“Does that question relate to the homicide investigation?”
“I suppose the date of the will and the date of the burial instructions would relate to this investigation.”
“The will and the burial instructions were updated a week before Captain Campbell left for the Gulf, which would not be unusual. For your information, she asked to be buried in the family plot, and the only beneficiary of her will is her brother, John.”
“Thank you.” On that note of finality, I said, “You’ve been most cooperative, Colonel, and we appreciate it.” Despite your trying to blow a little smoke up our asses.
Superior officers sit first and stand first, so I waited for him to realize I was finished, and stand, but instead he asked me, “Did you find anything in her house that would be damaging to her or anyone here on post?”
My turn to be coy, so I asked, “Such as?”
“Well… diaries, photos, letters, a list of her conquests. You know what I mean.”
I replied, “My maiden aunt could have spent a week alone in Captain Campbell’s house and not found anything she would have disapproved of, including the music.” Which was true because Aunt Jean, snoop that she was, had no spatial perception.
Colonel Fowler stood, and we stood as well. He informed me, “Then you’ve missed something. Ann Campbell documented everything. It was her training as a psychologist, and undoubtedly her desire as a corrupter, not to rely on fleeting memories of her rolls in the hay out in some motel or in someone’s office on post after hours. Look harder.”
“Yes, sir.” I must admit, I didn’t like hearing these kinds of remarks about Ann Campbell from Kent or Fowler. Ann Campbell had become more than a murder victim to me, obviously. I would probably find her murderer, but someone had to find why she did what she did, and someone had to explain that to people like Fowler, Kent, and everyone else. Ann Campbell’s life needed no apology, no pity; it needed a rational explanation, and maybe a vindication.
Colonel Fowler escorted us to the front door, probably wishing he hadn’t been on the telephone before so he could have escorted us in without Mrs. Fowler’s assistance. At the door we shook hands, and I said to him, “By the way, we never found Captain Campbell’s West Point ring. Was she in the habit of wearing it?”
He thought a moment and replied, “I never noticed.”
“There was a tan line where the ring had been.”
“Then I suppose she wore it.”
I said to him, “You know, Colonel, if I were a general, I’d want you for my adjutant.”
“If you were a general, Mr. Brenner, you’d need me for your adjutant. Good morning.” The green door closed and we walked down the path to the street.
Cynthia said, “We keep getting to the threshold of the great secret of Ann and Daddy, then we hit a wall.”
“True.” Despite the mixed metaphor. “But we know there is a secret, and we know that the stuff about imagined injustices and irrational anger toward her father is not cutting it. At least not for me.”
Cynthia opened her door. “Me neither.”
I slid into the passenger seat and said, “Colonel Fowler’s wife had that look. You know that look?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And Colonel Fowler needs a better watch.”
“Indeed he does.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Breakfast or Psy-Ops School?” Cynthia asked.
“Psy-Ops School. We’ll eat Colonel Moore for breakfast.”
Each house on Bethany Hill had a regulation white sign with black lettering displayed on a post near the driveway, and, about five houses from Colonel Fowler’s house, I saw a sign that said, “Colonel & Mrs. Kent.” I pointed it out to Cynthia and commented, “I wonder where Bill Kent will be living next month?”
“I hope it’s not Leavenworth, Kansas. I feel sorry for him.”
“People make their own bad luck.”
“Be a little compassionate, Paul.”
“Okay. Considering the extent of the corruption here, there will be a rash of sudden resignations, retirements, and transfers, maybe a few divorces, but, with luck, no courts-martial for actions unbecoming an officer.” I added, “They’d need a whole cell block at Leavenworth for Ann Campbell’s lovers. Can you picture that? About two dozen ex-officers sitting around in their cells—”
“I think you got off the compassionate track.”
“Right. Sorry.”
We left Bethany Hill and mingled with the early morning traffic of the main post—POVs and troop carriers, school buses and delivery trucks, humvees and staff cars, as well as soldiers marching or running in formation; thousands of men and women on the move, similar to, but profoundly different from, any small town at eight A.M. Stateside garrison duty in times of peace is, at best, boring, but in times of war a place like Fort Hadley is preferable to the front lines, but barely.
Cynthia commented, “Some people have trouble with time perception. I came close to buying Colonel Fowler’s sequence of events, though it was cutting it close, timewise.”
“Actually, I think he made the call much earlier.”
“But think of what you’re saying, Paul.”
“I’m saying he knew she was dead earlier, but he had to make that call to establish that he believed she was alive and late for her appointment. What he didn’t know is that we would be at the deceased’s house that early.”
“That’s one explanation, but how did he know she was dead?”
“There are only three ways: someone told him, or he discovered the body somehow, or he killed her.”
Cynthia replied, “He did not kill her.”
I glanced at her. “You like the guy.”
“I do. But beyond that, he is not a killer.”
“Everyone is a killer, Cynthia.”
“Not true.”
“Well, but you can see his motive.”
“Yes. His motive would be to protect the general and get rid of a source of corruption on post.”
