The General's Daughter (55 page)

Cynthia commented, “This case looked hard, and we all worked hard, but the answer was literally under our nose the whole time.”

“That’s why it was hard to see it.”

Cynthia made small talk for a few minutes, and I made big silences. She kept looking at me.

To avoid any unpleasantness, I picked up the phone and called Colonel Fowler at Post Headquarters. He took my call immediately,
and I said to him, “Colonel, I’d like you to take the shoes that you and Mrs. Fowler wore out to rifle range six and destroy
them. Secondly, get your story straight with General Campbell. You never went out to the range. Third, get Mrs. Fowler in
a car or on a plane immediately after the funeral.”

He replied, “I appreciate what you’re saying, but I feel I have to reveal my involvement in this.”

“Your commanding officer’s wish is that you don’t do that. A general’s wish is his command.”

“It’s an illegal command.”

“Do everyone a favor—yourself, your wife, your family, the Army, me, the Campbells—forget it. Think about it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Question—did you take her West Point ring?”

“No.”

“Was there a bayonet stuck in the ground when you got there?”

“Not in the ground. The handle was stuck in her vagina.”

“I see.”

“I removed it and disposed of it.”

“Where?”

“I threw it off the Chickasaw River Bridge.” He added, “I suppose you’d have liked to check it for fingerprints.”

“I would have, yes.” But in fact, Kent would not leave a print behind.

“I apologize. It was a gut reaction.”

“Lot of that going around.”

“This is a mess, Brenner. We’ve all made a mess of things.”

“Shit happens.”

“Not to me it doesn’t. Not until she got here two years ago. But you know what? It was our fault, not hers.”

“I tend to agree.” I added, “I may make an arrest this afternoon.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say. I’ll see you at the service.”

“Fine.”

I hung up. Just when you think you’ve got your ration of shit-happens for the day, someone heaps on another helping. In this
case, an MP major named Doyle was the bearer of the shit. He came into the office and glanced at Cynthia, then addressed me.
“Mister Brenner, you signed a release order for a Staff Sergeant Dalbert Elkins. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We found him quarters at the MP company barracks.”

“Fine.”
Who gives a shit?

“Under the terms of his restriction, he was to sign into the company dayroom every three hours.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“He missed his first sign-in at 0800 hours.”

Jesus H. Christ. “What?”

“And no one has seen him since.”

Cynthia looked at me, then looked away.

Major Doyle informed me, “We’ve put out an all-points bulletin for his arrest, and notified the Midland police, the county
police, and the Georgia state police.” He added, “The CID commander, Major Bowes, demands a full report from you on this matter.”
Major Doyle smiled unpleasantly and said, “You blew it.” He turned and left.

I stared at nothing in particular for a while. Cynthia finally spoke. “That happened to me once.”

I didn’t reply.

“But it happened to me
only
once. So you can’t get cynical about human nature.”

Wanna bet? Timing being everything, this was the time to mention her husband’s phone call, but Karl Hellmann’s timing was
not good, and he picked that moment to show up.

Cynthia and I stood as the big man walked into the little office. He nodded perfunctorily, glanced around, then we all shook
hands. Cynthia, being the lowest-ranking person in the room, offered him her desk chair, which he took, while Cynthia took
the spare chair, and I sat at my desk.

Karl was wearing his green dress uniform, as we were, and he threw his hat on the desk.

Like me, Karl was once an infantryman, and we both served in Vietnam at about the same time. Our uniforms sported basically
the same awards and decorations, including the Bronze Star for valor and the coveted Combat Infantryman’s Badge. Being products
of the same crucible, and both being middle-aged, we usually dispense with some of the formalities. But I wasn’t in a Karl
mood that morning, so I intended to stick to courtesies and protocols. I said, “Coffee, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

Karl is a good-looking man with a full head of grayish-black hair, firm jaw, and blue eyes. Women, however, don’t find him
sexy. It may be his manner, which is stiff and formal. In fact, he’s rather tight-assed, and if you put a lump of coal up
his butt, he’d produce a diamond within a week. That aside, he’s a pro.

