“Yes, sir.” We shook hands. Colonel Moore’s uniform was wrinkled and badly tailored, the true sign of an officer in one of the specialized branches. “Thank you for coming,” I said. Colonel Moore was about fifty, had black curly hair that was a bit too long, and an air about him that suggested a civilian shrink called to active duty the day before. Army doctors, Army lawyers, Army shrinks, and Army dentists always intrigue me. I can never determine if they’re on the run from a malpractice suit or if they’re simply dedicated patriots. I led him to a table in the far corner, and we sat. “Drink?”
“Yes.”
I signaled a waitress, and Colonel Moore ordered a glass of cream sherry. We were off to a bad start already.
Moore stared at me as though trying to guess my mental disorder. Not wanting to disappoint him, I volunteered, “Sounds like she got nailed by a psycho. Maybe a serial murderer.”
True to his profession, he turned the statement back on me and asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Just a wild guess.”
He informed me, “There have been no similar rapes and murders in this area.”
“Similar to what?”
“To what happened to Captain Campbell.”
Exactly what happened to Captain Campbell should not have been general knowledge at this point, but the Army thrives on rumor and hearsay. So, what Colonel Moore knew and Colonel Fowler knew and General Campbell knew, and when they knew it and how they knew it, was anyone’s guess at this point in the day. I asked, “What did happen to her?”
He replied, “She was raped and murdered, of course. Out on the rifle range.”
I took out my notebook and sipped on my beer. “I just got called in from D.C., and I don’t have much information. I heard she was found naked, tied up.”
He considered his response, then said, “You’d better check with the MPs on that.”
“Right. How long were you her commanding officer?”
“Since she got here at Fort Hadley, about two years ago.”
“So you knew her fairly well?”
“Yes. It’s a small school. There are only about twenty officers and thirty enlisted men and women assigned.”
“I see. How did you feel when you heard the news?”
He said to me, “I’m in total shock over this. I still can’t believe this happened.” And so forth. He actually looked all right to me despite the total shock. I work with psychologists and psychiatrists now and then, and I know they tend toward inappropriate behavior while saying appropriate things. Also, I believe that certain professions attract certain types of personalities. This is especially true in the military. Infantry officers, for instance, tend to be somewhat aloof, a bit arrogant, and self-assured. CID people are deceitful, sarcastic, and extremely bright. Your average shrink has chosen a life that is involved with troubled minds, and it might be a cliché, but a lot of them have gone around the bend themselves. In the case of Charles Moore, psychological warfare specialist, who tried to make healthy enemy minds into troubled enemy minds, you had the equivalent of a physician cultivating typhus germs for the biological warfare people.
So, anyway, as we spoke, Charles Moore seemed to me not completely well. He seemed distant for short periods of time, then he’d stare at me at inappropriate times as though trying to read something in my face or read my mind. The guy actually made me uneasy, and that takes a lot of doing. Besides being slightly weird, his eyes were a bit sinister—very dark, very deep, and very penetrating. Also, his voice had that slow, deep, pseudo-soothing tone that they must teach at shrink school.
I asked him, “Did you know Captain Campbell prior to this assignment?”
“Yes. I first met her about six years ago when she attended the functional area school at Fort Bragg. I was her instructor.”
“She had just completed her master’s in psychology at Georgetown,”
He looked at me the way people look at you when you say something they didn’t think you knew. He replied, “Yes, I believe so.”
“And were you together at Bragg while she was with the Psy-Ops Group?”
“I was at the school—she was working at her trade with the Fourth Psy-Ops.”
“Then what?”
“Germany. We were there at about the same time. Then we returned to the JFK School at Bragg, and we both instructed for a while, then we were assigned on the same orders to the Gulf, then to the Pentagon, briefly, and two years ago we came here to Fort Hadley. Is all this necessary?”
“What do you do at Fort Hadley, Colonel?”
“That’s confidential.”
“Ah.” I nodded as I scribbled. It is not common for two people to share so many assignments, even in a specialized area like psychological operations. I know married military couples who have not been so lucky. Take poor Cynthia, for example, who, though not married to that Special Forces guy at the time, was engaged to him, and there she was in Brussels while he was in the Canal Zone. I said to Colonel Moore, “You had a good professional relationship.”
“Yes. Captain Campbell was extremely motivated, bright, articulate, and trustworthy.”
That sounded like what he put on her officer evaluation report every six months. Clearly, they were a team. I asked him, “Was she sort of your protégé?”
He stared at me as though my use of one French word might lead to or suggest another French word like, perhaps, paramour, or some other dirty foreign word. He replied, “She was my subordinate.”
“Right.” I wrote that down under the heading Bullshit. I found that I was annoyed that this geek had been around the world with Ann Campbell and had shared so many years with her. How’s that for nuts? I had half a mind to say to him, “Look here, Moore, you shouldn’t even be on the same planet with this goddess. I’m the one who could have made her happy. You’re a sick little freak.” Instead, I said to him, “And do you know her father?”
“Yes. But not well.”
