The General's Daughter (8 page)

In the kitchen, Cynthia noticed the bolted door, and I informed her, “It leads to the basement. It’s secure, so we’ll check
it out last.”

She nodded.

The kitchen yielded very little except for the fact that Ann Campbell was for sure a neat-freak and ate the kind of healthful
foods—yogurt, bean sprouts, bran muffins, and such—that make my stomach heave. The refrigerator and pantry also held many
bottles of good wine and premium beer.

One cupboard was crammed with hard liquor and cordials, again all high-priced, even at post exchange prices. In fact, by the
price tags still stuck on some of the bottles, the liquor did not come from the PX. I asked, “Why would she pay civilian prices
for liquor?”

Cynthia, who is sensitive, replied, “Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen in the PX liquor store. You know—single woman, general’s
daughter. Men don’t worry about that.”

I said, “But I can relate to that. I was once spotted in the commissary with a quart of milk and three containers of yogurt.
I avoided the O Club for weeks.”

No comment from Cynthia, but she did roll her eyes. Clearly, I was getting on her nerves.

It occurred to me that a junior male partner would not be so disrespectful. And neither would a new female partner. This familiarity
obviously had something to do with us having once slept together. I had to process this.

“Let’s see the other rooms,” she said.

So we did. The downstairs powder room was immaculate, though the toilet seat was in the up position, and having just learned
a thing or two from that colonel at the O Club, I concluded that a man had been here recently. In fact, Cynthia commented
on it, adding, “At least he didn’t drip like most of you old guys do.”

We were really into this gender and generation thing now, and I had a few good zingers on the tip of my tongue, but the clock
was ticking and the Midland police could show up any minute, which would lead to a more serious difference of opinion than
that which was developing between Ms. Sunhill and me.

Anyway, we searched the living room and dining area, which were pristine, as though they were sanitized for public consumption.
The decor was contemporary but, as with many career military people, there were mementos from all over the world—Japanese
lacquers, Bavarian pewter, Italian glass, and so forth. The paintings on the walls would have been appropriate in a geometry
classroom—cubes, circles, lines, ovals, and that type of thing, in mostly primary colors. They conveyed nothing, which was
the point, I suppose. So far, I couldn’t get a handle on Ann Campbell. I mean, I remember once searching the home of a murderer,
and within ten minutes I had a grip on the guy. Sometimes it’s a small thing like a record album collection, or paintings
of cats on the walls, or dirty underwear on the floor. Sometimes it’s the books on the shelves or the lack of them, a photo
album, or, eureka, a diary. But here, in this place, so far, I felt I had mistakenly broken into the realtor’s model unit.

The last room on the ground floor was a study lined with books, in which sat a desk, sofa, and armchair. There was also an
entertainment console that held a TV and stereo equipment. On the desk was a telephone answering machine with a blinking light,
but we left it alone for the moment.

We gave the study a thorough search, shaking out the books, looking in and under the desk drawers, and finally reading book
titles and CD titles. Her taste in books ran to military publications, a few cookbooks, health and fitness books, no fiction
or literature whatsoever. But there was a complete collection of Friedrich Nietzsche, and a large collection of titles on
psychology, which reminded me that we were dealing with a person who not only was a psychologist but worked in a very arcane
branch of this field, to wit: psychological warfare. This might develop into one of the most relevant aspects of this case,
or the least relevant.

Heart and hormones aside, all crimes and criminal behavior begin in the mind, and the call to action comes from the mind,
and the concealment of the crime completely occupies the mind afterward. So we eventually had to get into the minds of a lot
of people, and that’s where we would learn about the general’s daughter, and learn why she was murdered. With a case like
this, when you knew why, you could usually figure out who.

Cynthia was flipping through CDs and announced, “Elevator music, a few golden oldies, some Beatles and classical stuff, mostly
Viennese guys.”

“Like Sigmund Freud playing Strauss on the oboe?”

“Something like that.”

