I trust you?”

“My word as an officer.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I trust
you
?”

“No, but I don’t want you shooting off your wiseass mouth to my wife and boy.”

I stood and looked out the window. The reporters were still there, but a cordon of MPs had now moved them back about fifty
meters to the road in front of the building so that people could come and go without being harassed. I thought about what
I was about to enter into with Chief Yardley. Destroying evidence could get me a few years in Kansas. On the other hand, destroying
lives is not part of my job. I turned and walked toward Yardley. “Done deal.”

He stood and we shook. I said, “You throw everything in a dump truck, including the furniture, sheets, carpet, videotapes,
photos, whips and chains, and all that stuff, and bring everything to the town incinerator.”

“When?”

“After I make an arrest.”

“When’s that gonna be?”

“Soon.”

“Yeah? You want to tell me about that?”

“No.”

“You know, dealin’ with you is like jerkin’ off with sandpaper.”

“Thank you.” I handed him the computer printouts and said, “When we burn the stuff, I’ll have this deleted from the computer.
You can watch.”

“Yeah. Now you’re blowin’ sunshine up my ass. Well, I’m gonna trust you, son, ’cause you’re an officer and a gentleman. But
if you fuck me, I’ll kill you as God is my witness.”

“I think I understand that. And I make you the same promise. Have your first good night’s sleep tonight. It’s almost finished.”

We walked out into the corridor and back toward the office. On the way, I said to him, “Have my personal luggage delivered
to the visiting officers’ quarters, okay, Burt?”

“Sure thing, son.”

Cynthia and Wes Yardley were sitting at the desks and stopped talking as we entered.

Burt said, “Hey, we interruptin’ somethin’?” He laughed.

Cynthia gave Burt a look that seemed to say, “You’re a jackass.”

Wes stood and ambled to the door. He looked at the papers in his father’s hand and asked, “What’s that?”

“Uh… just some Army crap I got to read.” He looked at Cynthia and touched his hat. “A pleasure as always, ma’am.” He said
to me, “Keep me informed.” He and his son left.

Cynthia asked, “Did Baker find you?”

“Yes.”

“Hot stuff?”

“Burt found it a little embarrassing.” I told her most of what transpired and said to her, “The incriminating photos and other
evidence in Ann Campbell’s fun room will be disposed of, but the less you know about it, the better.”

“Don’t be protective, Paul. I don’t like that.”

“I’d do the same for any officer. You’re going to be questioned under oath someday, and you don’t have to lie.”

“We’ll discuss this another time. Meanwhile, Wes Yardley turns out to be a little less macho than he appears.”

“They all are.”

“Right. He’s quite upset over Ann Campbell’s death, and has been turning Midland upside down trying to find who did it.”

“Good. Did you get the feeling that he thought Ann Campbell was his personal property?”

“Sort of. I asked him if she was allowed to date other men, and he said he only allowed her to have dinner, drinks, and such,
on official occasions on post. He never wanted to escort her to any of those things, so he was good enough to permit her to
do what she had to do with the asshole officers. Quote, unquote.”

“There’s a man after my own heart.”

“Right. But people can’t be watched all the time, and where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Correct. So he had no idea, obviously, that she was furthering her career in nontraditional ways.”

“I very much doubt it.”

“And if he found out that his father was sharing the honey, he’d be annoyed.”

“To say the very least.”

“Good. I’ve never had my hands around so many balls.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Not me. I’m just doing my job.”

“Do you want a sandwich?”

“You buying?”

“Sure.” She stood. “I need some air. I’ll run over to the O Club.”

“Cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.”

“Tidy up this place while I’m gone.” She left.

I called Baker on the intercom, and she reported. I gave her my handwritten note regarding Dalbert Elkins and asked her to
type it.

She said to me, “Would you recommend me for CID School?”

“It’s not as much fun as it looks, Baker.”

“I really want to be a criminal investigator.”

“Why?”

‘It’s exciting.”

“Why don’t you talk to Ms. Sunhill about it?”

“I did, when she was here yesterday. She said it was fun and exciting, lots of travel, and you meet interesting people.”

“Right, and you arrest them.”

“She said she met you in Brussels. That sounds romantic.” I didn’t reply.

“She said she’s got orders for a permanent duty station in Panama when she’s finished here.”

“Would you get me some fresh coffee?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all.”

She left.

Panama.

C
olonel Fowler called at 1645 hours and I took the call, telling Cynthia to pick up the other line and listen.

Colonel Fowler said, “My wife is available at 1730 hours, at home, Mrs. Campbell at 1800 hours, at Beaumont House, and the
general will see you at his office at Post Headquarters at 1830 hours, sharp.”

I commented, “That’s cutting the interviews close.”

“Actually,” he replied, “it’s cutting them short.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“The three parties you wish to speak to are under a great deal of stress, Mr. Brenner.”

“So am I, but I thank you.”

“Mr. Brenner, has it occurred to you that you may be upsetting people?”

“It has occurred to me.”

“The funeral, as I said, is tomorrow morning. Why don’t you and Ms. Sunhill brief the FBI people, attend the funeral if you
wish, then leave. The investigation will proceed nicely without you, and the murderer will be brought to justice in good time.
This is not a timed exercise.”

“Well, it wasn’t, but the idiots in Washington made it one.”

“Mr. Brenner, from the very beginning, you chose to charge through here like Grant took Richmond, with no regard to protocol
or other people’s sensibilities.”

“That’s how Grant took Richmond, Colonel.”

“And they are still pissed-off at Grant in Richmond.”

“Right. Colonel, I knew from the beginning that this case would be pulled away from me, from the CID. The Pentagon and the
White House did the politically correct thing, and God bless civilian control of the military. But if I have about twenty
hours left, I’ll use it my way.”

“As you wish.”

“Trust me to conclude this case in a way that will not bring discredit on the Army. Don’t trust the FBI or the Attorney General’s
Office to do that.”

“I won’t comment on that.”

“Best that you don’t.”

“On another topic, Mr. Brenner, your request to seize the contents of Colonel Moore’s office has gone all the way to the Pentagon,
and they turned it down for national security reasons.”

“That’s the very best of reasons, sir. But it’s odd that the people in Washington want me to arrest Colonel Moore for murder,
but I can’t get permission to examine his files.”

“That’s what happens when you ask. You know that.”