I nodded. “That’s the sort of altruistic motive that, in a man like Colonel Fowler, might trigger murder. But he may also have had a more personal motive.”
“Maybe.” Cynthia turned onto the road that led to the Psy-Ops School.
I commented, “If we didn’t have Colonel Moore by his curly hairs, I’d put Colonel Fowler near the top of the list, based on that telephone call alone, not to mention the look on Mrs. Fowler’s face.”
“Maybe.” She asked, “How far are we going with Moore?”
“To the threshold.”
“You don’t think it’s time to talk to him about his hair, fingerprints, and tire marks?”
“Not necessary. We worked hard for that and we’re not sharing it with him. I want him to dig a deeper hole for himself with his mouth.”
Cynthia passed a sign that said, “Authorized Personnel Only.” There was no MP booth, but I could see the roving MP humvee up ahead.
We parked outside the Psy-Ops headquarters building. The sign in front of the building said, “Cadre Parking Only,” and I saw the gray Ford Fairlane that presumably belonged to Colonel Moore.
We went inside the building, where a sergeant sat at a desk in the otherwise bare lobby. He stood and said, “Can I help you?”
I showed him my ID and said, “Please take us to Colonel Moore’s office.”
“I’ll ring him, Chief,” he replied, using the informal form of address for a warrant officer. I don’t like “Chief,” and I said to him, “I guess you didn’t hear me, Sarge. Take us to his office.”
“Yes, sir. Follow me.”
We walked down a long corridor of concrete-block walls, painted a sort of slime-mold green. The floor wasn’t even tiled, but was poured concrete, painted deck gray. Solid steel doors, all open, were spaced every twelve feet or so, and I could see into the small offices: lieutenants and captains, probably all psychologists, laboring away at gray steel desks. I said to Cynthia, “Forget Nietzsche. This is Kaf
ka territory.”
The sergeant glanced at me, but said nothing.
I asked him, “How long has the colonel been in?”
“Only about ten minutes.”
“Is that his gray Ford Fairlane out front?”
“Yes, sir. Is this about the Campbell murder?”
“It’s not about a parking ticket.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s Captain Campbell’s office?”
“Just to the right of Colonel Moore’s office.” He added, “It’s empty”
We reached the end of the hallway, which dead-ended at a closed door marked “Colonel Moore.”
The sergeant asked us, “Should I announce you?”
“No. That will be all, Sergeant.”
He hesitated, then said, “I…”
‘Yes?’
“I hope to God you find the guy who did it.” He turned and walked back down the long corridor.
The last door on the right was also closed and the sign on it said, “Captain Campbell.” Cynthia opened the door and we went inside.
Indeed, the office was bare, except that on the floor lay a bouquet of flowers. There was no note.
We left the office and walked the few steps to Colonel Moore’s door. I knocked, and Moore called out, “Come in, come in.”
Cynthia and I entered. Colonel Moore was hunched over his desk and did not look up. The office was big, but as drab as the others we’d passed. There were file cabinets against the right-hand wall, a small conference table near the lefthand wall, and an open steel locker in the corner, where Colonel Moore had hung his jacket. A floor fan swept the room, rustling papers taped to the block wall. Beside Moore’s desk was the ultimate government status symbol: a paper shredder.
Colonel Moore glanced up. “What is it—? Oh…” He sort of looked around, as if he were trying to figure out how we got there.
I said, “We’re sorry to drop in like this, Colonel, but we were in the neighborhood. May we sit?”
“Yes, all right.” He motioned to the two chairs opposite his desk. “I’d really appreciate it if you make an appointment next time.”
“Yes, sir. The next time we’ll make an appointment for you to come to the provost marshal’s building.”
“Just let me know.”
Like many scientific and academic types, Colonel Moore seemed to miss the subtleties of the organizational world around him. I don’t think he would have gotten it even if I’d said, “The next time we talk, it will be at police headquarters.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well,” I said, “I’d like you to assure me again that you were home on the evening of the tragedy.”
“All right. I was home from about 1900 hours until I left for work at about 0730 hours.”
Which was about the time Cynthia and I had gotten to Victory Gardens. I asked him, “You live alone?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can anyone verify that you were home?”
“No.”
“You placed a call to Post Headquarters at 2300 hours and spoke to Captain Campbell. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“The conversation had to do with work?”
“That’s right.”
“You called her again at about noon at home and left a message on her answering machine.”
“Yes.”
“But you’d been trying to call her earlier, and her phone was out of order.”
“That’s right.”
“What were you calling her about?”
“Just what I said on the message—the MPs came and completely emptied her office. I argued with them because there was classified material in her files, but they wouldn’t listen.” He added, “The Army is run like a police state. Do you realize they don’t even need a search warrant to do that?”
“Colonel, if this was IBM corporate headquarters, the security guards could do the same thing on orders from a ranking officer of the company. Everything and everyone here belongs to Uncle Sam. You have certain constitutional rights regarding a criminal investigation, but I don’t suggest you try to exercise any of them unless I put the cuffs on you right now and take you to jail. Then everyone, myself included, will see that your rights are protected. So are you in a cooperative frame of mind this morning, Colonel?”
