“Excuse me, Mr. Brenner, but I’ve received these instructions from the Pentagon.”
“I don’t care if you received them from Douglas MacArthur’s ghost.” Army lawyers, even colonels, can be pushed around a little because, like Army doctors, psychologists, and such, their rank is basically a pay grade, and they know they shouldn’t take it too seriously. In fact, they should all be warrant officers, like I am, and they’d be much happier, and so would everyone else. I said to him, “Your name has come up in connection with that of the victim.”
“Excuse me?”
“You married, Colonel?”
“Yes…”
“You want to stay married?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I have information that you were sexually involved with the victim, that you committed offenses under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, to wit: Article 125, unnatural carnal copulation, plus Article 133, conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and Article 134, disorders and neglects to the prejudice of good order and discipline, and conduct of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces.” I asked him, “How’s that, Counselor?”
“That’s not true.”
“Do you know how you can tell when a lawyer is lying? No? His lips move.”
He didn’t appreciate the joke, and said, “You’d better have damn good evidence to back that up.”
Spoken like a true lawyer. I said, “Do you know what three hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean are called? No? A good start.”
“Mr. Brenner—”
“Have you lost any sleep over that basement playroom? I found it, and you’re in a videotape.” Maybe.
“I was never… I…”
“Polaroid photos.”
“I…”
“And in her diary.”
“Oh…”
“Look, Colonel, I don’t care, but you really can’t be involved with this case. Don’t compound your problem. Call the judge advocate general, or better yet, fly to Washington and ask to be relieved of your command. Draw up a charge sheet on yourself or something. Meanwhile, turn this over to someone who kept his dick in his pants. No, better yet, who’s the ranking woman on your staff?”
“Uh… Major Goodwin…”
“She’s in charge of the Campbell case.”
“You can’t give me orders—”
“Colonel, if they could bust officers, you’d be a PFC tomorrow. In any case, by next month you’ll be looking for a job in a small firm, or you’ll be the attorney-in-resident at Leavenworth. Don’t stonewall this. Cut a deal while you can. You may be called as a witness.”
“To what?”
“I’ll think about it. Have a good day.” I hung up.
Cynthia put down the phone and inquired, “Have you caused enough misery for one day?”
“I told them to have a good day.”
“Paul, you’re going a little overboard. I realize you hold most of the cards—”
“I have this post by its collective balls.”
“Right. But you’re exceeding your authority.”
“But not my power.”
“Take it easy. It’s not personal.”
“Okay… I’m just angry. I mean, what the hell is the officer code about? We’ve sworn to do our duty, to uphold high standards of morality, integrity, and ethics, and we’ve agreed that our word is our bond. So now we find out that about thirty guys threw it all away, for what?”
“Pussy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Right. Pussy. But it was pussy from hell.”
“We’re not so pure, either.”
“We never compromised our duty.”
“This is a murder case, not an ethics inquiry. One thing at a time.”
“Right. Send in the clowns.”
Cynthia called Baker on the intercom and said, “Send in the… civilian gentlemen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cynthia said to me, “Now calm down.”
“I’m not angry at those bozos. They’re civilians.”
The door opened, and Specialist Baker announced, “Chief Yardley and Officer Yardley.”
Cvnthia and I stood as the Yardlevs, dressed in tan uniforms, came into the office. Burt Yardley said, “Don’t appreciate bein’ kept waitin’. But we’ll let that slide.” He looked around the small room and commented, “Hell, I got holdin’ cells bigger an’ nicer than this.”
“So do we,” I informed him. “I’ll show you one.”
He laughed and said, “This here’s my son Wes. Wes, meet Miss Sunhill and Mr. Brenner.”
Wes Yardley was a tall, extremely lean man of about twenty-five, with long swept-back hair that would have gotten him in trouble on most police forces, except the one he was on. We didn’t shake hands, but he did touch his cowboy hat and nod to Cynthia.
The southern male doesn’t usually remove his hat indoors when he’s calling on inferiors or peers, because to arrive with his hat literally in his hand is to admit he’s in the presence of social superiors. It all goes back to plantation houses, gentlemen, sharecroppers, slaves, white trash, good families and bad families, and so on. I don’t quite get it, but the Army is heavy on hat rules, too, so I respect the local customs.
Lacking enough chairs, we all remained standing. Burt Yardley said to me, “Hey, I got all your stuff packed nice and neat in my office. You come on down and pick it up any ol’ time.”
“That’s very good of you.”
Wes sort of smirked, and I wanted to bury my fist in his bony face. The guy looked hyperactive, sort of jiggling around, like he was born with two thyroids.
I said to Burt, “Did you bring the government property with you?”
“Sure did. Don’t need no trouble with the government. I gave it all to your little girl out there. That’s sort of a peace offering, Paul. Can I call you Paul?”
“Sure thing, Burt.”
“Good. And I’m thinkin’ about lettin’ you into the deceased’s house.”
“I’m real pleased, Burt.”
“Now, you want to talk to my son about this business?” He looked at Wes and said, “Tell these people everything you know about that girl.”
Cynthia said, “She was a woman, an officer in the United States Army. Specialist Baker is also a woman, a soldier in the United States Army.”