We exchanged pleasantries for three seconds, then Karl said to me in his slight accent, “I understand our star witness in
the arms sale case has become a fugitive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you recall your line of reasoning in releasing him?”

“Not at the moment, no, sir.”

“One wonders why a man who has been offered immunity would decide to commit yet another felony and flee.”

“One does wonder.”

“Did you explain to him that he had immunity?”

“Yes, sir, but apparently not very well.”

“It’s a problem, you know, Paul, dealing with stupid people. You project your own intelligence and rationality onto a person
who is a complete idiot, and he lets you down. He’s ignorant and frightened, and he is a slave to his instincts. The jail
door opens, and he runs. Quite understandable.”

I cleared my throat. “I thought I had reassured him and won his trust and confidence.”

“Of course you did. That’s what he wanted you to think when he was on the other side of the bars. They’re cunning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you’ll consult me the next time, before you release a prisoner in a major felony case.”

“He was actually a witness, sir.”

Karl leaned toward me and said, “He had not one fucking iota of understanding regarding the difference. You put him in jail,
you let him out, he ran.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Article 96 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice deals with the improper releasing of a prisoner through neglect or design.
You’re in trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Now, tell me, what are the most recent developments here?”

Well, to begin with, I never got the chance to sleep with Cynthia, she lied to me about her husband, I’m crushed and pissed,
I still can’t get Ann Campbell out of my mind, the provost marshal down the hall is probably a murderer, dopey Dalbert beat
feet, and I’m not having a good day.

Hellmann turned to Cynthia. “Perhaps you’ll speak to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Cynthia began by discussing forensic evidence, Grace Dixon’s computer discoveries, the Yardley boys, and the unfortunate
involvements of Major Bowes, Colonel Weems, and other staff officers.

Karl listened.

Cynthia then reported an edited version of our conversations with General Campbell, Mrs. Campbell, Colonel Fowler, Mrs. Fowler,
and Colonel Moore. I was barely listening, but I did note that she did not mention Colonel and Mrs. Fowler’s precise role
in the case, or Ann Campbell’s basement room, and neither did she mention Bill Kent at all. This is exactly the way I would
have handled it, and I was impressed with how much she’d learned in the last two days. Cynthia said to Karl, “So you see,
it all had to do with revenge, retribution, a perverted experiment in psychological operations, and what happened at West
Point a decade ago.”

Karl nodded.

As an afterthought, Cynthia did mention Friedrich Nietzsche, in the context of Ann Campbell’s personal philosophy. Karl seemed
interested in that, and I realized that Cynthia was playing to her audience.

Karl sat back and pondered, his fingers pressed together like some great sage about to provide the answer to Life. Cynthia
concluded, “Paul has done an outstanding job, and it’s been an education working with him.”

Barf.

Karl sat motionless for a full minute, and it occurred to me that the great sage didn’t have a fucking clue. Cynthia was trying
to catch my eye, but I refused to look at her.

Finally, Colonel Hellmann spoke. “Nietzsche. Yes. In revenge and in love, woman is more barbarous than man.”

I asked, “Is that Nietzsche, sir, or your personal opinion?”

He looked at me in a way that suggested the ice under me was getting thinner. He said to Cynthia, “Very good. You’ve exposed
motives, massive corruption, and great secrets here.”

“Thank you.”

He looked at me, then at his watch. “Should we be going to the chapel?”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood and we stood. We took our hats and headed out.

We all got into my Blazer, with Karl in the honorary position in the rear. As I drove toward the post chapel, Karl finally
asked, “Do you know who did it?”

I replied, “I think so.”

“Would you care to share that with me?”

What’s it worth to you?
I replied, “We have some circumstantial evidence, some testimony, and some forensic evidence that points to Colonel Kent.”
I looked into my rearview mirror and got my first thrill of the day when I saw Karl’s eyes widen. The rock jaw did not drop,
however. “The provost marshal,” I prompted.

Karl recovered and asked, “Are you both prepared to make a formal charge?”

Thank you for the ace, Karl. I replied, “No. I’m turning over our evidence to the FBI.”

“Why?”

“It needs some research and development.”

“Tell me what you know.”