“No. But I’ll cooperate with you under duress and protest.”
“Good.” I looked around the office again. On the top shelf of the open steel locker was a toilet kit from which, I assumed, the hairbrush had been taken, and I wondered if Moore had noticed.
I looked in the receptacle of his paper shredder, but it was empty, which was good. Moore was not stupid and neither was he the benign absentminded professor type; he was, in fact, as I said, somewhat sinister-looking and cunning. But he had an arrogant carelessness about him so that, if I had seen a sledgehammer and tent pegs on his desk, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.
“Mr. Brenner? I’m very busy this morning.”
“Right. You said you would assist us in certain psychological insights into Captain Campbell’s personality.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Well, first, why did she hate her father?”
He looked at me for a long moment and observed, “I see you’ve learned a few things since our last conversation.”
“Yes, sir. Ms. Sunhill and I go round and round and talk to people, and each person tells us a little something, then we go back and reinterview people, and, in a few days, we know what to ask and who to ask, and by and by we know the good guys from the bad guys, and we arrest the bad guys. It’s kind of simple compared to psychological warfare.”
“You’re too modest.”
“Why did she hate her father?”
He took a deep breath, sat back, and said, “Let me begin by saying that I believe General Campbell has what is called an obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. That is to say, he is full of himself, domineering, can’t tolerate criticism, is a perfectionist, has trouble showing affection, but is totally competent and functional.”
“You’ve described ninety percent of the generals in the Army. So what?”
“Well, but Ann Campbell was not much different, which is not unusual considering they are related. So, two like personalities grow up in the same house, one an older male, the father, the other a younger female, the daughter. The potential for problems was there.”
“So this problem goes back to her unhappy childhood.”
“Not actually. It starts off well. Ann saw herself in her father and liked what she saw, and her father saw himself in his daughter and was equally pleased. In fact, Ann described to me a happy childhood and a close relationship with her father.”
“Then it went bad?”
“Yes. It has to. When the child is young, the child wants to win the father’s approval. The father sees no threat to his dominance and thinks of the son or daughter as a chip off the old block, to use an expression. But by adolescence, they both begin to see traits in the other that they don’t like. The irony is that these are their own worst traits, but people cannot be objective about themselves. Also, they begin to vie for dominance, and begin to voice criticisms of the other person. Since neither can tolerate criticism, and since both are in fact probably competent and high achievers, the sparks start to fly.”
“Are we speaking in general terms,” I asked, “or specifically about General and Captain Campbell, father and daughter?”
He hesitated a moment, probably out of a deeply ingrained habit against revealing privileged information. He said, “I may speak in generalities, but you should make your own conclusions.”
“Well,” I replied, “if Ms. Sunhill and I are asking specific questions, and you’re giving general answers, we may be misled. We’re a little dense.”
“I don’t think so, and you can’t fool me into thinking you are.”
“All right, down to cases.” I said to him, “We were told that Ann felt sh
e was in competition with her father, realized she could not compete in that world, and rather than opting out, she began a campaign of sabotage against him.”
“Who told you that?”
“I got it from someone who got it from a psychologist.”
“Well, the psychologist is wrong. An obsessive-compulsive personality always believes they can compete and will go head-to-head with a domineering figure.”
“So, that wasn’t the actual cause of Ann Campbell’s hate of her father? They didn’t mind the head-butting.”
“Correct. The actual reason for her deep hate of her father was betrayal.”
“Betrayal?”
“Yes. Ann Campbell would not develop an irrational hate of her father because of rivalry, jealousy, or feelings of inadequacy. Despite their growing competitiveness, which was not necessarily bad, she in fact loved her father very much right up until the point he betrayed her. And that betrayal was so great, so total, and so traumatic that it nearly destroyed her. The man she loved, admired, and trusted above all others betrayed her and broke her heart.” He added, “Is that specific enough for you?”
After a few seconds of silence, Cynthia leaned forward in her seat and asked, “How did he betray her?”
Moore did not reply, but just looked at us.
Cynthia asked, “Did he rape her?”
Moore shook his head.
“Then what?”
Moore replied, “It really doesn’t matter what specifically it was. It only matters to the subject that the betrayal was total and unforgivable.”
I said, “Colonel, don’t fuck with us. What did he do to her?”
Moore seemed a little taken aback, then recovered and said, “I don’t know.”
Cynthia pointed out, “But you know it wasn’t rape and incest.”
“Yes. I know that because she volunteered that. When we discussed her case, she only referred to this event as the betrayal.”
“So,” I said sarcastically, “it may be that he forgot to buy her a birthday present.”
Colonel Moore looked annoyed, which was my purpose in being sarcastic. He said, “No, Mr. Brenner, it’s not usually something so trivial. But you can understand, I hope, that when you love and trust someone unconditionally, and that person betrays you in some fundamental and premeditated way—not a forgetful or thoughtless way, such as you suggested, but in a profoundly personal and self-serving way—then you can never forgive that person.” He added, “A classic example is a loving wife who idolizes her husband and discovers he’s having an intense affair with another woman.”