I turned on the TV, expecting that it would be tuned to a fitness or news channel. But instead it was on the VCR channel.
I rummaged through the videotape collection, which consisted of a few old black-and-white classics, a few exercise tapes,
and some hand-labeled tapes marked “Psy-Ops, Lecture Series.”

I put one of them in the recorder and pushed the play button. “Take a look.”

Cynthia turned around and we both watched as Captain Ann Campbell’s image filled the screen, dressed in battle fatigues and
standing at a rostrum. She was, indeed, a very good-looking woman, but beyond that she had bright and alert eyes that stared
into the camera for a few seconds before she smiled and began, “Good morning, gentlemen. Today we are going to discuss the
several ways in which psychological operations, or psy warfare, if you wish, can be used by the infantry commander in the
field to decrease enemy morale and fighting effectiveness. The ultimate objective of these operations is to make your job
as infantry commanders somewhat easier. Your mission—to make contact with and destroy the enemy—is a tough one, and you are
aided by other branches of the Army, such as artillery, air, armor, and intelligence. However, a little-understood and too-little-used
tool is available to you—psychological operations.”

She went on, “The enemy’s will to fight is perhaps the single most important element that you must calculate into your battle
plans. His guns, his armor, his artillery, his training, his equipment, and indeed even his numbers are all secondary to his
willingness to stand and fight.” She looked out over her offscreen audience and let a moment pass before continuing. “No man
wants to die. But many men can be motivated to risk their lives in defense of their countries, their families, and even an
abstraction, or a philosophy. Democracy, religion, racial pride, individual honor, unit and interpersonal loyalty, the promise
of plunder, and, yes, women… rape. These are among the historical motivators for frontline troops.”

As she spoke, a slide projection screen behind her flashed images of ancient battle scenes taken from old prints and paintings.
I recognized “The Rape of the Sabines,” by Da Bologna, which is one of the few classical paintings I can name. Sometimes I
wonder about myself.

Captain Campbell continued, “The objective of psychological warfare is to chip away at these motivators, but not to tackle
them head-on, as they are often too strong and too ingrained to be changed in any significant way through propaganda or psy-ops.
The best we can hope to do is to plant some seeds of doubt. However, this does not crack morale and lead to mass desertions
and surrender. It only lays the groundwork for stage two of psy-ops, which is, ultimately, to instill fear and panic into
the enemy ranks. Fear and panic. Fear of death, fear of grotesque wounds, fear of fear. Panic—that least understood of all
psychological states of mind. Panic—a deep abiding, free-floating anxiety, often without any reason or logical basis. Our
ancestors used war drums, war pipes, bloodcurdling shouts, taunts, and even breast beating and primal screams to induce panic
in the enemy camps.”

The image on the screen behind her now looked to be a depiction of a Roman army in full flight, being chased by a horde of
fierce-looking barbarians.

She continued, “In our pursuit of technical excellence and high-tech solutions to battlefield problems, we have forgotten
the primal scream.” Ann Campbell hit a button on the rostrum and a high-decibel, bloodcurdling scream filled the room. She
smiled and said, “That will loosen your sphincter.” A few men in the classroom laughed, and the microphone picked up some
guy saying, “Sounds like my wife when she climaxes.” More laughter, and Captain Campbell, reacting to the remark, laughed
too, an almost bawdy laugh, completely out of character. She looked down a moment, as if at her notes, and when she looked
up again, her expression had returned to business and the laughter died down.

I had the impression she was playing the crowd, getting them on her side the way most male Army instructors did with an off-color
joke or an occasional personal comment. Clearly, she had reached out and touched the audience, had shared a moment of sexual
complicity and revealed what was beneath the neat uniform. But only for a moment. I turned off the VCR. “Interesting lecture.”