I pulled into the parking field of the post chapel, a big Georgian brick structure, suitable for military weddings, funerals,
Sunday worship, and solitary prayer before shipping out to a combat zone. We got out of the Blazer and stood in the hot sun.
The lot was nearly full, and people were parking on the road and on the grass.

Cynthia took a piece of paper out of her handbag and handed it to Karl. She said, “That was in Ann Campbell’s computer. It’s
a letter to Mrs. Kent.”

Karl read the letter, nodded, and handed it back to Cynthia. “Yes, I can understand Colonel Kent’s anger and humiliation at
having his wife receive such a letter. But would that make him kill?” Just then, Colonel William Kent himself walked by with
a wave of the hand. Cynthia informed Karl, “That is Colonel Kent.”

Karl watched him walk to the chapel. Karl observed, “He doesn’t look haunted.”

“He vacillates,” Cynthia replied. “I think he’s on the verge of convincing himself that what he did was right, then telling
us the same thing.”

Karl nodded. “Yes, that’s the great secret of this job—not confronting a criminal with the moral question of right or wrong,
but giving him the opportunity to explain his reasons.” He asked Cynthia, “What other evidence do you have?”

Cynthia gave him a quick rundown of the diary entries, the critical bootprint, the Jeep in the pine brush, and our conversations
with the suspect. She concluded, “He had motive, opportunity, and probably the will to act, at least at that moment. He’s
not a killer, but he’s a cop, and therefore no stranger to homicide. He also had good cover, being on the inside of the investigation,
and was able to manipulate it and control the evidence—he let the crime scene become polluted, for instance—but his alibi
for the time of the murder is weak or nonexistent, as is often the case with crimes of opportunity.”

Hellmann nodded as Cynthia spoke. Then the great one delivered his opinion. “If you’re right, and you can prove it, then you’ve
ended this case before it engulfs everyone. If you’re wrong, this case will eat you both, and destroy many more lives while
the investigation continues.”

Cynthia replied, “Yes, sir, that’s why we worked day and night. But it’s really out of our hands now.” She looked at me, then
continued, “Paul is correct in that we don’t want to recommend formal charges. There’s nothing in that for us, for you, for
the CID, or the Army.”

Karl contemplated the chess board in his head, then turned to me. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet.”

“I have nothing to say, Colonel,” I replied, using his rank to remind him that the buck stopped at his silver eagle.

“Are you upset over your prisoner fleeing?”

“He was a witness, and, no, I’m not.”

Cynthia chimed in, “He’s been sulky all morning. Even before you got here.” She smiled at me, but I stone-faced it, and her
smile faded. I really wanted to be out of here, out of Hadley, out of the hot sun, out of Georgia, and out of touch. I said,
“We won’t get a seat.” I turned toward the chapel and walked.

Karl and Cynthia followed. Karl spoke to Cynthia. “You should give him a last opportunity to confess.”

“You mean Paul?” she said playfully.

“No, Ms. Sunhill. Colonel Kent.”

“Right. We’ve considered that.”

“People confess to the most heinous crimes, you know, if you put them in the right mood. Murderers who have killed a loved
one carry an enormous burden, and they want to share the weight with someone. Unlike professional criminals, they have no
partners in crime, no confidants, and they are isolated, without a living soul to tell of the greatest secret of their life.”

“Yes, sir,” Cynthia replied.

Karl said, “Do you think it was simple expediency that made Colonel Kent call you and Paul regarding this crime? No. It was
an unconscious desire to be found out.”

And on he went, saying things I already knew, and making the pitch for us to confront the suspect, who, though professionally
damaged, was a high-ranking and powerful man with a lot of resources left to him. I sort of pictured myself in front of a
board of inquiry, trying to make a case for Colonel William Kent as murderer, while seven steely-eyed officers sat there waiting
to eat my ass for lunch. But sucker that I was, I was willing to give it a shot. However, I was going to keep Karl hanging
until he ordered me to confront Kent.

I looked toward the chapel and noticed that the ceremonies relating to the receiving of the casket were completed; the honorary
pallbearers were not on the steps, and, in fact, the old caisson, taken from the museum, did not have the casket on it.