The General's Daughter

“Hear the doors slam?”

  “Could’ve if the wind was with me. I was upwind.”

  “Do you hunt?”

  “I do.”

  “For what?”

  “Possum, squirrels, rabbit.”

  “Bird?”

  “No. I like the looks of them.”

  I stood. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “I do.” I went toward the cell door, then turned back. “If I let you go back to your barracks, do I have your word that you won’t say anything about this to anyone?”

  “Who’m I givin’ my word to?”

  “An officer in the United States Army.”

  “You got sergeant stripes, and me and you don’t know your name.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Lee County, Alabama.”

  “You have a one-week administrative leave. Give your CO a phone number.”

  I went back to the interrogation room, where I found Cynthia, alone, her head in her hands, reading her notes or thinking.

  We compared interviews and concluded that the time of death was somewhere between 0217 and 0425 hours. We speculated that the killer or killers were either in the humvee with Ann Campbell or already at the scene. If the killer had used his own vehicle, he had not used his headlights or had parked some distance from where PFC Robbins was posted. At that point, I leaned toward the theory that Ann Campbell had picked him or them up and driven him or them to the scene, but I did not discount the possibility of a prearranged rendezvous at the scene of the murder. A random and fateful encounter seemed less likely, considering her headlights went out immediately after the humvee stopped, because if Ann Campbell had been waylaid, there should have been some time lapse between the stopping of the vehicle and the extinguishing of the lights. Cynthia asked, “If this was a secret rendezvous or a tryst, why did she use her headlights at all?”

  “Probably so as not to attract undue attention. She had legitimate business out there, but if she’d been spotted by a passing MP patrol without her headlights on, she’d be stopped and questioned.”

  “That’s true. But PFC Robbins was alerted by the lights, so why didn’t Campbell check Robbins’s post first, assure her, then go back to her rendezvous?”

  “Good question.”

  “And why rendezvous within a kilometer of a guard post anyway? There are about a hundred thousand acres of military reservation out there.”

  “Right, but there’s that latrine with running water, and, according to Robbins, who got it from her sergeant, people go out there to fuck. Presumably, they might want to wash up afterward.”

  “Well, it’s still possible that she was waylaid by a psycho who didn’t realize how close he was to a guard post.”

  “Possible, but the visible evidence suggests otherwise.”

  “And why would she do it on a night she was on duty?” Cynthia added.

  “Part of the kick. The woman was into kicks and kink.”

  “She was also into doing her duty while on duty. The other stuff was her other life.”

  I nodded. “Good point.” I asked her, “Do you think St. John is hiding anything?”

  “Well, he wasn’t hiding his opinions. But basically, he told us all he knew. How about Robbins?”

  “She told me more than she knew she knew. Not badlooking, either. Clean country girl from ’Bama.”

  “If she’s a PFC, she’s young enough to be your greatgranddaughter.”

  “Probably a virgin.”

  “Then she can run faster than her uncles and brothers.”

  “My, aren’t we in a rare mood.”

  She rubbed her temples. “Sorry, but you bug me.”

  “Well, why don’t you go get some lunch, and I’ll go call Karl Gustav before he hears about this from someone else and has me shot.”

  “Okay.” She stood. “Keep me on this case, Paul.”

  “That’s Herr Hellmann’s decision.”

  She poked me in the gut again. “It’s your decision. You tell him you want me.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “But you do.”

  I walked her outside to her car, and she got in. I said, “I enjoyed working with you these last six hours and twenty-two minutes.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I enjoyed about fourteen minutes of it myself. Where should I meet you, and when?”

  “Back here at 1400 hours.”

  She pulled out of the lot, and I watched the red Mustang blend into midday post traffic.

  I went back into the provost marshal’s office and found out where my requisitioned office was. Kent had me in a windowless room with two desks, two chairs, one file cabinet, and enough room left over for a trash can.

  I sat at one of the desks and glanced through the leather address book, then threw it aside and tried to think it all out—not the case itself, but the politics of the case, the interpersonal relationships, and my best course of action regarding protecting my ass. Then I thought about the case itself.

  Before I called Hellmann, I had to get my facts straight and keep my theories and opinions to myself. Karl deals in facts but will consider personal assessments if they can somehow be used against a suspect. Karl is not a political animal, and the underlying problems with this case would not impress him. In the area of personnel management, he assumes that everyone would work well together if he ordered it. Last year in Brussels, I had asked him not to assign me to any case or any continent on or in which Ms. Cynthia Sunhill worked. I explained that we’d had a personal falling-out. He didn’t know what that meant, but he gave me a firm assurance that he might possibly consider thinking about it.

  And so I picked up the phone and called Falls Church, taking some satisfaction in the knowledge that I could ruin Karl’s day.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The Oberführer was in, and his clerk-typist,Diane, put me through. “Hello, Karl.” “Hello, Paul,” he replied with a hint of a German accent.

  The pleasantries aside, I informed him, “There’s been a murder here.”

