A pair of headlights lit up the road, then I heard the engine of a vehicle, then saw it, an olive-drab staff car that stopped. The engine remained running, and the headlights stayed on. I felt for my pistol and so did Cynthia.
The driver’s door opened, and the interior lights revealed the figure of Bill Kent as he got out drawing his pistol and looking toward our flashlight. He slammed his door and issued a challenge. “Identify yourselves.”
I called back, “Brenner and Sunhill, Colonel.” A little formal, but you don’t fool around when being challenged by an armed man.
We stayed motionless until he said, “I’m coming to you.”
“Understand.” We both stood until he got closer, then saw him holster his pistol, and heard him say, “Recognize.”
All a little silly, too, except that every once in a while, a guy gets plugged messing around with challenges and such. Kent asked us, “What are you doing here?”
I replied, “This is the scene of the crime, Bill, and detectives and criminals always return to it. What are you doing here?”
“I resent the implication, wise guy. I’m here for the same reason you are—to try to get a feeling for the scene at night.”
“Let me be the detective, Colonel. I expected to see MPs posted here.”
“I suppose I should have posted a few. But I have patrols going by.”
“I haven’t seen any. Can you get a couple of people here?”
“All right.” He asked Cynthia, “Why is your car way back there?”
She replied, “We wanted to walk in the moonlight.”
He looked like he was going to ask why, but then noticed the bag. “What is that?”
“That is,” Cynthia replied, “the missing items.”
“What items?”
“Her clothing.”
I watched Kent as he took this in. He seemed almost indifferent, I thought. He asked, “Where’d you find them?”
“On top of the female latrine shed. Your guys missed it.”
“I guess they did.” He asked, “Why do you think her clothes were up there?”
“Who knows?”
“Are you through here?”
“For now.”
“What’s next?”
I replied, “We’ll meet you at Jordan Field in about an hour.”
“Okay.” He added, “Colonel Moore is very upset with you.”
“Then he should file formal charges instead of crying on your shoulder. Do you know the guy?”
“Only through Ann.” He looked at his watch. “One hour.”
“Right.”
We parted, he backed toward his car on the road, we along the corduroy trail, me carrying the plastic trash bag.
Cynthia said to me, “You don’t trust him, do you?”
“I did… I’ve known Bill Kent for over ten years. But now… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s a suspect, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he, like just about everybody here, is hiding something.”
“I know. I get that feeling, too. It’s like we’ve arrived in a small town and everybody knows everybody’s dirty secrets, and we know there are skeletons in the closet, but we can’t find the closets.”
“That’s about it.”
We reached the car, and I put the bag in the trunk.
Cynthia and I got in, and she started the engine, then brushed something from my shoulder. “Anything broken, soldier? Can I take you to the hospital?”
“No, but I need my head examined. Psychological Operations School.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
We arrived at the Psy-Ops School at about 2300 hours, and Cynthia parked near the school headquarters. The school was made up of a cluster of about thirty concrete buildings, all of which were a uniquely depressing slate gray, the color of suicide, of Seattle.
There was not much grass, few trees, and the inadequate exterior lighting would be unacceptable in a civilian setting, but in the Army, muggings and lawsuits were not yet a problem.
Most of the buildings were dark, except for two that looked like living quarters, and in the nearby headquarters building, a single ground floor window was lit.
As we walked toward the headquarters, Cynthia asked me, “What exactly goes on here?”
“This is a subcommand of the JFK Special Warfare School at Bragg. In reality, it’s not a school at all, but that’s the cover.”
“Cover for what?”
“It’s a research facility. They don’t teach, they learn.”
“What do they learn?”
“I think they learn what makes people tick, then they find out how to make them stop ticking without putting a bullet in them.” I added, “Most of it is experimental.”
“Sounds spooky.”
“I’m with you. Bullets and high explosives work every time. Screw panic and free-floating anxiety.”
A humvee turned the corner up ahead and came toward us. It stopped and an MP dismounted from the passenger side while the driver stayed in the vehicle, pointing his headlights at us. The MP, a corporal named Stroud, saluted, which is customary, then asked us, “Do you have business here?”
I replied, “Yes. CID.” I held up my identification, which he examined with a flashlight, then examined Cynthia’s and turned out his light. “Who do you have business with, sir?”
“The duty sergeant. Why don’t you escort us, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.” He walked with us to the headquarters and asked, “The Campbell murder?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Damned shame.”
“Did you know her?” Cynthia asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Not well, but I’d see her here at night sometimes. Lots of what they do here, they do at night.” He added, “Nice lady. Got any leads?”
I replied, “Not yet.”
“Glad to see you’re working all night on this.”
We all entered the headquarters building, where a staff sergeant was sitting in an office located to the right of the small lobby. He saw us and stood as we entered. After the preliminaries, I said to the duty sergeant, whose name was Corman, “Sergeant, I’d like to see Colonel Moore’s office.”