“Had you met him prior to Fort Hadley?”
“Yes. Now and then. We saw him a few times in the Gulf.”
“We?”
“Ann and I.”
“Ah.” I wrote that down.
I asked him a few more questions, but clearly neither of us was getting anything interesting out of this. What I wanted from this meeting was to get an impression of him before he knew whom he was talking to. Once they know you’re a cop, they go into an act. On the other hand, Army Times reporters can’t ask questions like “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?” But cops can, so I asked him, “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”
He stood. “What the hell kind of question is that? I’m going to make an official complaint—”
I held up my badge case. “CID, Colonel. Have a seat.”
He stared at the badge a second, then at me, and those eyes shot red death rays at me, zip, zip, like in a bad horror flick.
I said again, “Sit down, Colonel.”
He looked furtively around the half-filled room, sort of like he was wondering if he was surrounded or something. Finally, he sat.
There are colonels, and then there are colonels. Theoretically, the rank transcends the man or woman wearing it, and you pay respect to the rank, if not the person. In reality, this is not so. Colonel Fowler, for instance, had the power and the authority, and you had to be careful with him. Colonel Moore was not connected to any power structure that I knew about. I said to him, “I am investigating the murder of Captain Campbell. You are not a suspect in this case, and I am not going to read you your rights. Therefore, you will answer my questions truthfully and fully. Okay?”
“You have no right to pass yourself off as—”
“Let me worry about my split personality. Okay? First question—”
“I refuse to speak to you without an attorney present.”
“I think you’ve seen too many civilian movies. You have no right to an attorney and no right to remain silent unless you are a suspect. If you refuse to cooperate volu
ntarily, then I will consider you a suspect and read you your rights and take you down to the provost marshal’s office and announce that I have a suspect who requires an attorney. You are in what is called a military bind. So?”
He thought a moment, then said, “I have absolutely nothing to hide, and I resent your having put me in a defensive position like this.”
“Right. First question. When was the last time you saw Captain Campbell?”
He cleared his throat and adjusted his attitude, then replied, “I last saw her yesterday at about 1630 hours in my office. She said she was going to go to the club to get something to eat, then report for duty.”
“Why did she volunteer for duty officer last night?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did she call you from Post Headquarters during the evening, or did you call her?”
“Well… let me think…”
“All phone calls on post can be traced, and there is a duty officer’s log.” In fact, intra-post calls could not be traced, and Captain Campbell would not have logged any incoming or outgoing calls of a personal nature.
Moore replied, “Yes, I did call her…”
“What time?”
“About 2300 hours.”
“Why so late?”
“Well, we had some work to discuss for the next day, and I knew things would be quiet by that hour.”
“Where were you calling from?”
“From my home.”
“Where is that?”
“Off post. Victory Drive.”
“Isn’t that where the deceased lived?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been to her house?”
“Of course. Many times.”
I tried to imagine what this guy looked like naked with his back to the camera, or with a leather mask on. I wondered if the forensic lab had an official pecker checker, some man (or woman) who could compare a blow-up photo of a pecker with this guy’s equipment. Anyway, I asked him, “Were you ever sexually involved with her?”
“No. But you can be sure you’ll hear rumors. Rumors have followed us wherever—”
“Are you married?”
“I was. Divorced about seven years ago.”
“Do you date?”
“Occasionally.”
“Did you find Ann Campbell attractive?”
“Well… I admired her mind.”
“Did you ever notice her body?”
“I don’t like this line of questioning.”
“Neither do I. Did you find her sexually attractive?”
“I was her superior officer, I am almost twenty years older than she, she is a general’s daughter. I never once said anything to her that could be construed as sexual harassment.”
“I’m not investigating a charge of sexual harassment, Colonel. I’m investigating a rape and murder.” I said to him, “Then why were there rumors?”
“Because people have dirty minds. Even Army officers.” He smiled. “Like yourself.”
On that note, I ordered two more drinks; another sherry to loosen him up, a beer to calm my impulse to deck him.
Cynthia arrived, wearing black pants and a white blouse. I introduced her to Colonel Moore, then said to her, “We’re not with the Army Times anymore. We’re CID. I was asking Colonel Moore if he was ever sexually involved with the deceased, and he assures me he wasn’t. We’re in a confrontational mode at the moment.”
Cynthia smiled and said to Moore, “Mr. Brenner is extremely tense and tired.” She sat and we all chatted for a few minutes as I brought Cynthia up to date. Cynthia ordered a bourbon and Coke and a club sandwich for herself and a cheeseburger for me. She knows I like cheeseburgers. Colonel Moore declined to dine with us, explaining that he was still too upset to eat. Cynthia asked him, “As her friend, did you know anyone who she might have been involved with?”
“You mean sexually?”
“I believe that’s the subject on the table,” she replied.
“Well… let me think… She was seeing a young man… a civilian. She rarely dated soldiers.”
“Who was the civilian?” Cynthia asked.
“A fellow named Wes Yardley.”