Cynthia said, “Who would want to kill a woman like that? I mean, she was so
alive.
So vital and so self-assured…”

Which may be why someone wanted to kill her. We stood in silence a moment, sort of in respect, I suppose, as if Ann Campbell’s
presence and spirit were still in the room. In truth, I was quite taken with Ann Campbell. She was the type of woman you noticed,
and once seen, was never forgotten. It wasn’t only her looks that grabbed your attention, but her whole demeanor and bearing.
Also, she had a good command voice, deep and distinct, yet feminine and sexy. Her accent was what I call Army brat—a product
of ten or twenty duty stations around the world, with an occasional southern pronunciation taking you by surprise. All in
all, this was a woman who could command the respect and attention of men, or drive them to distraction.

As for how women related to her, Cynthia seemed impressed, but I suspected that some women might find her threatening, especially
if their husbands or boyfriends had any proximity to Ann Campbell. How Ann Campbell related to other women was, as yet, a
mystery. Finally, to break the silence, I said, “Let’s finish this business.”

We went back to our search of the study. Cynthia and I both went through a photo album we found on the shelf. The photos appeared
to be entirely
en famille:
General and Mrs. Campbell, a young man who was probably the son, shots of Daddy and Ann in mufti, uncle and aunt types, West
Point, picnics, Christmas, Thanksgiving, ad nauseam, and I had the impression her mother put the album together for her daughter.
This was documentary proof positive that the Campbells were the happiest, most loving, best adjusted, most socially integrated
family this side of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, with Mary taking most of the snapshots. “Pablum,” I said. “But it
does
tell one something, does it not?”

“What?” asked Cynthia.

“They probably all hate one another.”

“You’re being cynical,” she said. “And jealous,” she added, “because we don’t have families like this.”

I closed the album. “We’ll soon find out what’s behind their cheesy smiles.”

At this point, the enormity of what we were doing seemed to hit Cynthia and she said, “Paul… we have to question General Campbell…
Mrs. Campbell…”

I replied, “Murder is unpleasant enough. When it’s rape and murder and it doesn’t appear random, and the victim’s father is
a national hero, then the idiots who are going to examine the victim’s life had better know what they’re getting into. Understand?”

She contemplated this a moment and informed me, “I really want this case. I feel… you know… some affinity for her. I didn’t
know her, but I know life wasn’t easy for her in this man’s Army.”

“Spare me, Cynthia.”

“Well, really, Paul, how would you know?”

“Try being a white man these days.”

“Give me a break.”

“Now I remember what we used to fight about.”

“Neutral corners.”

We walked to opposite sides of the room, though not the corners, and continued our search. I looked at the framed things on
the wall—Ann Campbell’s West Point diploma, her Army commission, training certificates, commendations, and a few other Department
of the Army and Department of Defense certificates, including one that recognized her contribution to Operation Desert Storm,
though the nature of the contribution was not specified. I cleared my throat and said to Ms. Sunhill, “Did you ever hear about
Operation Bonkers during Desert Storm?”

She replied, “Not that I recall.”

“Well, some smart cookie in psy-ops had this idea of dropping hard-core porno photos on the Iraqi positions. Most of those
poor bastards had not seen a woman in months or years, so this psy-ops sadist wants to bury them in photos of hot, pink flesh,
which will drive them bonkers. The idea goes all the way up to the joint command, and it’s a definite winner, a go, until
the Saudis hear about it and go ballistic. You know, they’re a little tight and not as enlightened as we are about bare tits
and ass. So the thing was squashed, but the word was that the idea was brilliant and could have shortened the ground war from
four days to fifteen minutes.” I smiled.

Cynthia replied frostily, “It’s disgusting.”

“Actually, I agree in theory. But if it saved one life, it might have been justified.”

“The means do not justify the ends. What’s the point?”

“Well, what if the idea of the porno bombardment had come from a woman instead of some male pig?”

“You mean Captain Campbell?”

“Certainly that idea came out of the Special Operations School here. Let’s check it out.”

Cynthia went into one of her contemplative moods, then looked at me. “Did
you
know her?”

“I knew
of
her.”

“What did you know
of
her?”

“What most everyone else knew, Cynthia. She was perfect in every way, made in the USA, pasteurized and homogenized by the
Public Information Office, and delivered fresh to your doorstep, creamy white and good for you.”

“And you don’t believe that?”