Sergeant Corman scratched his head and glanced at Corporal Stroud, then replied, “Can’t do that, sir.”
“Sure you can. Let’s go.”
He stood his ground. “I really can’t without proper authorization. This is a restricted area.”
In the Army, you don’t actually need probable cause or a search warrant, and if you did, the warrant wouldn’t be issued by a military judge because they have no power outside a court-martial. What I needed was someone in the chain of command. I asked Sergeant Corman, “Does Colonel Moore keep a personal locker in his office?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go and get me his hairbrush or comb.”
“Sir?”
“He needs to comb his hair. We’ll stay here and cover the phone.”
“Sir, this is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave.”
I said, “May I use your phone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Privately.”
“I can’t leave—”
“MP Corporal Stroud will stay here. Thank you.”
He hesitated, then walked out of the office. I said to Stroud, “Whatever you hear is confidential.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked up Colonel Fowler’s Bethany Hill phone number in the post directory, and Fowler answered on the third ring. I said, “Colonel, this is Mr. Brenner. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour.” Actually I wasn’t. “But I need you to authorize me to remove something from Colonel Moore’s office.”
“Where the hell are you, Brenner?” He sounded as if he might have been sleeping.
I replied, “At the Psy-Ops School, Colonel.”
“At this hour?”
“I must have lost track of the time.”
“What do you have to remove from Colonel Moore’s offi
ce?”
“Actually, I’d like to remove the entire office to Jordan Field.”
He replied, “I can’t authorize that. That school is run from Fort Bragg, and it’s a restricted area. Colonel Moore’s office is full of classified documents. But I’ll call Bragg in the morning and see what I can do.”
I didn’t mention that I already had Ann Campbell’s office at Jordan Field. This is what happens when you ask permission to do anything in the Army. The answer is always no, then you negotiate. I said, “Well, then, Colonel, give me permission to seal the office.”
“Seal the office? What the hell’s going on?”
“A murder investigation.”
“Don’t be flippant with me, Mr. Brenner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll call Bragg in the morning. That’s all I can do.”
“That’s not enough, Colonel.”
“You know, Mr. Brenner, I appreciate your hard work and initiative, but you can’t be charging around like a bull, wreaking havoc wherever you go. There’s only one murderer out there, and you should give some thought to the feelings of the remainder of the people on this post. And while you’re doing that, you may want to keep in mind Army regulations, customs, protocols, and courtesy. Do you follow me, Mr. Brenner?”
“Yes, sir. What I actually need at the moment is a sample of Colonel Moore’s hair to match up with a strand found at the scene of the murder. You could call Colonel Moore at home, sir, and have him report to the forensic lab at Jordan Field for a plucking, or we can get a sample of his hair from his comb or brush here, which I would prefer, as time is short. Also, I’d rather that Colonel Moore did not know he was a suspect at the moment.” I noticed Corporal Stroud’s eyes widen.
There was a long silence, then Colonel Fowler said, “All right, I’ll let you take his brush or comb, but if anything else in his office is touched, I’ll have you charged.”
“Yes, sir. Will you instruct the duty sergeant?”
“Put him on.”
“Yes, sir.” I motioned to Stroud, who went out and got Sergeant Corman. I said to Corman, “Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant, wishes to speak to you.”
He took the phone without enthusiasm, and his end of the conversation went something like “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He hung up and said to me, “If you’ll cover the phones, I’ll go look for his brush or comb.”
“Fine. Wrap it in a handkerchief.”
He took a set of keys and left the office. I heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
I said to Corporal Stroud, “We’ll be outside. Wait here and collect the evidence.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Stroud seemed happy to be of help in the case. Cynthia and I went outside and stood in the headlights of the MP vehicle.
Cynthia said to me, “This place is tight.”
“If you were conducting experiments in brainwashing, interrogation techniques, morale destruction, and producing fear and panic, you might not want outsiders snooping around.”
“That’s what she was involved in, wasn’t it?”
“I believe so.” I added, “They have cell blocks here where they keep volunteers for their experiments, and they have an entire mock POW camp out on the reservation.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I worked on a case with a psychologist about a year ago who had once been stationed here. He applied for a transfer.”
“I guess this place could get to you.”
“Yes. You know, I found a piece of paper in Ann Campbell’s personnel file—another Nietzsche quote. It said, ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.’ ”
“How in the world did that get in there?”
“Don’t know, but I think I understand what it means.”
“Yes… I think we both do.” She said, “Sometimes I want to do something else for a living. I’m getting tired of vaginal swabs and DNA testing of sperm, and taking statements from rapists and rape victims.”
“Right. I think ten years is the limit. I’ve had almost twenty. This is my last case.”
“Do you say that every time?”
“Yes.”
Corporal Stroud came out of the headquarters building holding something in his hand, and as he got closer, we could see him smiling. He called out, “He found it.”