“Yardley? Chief of Police Yardley?”
“No, no. Wes Yardley, one of Burt Yardley’s sons.”
Cynthia glanced at me, then asked Moore, “How long were they seeing each other?”
“On and off since she arrived here. They had a stormy relationship. In fact, without pointing fingers, there’s a man you should speak to.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, it’s obvious. They were involved. They fought like cats and dogs.”
“About what?”
“About… well, she mentioned to me that he treated her badly.”
This sort of took me by surprise. I said to Moore, “He treated her badly?”
“Yes. He wouldn’t call, he went out with other women, he saw her when it suited him.”
This wasn’t computing. If I was in love with Ann Campbell, why wasn’t every other man following her around like a puppy dog? I said to Moore, “Why would she put up with that? I mean, she was… desirable, attractive…” Incredibly beautiful, sexy, and she had a body you could die for. Or kill for.
Moore smiled, almost knowingly, I thought. This guy made me uncomfortable. He said, “There is a type of personality—I’ll put this in layman’s terms: Ann Campbell liked the bad boys. Whoever showed her the slightest bit of attention, she considered weak and contemptible. That included most men. She was drawn to men who treated her badly, almost abusive men. Wes Yardley is such a man. He’s a Midland policeman like his father, he is a local playboy and has many women friends, he’s good-looking, I suppose, and has some of the charm of a southern gentleman and all of the macho posturing of a good ol’ boy. Rogue or scoundrel might be good words to describe him.”
I was still having trouble with this, and I said, “And Ann Campbell was involved with him for two years?”
“On and off.”
Cynthia said, “She discussed all of this with you?”
“Yes.”
“Professionally?”
He nodded at her astuteness. “Yes, I was her therapist.”
I was not as astute, perhaps because my mind was unsettled. I was extremely disappointed in Ann Campbell. The playroom and the photos didn’t upset me, perhaps because I knew that these men were just objects and she used them as such. But the idea of a boyfriend, a lover, someone who abused her, a relative of Burt Yardley at that, really pissed me off.
Cynthia said to Moore, “You know just about everything there is to know about her.”
“I believe so.”
“Then we’ll ask you to help us with the psychological autopsy.”
“Help you? You couldn’t even scratch the surface, Ms. Sunhill.”
I composed myself and said to him, “I’ll need all your notes and transcripts of all your sessions with her.”
“I never took a single note. That was our arrangement.”
Cynthia said, “But you will assist us?”
“Why? She’s dead.”
Cynthia replied, “Sometimes a psychological autopsy helps us develop a psychological profile of the killer. I assume you know that.”
“I’ve heard of it. I know very little about criminal psychology. If you want my opinion, it’s mostly nonsense, anyway. We’re all criminally insane, but most of us have good control mechanisms, internal and external. Remove the controls and you have a killer. I’ve seen well-adjusted men in Vietnam kill babies.”
No one spoke for a while, and we just sat there with our own thoughts.
Finally, Cynthia said, “But we expect you, as her confidant, to tell us everything you know about her, her friends, her enemies, her mind.”
“I suppose I have no choice.”
“No, you don’t,” Cynthia assured him. “But we’d like your cooperation to be voluntary, if not enthusiastic. You do want to see her killer brought to just
ice.”
“I’d like to see her killer found because I’m curious about who it may be. As for justice, I’m fairly certain that the killer thought he was administering justice.”
Cynthia asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, when a woman like Ann Campbell is raped and murdered almost under her father’s nose, you can be certain that someone had it in for her, her father, or both, and probably for a good reason. At least good in his own mind.” He stood. “This is very upsetting for me. I feel a strong sense of loss. I’m going to miss her company. So if you’ll excuse me…”
Cynthia and I stood also. He was a colonel, after all. I said, “I’d like to speak to you tomorrow. Please keep your day loose, Colonel. You interest me.”
He left and we sat down.
The food came and I picked at my cheeseburger. Cynthia said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“I think Ann Campbell’s choice of lovers has upset you. You kind of went into a funk when he said that.”
I looked at her. “They say never get emotionally involved with witnesses, suspects, or victims. But sometimes you can’t help it.”
“I always get emotionally involved with rape victims. But they’re alive and hurting. Ann Campbell is dead.”
I didn’t respond to that.
Cynthia continued, “I hate to say this, but I know the type. She probably took sadistic delight in mentally torturing men who couldn’t keep their eyes or minds off her good looks, then she masochistically gave herself to a man who she knew was going to treat her like dirt. Most likely, on some dim level, Wes Yardley knew his part and played it well. Most probably, she was sexually jealous of his other women, and, most probably, he was indifferent to her threats to find another boyfriend. They had a good relationship within the unhealthy world they created. Wes Yardley is probably the least likely suspect.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Well… I haven’t been there myself, but I know lots of women who have. I see too many of them.”
“Really?”
“Really. You know men like that, too.”
“Probably.”
“You’re showing classical symptoms of fatigue. You’re getting dull and stupid. Go get some sleep and I’ll wake you later.”