  “Yes?”

  “General Campbell’s daughter, Captain Ann Campbell.”

  Silence.

  I continued, “Possibly raped, definitely sexually abused.”

  “On post?”

  “Yes. At one of the rifle ranges.”

  “When?”

  I replied, “This morning between 0217 and 0425 hours,” which completed the who, what, where, and when questions.

  He asked the why question. “Motive?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Suspects?”

  “None.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “She was duty officer and went out to check the guard posts.” I filled in the details and added my involvement through Colonel Kent, my meeting up with Cynthia Sunhill, and our examination of the scene and of the victim’s offpost residence. I didn’t mention the recreation room in the basement, knowing that this conversation might be recorded and that, strictly speaking, it wasn’t privileged information. Why put Karl in an awkward position?

  He stayed silent a moment, then said, “I want you to go back to the scene after the body has been removed and, using the same tent pegs, you will stake Ms. Sunhill to the ground.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I see no reason why a healthy woman could not pull the stakes out.”

  “Well, I can. The stakes were angled away from the body, Karl, and she wouldn’t have the leverage, and presumably there was someone there with a rope around her neck, and I think—my assumption is that it was a game at first—”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. But at some point she knew it was not a game. We know from past experience what strength a woman can summon when her life is in danger. She may have been drugged or sedated. Be sure toxology looks for sedatives. Meanwhile, you and Ms. Sunhill will attempt to re-create the crime from beginning to end.”

  “You’re talking about a simulatio
n, I hope.”

  “Of course. Don’t rape or strangle her.”

  “You’re getting soft, Karl. Well, I’ll relay your suggestion.”

  “It is not a suggestion. It is an order. Now tell me in more detail what you found in Captain Campbell’s house.”

  I told him, and he made no comment about my failure to notify the civilian authorities. So I asked him, “For the record, do you have any problems with my entering her house and removing the contents?”

  “For the record, you notified her next of kin, who agreed to or even suggested that course of action. Learn to cover your own ass, Paul. I’m not always available for that job. Now you have five seconds for homicidal reverie.”

  I took the five seconds, painting a delightful mental image of me with my hands around Karl’s neck, his tongue sticking out, his eyes bulging…

  “Are you back?”

  “Another second” … his skin turning blue, and finally… “I’m back.”

  “Good. Do you want FBI assistance?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want another investigator from this office, or from our detachment at Hadley?”

  “Let’s back up. I don’t even want this case.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already have an unfinished case here.”

  “Finish it.”

  “Karl, do you understand that this murder is very sensitive… very…”

  “Did you have any personal involvement with the victim?”

  “No.”

  “Fax me a preliminary report to be on my desk by 1700 hours today. Diane will assign a case number. Anything further?”

  “Well, yes. There’s the media, the official statement from the Department of the Army, the Judge Advocate General’s Office, the Justice Department, the general’s own personal statement and that of his wife, the general continuing his duties here, the—”

  “Just investigate the murder.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.”

  “You’ve heard it. Anything further?”

  “Yes. I want Ms. Sunhill removed from the case.”

  “I didn’t assign her to the case. Why is she on the case?”

  “For the same reason I’m on the case. We were here. We’re not connected to the power structure or personalities here. Kent asked us to help him until you officially assign a team.”

  “You’re officially assigned. Why don’t you want her on the case?”

  “We don’t like each other.”

  “You never worked together. So what is the basis of that dislike?”

  “We had a personal falling-out. I have no knowledge of her professional abilities.”

  “She’s quite competent.”

  “She has no homicide experience.”

  “You have very little rape experience. Now, here we have a rope homicide, and you two will make an excellent team.”

  “Karl, I thought we discussed this once. You promised not to assign us to the same duty station at the same time. Why was she here?”

  “I never made such a promise. The needs of the Army come first.”

  “Fine. The needs of the Army would best be served if you reassigned her today. Her case here is finished.”

  “Yes, I have her report.”

  “So?”

  “Hold on.”

  He put me on hold. Karl was being particularly insensitive and difficult, which I know is his way of telling me he has every confidence in my ability to handle a tough assignment. Still, it would have been nice to hear a word or two acknowledging that I’d caught a bad squeal. Yes, Paul, this will be very sensitive, very difficult, and potentially harmful to your career. But I’m behind you all the way. Maybe even a few words about the victim and her family. Tragic, yes, tragic. Such a young, beautiful, and intelligent woman. Her parents must be devastated. I mean, get human, Karl.

  “Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “That was Ms. Sunhill on the line.”

  I thought it might be. I said, “She has no business going over my head—”

  “I reprimanded her, of course.”

  “Good. You see why I don’t—”

  “I told her you don’t wish to work with her, and she claims that you are discriminating against her because of her sex, her age, and her religion.”

  “What? I don’t even know her religion.”

  “It’s on her dog tags.”

  “Karl, are you jerking me around?”

  “This is a serious charge against you.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s personal. We don’t get along.”