We met him on the sidewalk, and he handed me a hairbrush wrapped in an olive-drab handkerchief.
I said to him, “You know about chain of custody. I need a statement from you describing how and where we found this, when, who, and so forth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Signed, sealed, marked ‘Brenner,’ and in the provost marshal’s office before 0600 hours,”
“Yes, sir.”
Cynthia asked him, “Would you know what kind of vehicle Colonel Moore drives?”
He thought a moment. “Let’s see… old car… kind of beat-up… gray sedan… what the hell is that? Right, a big Ford Fairlane, about ’85 or ’86.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” She added, “This is all strictly confidential.”
Corporal Stroud nodded and offered, “Anything else you want to know about Colonel Moore, ask me, and if I don’t know, I’ll find out.”
“Thank you,” I said. Clearly, there were those who would like to see Colonel Moore on death row in Leavenworth.
We exchanged salutes and went back to our respective vehicles.
Cynthia put the Mustang in gear. “Jordan Field?”
“Right.”
We left the main post again and drove out onto the military reservation. The 100,000 acres of government property computed to something like 150 square miles of mostly uninhabited land. There are, however, backcountry people, poachers, hunters, and trappers who trespassed frequently. Also, from the days that preceded Camp Hadley, there are ghost towns, old cemeteries, country churches, abandoned quarries and logging camps, as well as ramshackle structures from what used to be the Beaumont Plantation. It was a unique environment, sort of frozen in time when the government exercised its right of eminent domain to meet the national emergency of the great war to end all wars.
As I said, I took my infantry basic training and advanced infantry training here, and I still remember the terrain: an inhospitable and eerily quiet landscape of wooded hills, lakes and ponds, swamps and marshes, and a species of hanging moss that gave off a phosphorescent glow at night that caused visual disorientation.
The training itself was a grueling program whose objective was to turn normally fucked-up American kids into efficient, motivated, and loyal combat-ready soldiers with a healthy desire to kill. The whole process took only four months, though they were long, intensive months. With a little leave time thrown in, you could enter the Army in June, after high school, as I did, and find yourself in the jungle with an M-16 rifle before Christmas, as I also did, with new clothes and a different head. Amazing.
Cynthia said, apropos of my silence, “Are you solving the case?”
“No, I was reminiscing. I took my infantry training here.”
“Was that World War II or Korea?”
“You’re engaging in unacceptable ageism. Watch yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
I said, “Have you ever penetrated into the wilds of this reservation?”
“No. Rifle range six is as far as I’ve gone.”
“That’s only scratching the surface. If you take this road coming up to the left here—General Pershing Road—it leads to the major training sites. There are artillery and mortar practice ranges and areas for special training exercises, like things called ‘The Rifle Company in the Attack,’ and ‘Armor and Infantry Joint Operations,’ ‘The Ambush,’ ‘The Night Patrol,’ and so on.”
“No picnic areas?”
“Not that I recall. There’s also an old ranger camp in there, a mock European town for
urban warfare, and a mock Vietnamese village where I got killed about six times.”
“You must have learned your lesson.”
“Apparently. There’s also a mock POW camp, which the Psy-Ops School has taken over. That’s still active, and it’s a restricted area.”
“I see.” She thought a moment, then said, “So, with all that space out there, a hundred thousand acres, tell me why Ann Campbell picked a spot on an active rifle range, fifty meters from the road, with guard trucks, MPs, and a guard post a kilometer away.”
“Well, I thought about that, and three things come to mind. First, the obvious thing is that she was just going about her duties and got jumped. She didn’t pick the spot. He did. That’s what everybody here thinks, but we’re not buying that.”
“No, we’re not. So if she picked the spot, she picked a spot that her partner could find easily, because unless you were a good ranger or something, you could miss a rendezvous out in the deep woods.”
“That’s correct. That was my second thought. The guy was not comfortable or familiar with the woods at night.” I said, “Here’s your turn for Jordan Field.”
“I see it.” She made the right onto the airfield road and asked me, “Your third thought?”
“Well, Ann Campbell picked what amounted to a nearly public place because it presented an element of danger. Part of the kick, and maybe, just maybe, an element of ‘let’s see what I can get away with on Daddy’s property.’ ” I looked at Cynthia, who was nodding.
Cynthia said, “You may have something there, Paul. Pushing it in Daddy’s face.”
“Yes. But that’s supposing that Ann and Daddy seriously did not like each other,” I pointed out.
“You suggested that when we were searching her house.”
“Right. But I don’t know why I thought that. It’s just that I thought it can’t be easy to be the child of a powerful man, to live in his shadow. It’s a common syndrome.”
“Yes… I don’t have one piece of information that says that’s so in this case, so why do I think it is so?”
“Because the lack of something said is as revealing as what is said. More so. Did anyone say the general and his daughter were inseparable, close, loving, or even good friends?”
“Well, the general did say his daughter would have liked me.”