  “You got along very well in Brussels, from what I’ve been told.”

  Fuck you, Karl. “Look, do you want me to spell it out?”

  “No, I’ve already had it spelled out for me by someone in Brussels last year and by Ms. Sunhill a minute ago. I trust my officers to behave properly in their personal lives, and, while I don’t require that you be celibate, I do require that you be discreet, and that you don’t compromise yourself, the Army, or your assignment.”

  “I never did.”

  “Well, if Ms. Sunhill’s fiancé had put a bullet through your head, you would have left me with the mess.”

  “That would have been my last thought as my brain exploded.”

  “Good. So you are a professional, and you will establish a professional relationship with Ms. Sunhill. End of discussion.”

  “Yes, sir.” I asked him, “Is she married?”

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  “There are personal considerations.”

  “Neither you nor she has a personal life until you conclude this case. Anything further?”

  “Did you tell Ms. Sunhill about your rather odd experiment?”

  “That’s your job.” Karl Gustav hung up, and I sat a moment, considering my options, which boiled down to resigning or pushing on. Actually, I had my twenty years in, and I could put in my papers anytime, get out with half pay, and get a life.

  There are different ways to end an Army career. Most men and women spend the last year or so in a safe assignment and fade away into oblivion. Some officers stay too long, fail to make the next grade, and are asked to leave quietly. A fortunate few go out in a blaze of glory. And then there are those who go for that last moment of glory and crash in flames. Timing is everything.

  Career considerations aside, I knew that if I pulled out, this case would haunt me forever. The hook was in, and, in fact, I don’t know what I would have said or done if Karl had tried to take me off the case. But Karl was a contrary and counter-suggestible son-of-a-bitch, so when I said I didn’t want the case, I had the case, and when I said I didn’t want Cynthia, I had Cynthia. Karl is not as smart as he thinks.

  On the desk in my new office were Captain Ann Campbell’s personnel and medical files, and I flipped through the former. These files contain a soldier’s entire Army career, and they can be informative and interesting. Chronologically, Ann Campbell entered West Point some twelve years before, graduated in the top ten percent of her class, was given the traditional thirty-day graduation leave, and was assigned, at her request, to the Military Intelligence Officer Course at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. From there, she went to graduate school at Georgetown and received her master’s in psychology. Her next step was to apply for what we call a functional area, which in this case was psychological operations. She completed the required course at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg, then joined the 4th Psychological Operations Group, also at Bragg. From there, she went to Germany, then back to Bragg. Then the Gulf, the Pentagon, and finally Fort Hadley.

  Her officer efficiency reports, at first glance, looked exceptional, but I didn’t expect otherwise. I found her Army test battery of scores and noted that her IQ put her into the genius category, the top two percent of the general population. My professional experience has been that an inordinate number of two-percenters wind up on my desk as suspects, usually in homicide cases. Geniu
ses don’t seem to have much tolerance for people who annoy them, or hinder them, and they tend to think they are not subject to the same rules of behavior as the mass of humanity. They are often unhappy and impatient people, and they can also be sociopaths, and sometimes psychopaths who see themselves as judge and jury and, now and then, as executioner, which is when they come to my attention.

  But here I had not a suspect, but a victim who was a two-percenter, which could be a meaningless fact in this case. But my instinct was telling me that Ann Campbell was a perpetrator of something before she became a victim of that something.

  I opened the medical file and went directly to the back, where psychological information, if any, is usually placed. And here I found the old psychological evaluation report, which is required for entry into West Point. The reporting psychiatrist wrote:

  This is a highly motivated, bright, and well-adjusted person. Based on a two-hour interview and the attached testing results, I found no authoritarian traits in her personality, no delusional disorders, mood disorders, anxiety disorders, personality disorders, or sexual disorders.

  The report went on to say that there were no apparent psychological problems that would prevent her from fulfilling her duties and obligations at the United States Military Academy. Ann Campbell was a normal eighteen-year-old American girl, whatever that meant in the latter part of the twentieth century. All well and good.

  But there were a few more pages in the psychological section, a short report dated in what would have been the fall semester of her third year at West Point. Ann Campbell had been ordered to see a staff psychiatrist, though who had ordered this, and why, was not stated. The psychiatrist, a Dr. Wells, had written:

  Cadet Campbell has been recommended for therapy and/ or evaluation. Cadet Campbell claims “There is nothing wrong with me.” She is uncooperative, but not to the extent that I can forward a delinquency report on her to her commanding officer. In four interviews, each lasting approximately two hours, she repeatedly stated that she was just fatigued, stressed by the physical and academic program, anxious about her performance and grades, and generally overworked. While this is a common complaint of first-and second-year cadets, I have rarely seen this degree of mental and physical stress and fatigue in third-year students. I suggested that something else was causing her stress and feelings of anxiety, perhaps a love interest or problems at home. She assured me that everything was fine at home and that she had no love interest here at the academy or anywhere.