Burt did a little bow and touched his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I really felt like pulling my Glock on these two yahoos, and I would have painted them red in a heartbeat, except that I had a short deadline on this case.
Anyway, Wes started his spiel. “Yeah, I was seein’ Ann now and then, but I seen other women, too, and she was seein’ other men, and neither of us took it real personal. The night she was killed, I was ridin’ patrol in North Midland, midnight-to-eight shift, and I got about a dozen people who seen me, includin’ my partner and gas station guys, 7-Eleven guys, and like that. So that’s all you got to know.”
“Thank you, Officer Yardley.”
No one spoke for a few seconds, then Cynthia asked Wes, “Are you upset over Ann Campbell’s death?”
He seemed to think that over, then replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
I asked him, “Can I get you a sedative or something?”
Burt laughed and said to his son, “Forgot to tell you, boy, this here guy’s real funny.”
I said to Burt, “I’d like to speak to you alone.”
“Anything you got to say, you can say in front of my boy.”
“Not everything, Chief.”
He looked at me a moment. “Well…” He said to his son, “I’m gonna leave you alone with this young lady, Wes, and you behave now.” He laughed. “She don’t know what a mover you are. Probably thinks you just fell off the turnip truck.”
On that note, Burt and I left the office, and I found an empty interview room. We sat across a long table, and Burt said, “Damned reporters out there are gettin’ too damn nosy. Startin’ to ask abo
ut these rumors that the general’s daughter got around. Understand?”
I didn’t recall a single question of that nature from the press, but I said, “Law officers don’t engage in speculation in front of the press.”
“Hell, no. Me and the general get along fine, and I wouldn’t want to see his girl talked about after she’s dead.”
“If you’re leading up to something, Chief, spit it out.”
“Well, it occurs to me that maybe people think the Army CID pulled a fast one on me, and when y’all catch this guy, my organization won’t get no credit.”
Double negatives annoy me, but Burt Yardley annoyed me more. I said, “Rest assured, Chief, your department will get all the credit it deserves.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of, son. We need to get involved in this here case.”
“Take it up with the FBI. They’re in charge as of tomorrow.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is.”
“Okay. Meantime, you write a nice report sayin’ how the Midland police helped you.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you’re runnin’ around talkin’ about subpoena’n’ my records, because the goddamn reporters are askin’ questions about my boy’s involvement with the deceased, because you’re startin’ to make me look like a damn fool ‘cause I don’t know shit, and because you goddamn well need me.” He added, “You’re goin’ to make things right.”
The man was obviously annoyed, and I really couldn’t blame him. There is a strange symbiotic relationship between an Army post and the local community, especially in the South. At its worst, the relationship seems like one of an army of occupation ensconced in the defeated old Dixieland. At its best, the locals realize that most of the officers and enlisted personnel are southerners themselves, and the post is no more intrusive than a big auto factory. But big auto factories don’t have their own laws and customs, so the reality is somewhere in between. Anyway, in the spirit of cooperation, I said to Burt Yardley, “I’ll introduce you to the FBI man in charge when I know who it is and give him a glowing report of your assistance and accomplishments.”
“That’s real decent of you, Paul. You write somethin’ out, too. Bill Kent’s doin’ that right now. Why don’t we call him in here, and we’ll have that big sit-down your little assistant there talked about.”
“I don’t have a lot of time for big sit-downs, Chief. You’ll be involved in the continuing investigation to the fullest extent possible. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why do I think you’re bullshittin’ me, Paul?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you why. ’Cause you don’t think I got one goddamn thing you want, and you don’t give nothin’ for nothin’. Fact is, I think I got what you need to wrap up this here case.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is. I found some evidence in the deceased’s house that you overlooked, son. But it’s goin’ to take a lot of work between us to sort it out.”
“Right. You mean the stuff in the basement bedroom.”
His eyes got wide, and he didn’t speak for a second, which was a treat, but then he said, “Why’d you leave all that shit there?”
“I thought you were too stupid to find it.”
He laughed. “Now who’s stupid?”
“But I didn’t leave it all. We carried some bags of photos and videotapes out of there.” I didn’t, but I should have.
He regarded me closely for a moment, and I could tell he was not real happy with that possibility. He said, “Well, ain’t you a smart boy.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Where’s that stuff?”
“In my trailer. You missed it.”
“Don’t mess with me, son. There ain’t nothin’ in that trailer.”
“Why do you care where the stuff is?”
“ ’Cause it’s my stuff.”
“Wrong.”
He cleared his throat and said, “There’s some dumb-ass guys who got a shitload of explainin’ to do when I do fingerprints in that there room, and when we match those pictures and those movie tapes to their buck-naked bodies.”
“Right. Including you.”
He stared at me, and I stared back. Finally, he said, “I don’t bluff real easy.”
“You see, Chief, I think that Wes and Ann had more going for them than Wes is letting on. They weren’t the happiest couple who ever came down the pike, but they did go out for almost two years, and my information says they were hot and heavy. Now the question I have for you is this—did your son know you were fucking his girlfriend?”
Chief Yardley seemed to be mulling over his answer, so, to fill the silence, I asked, “And did Mrs. Yardley know you were fucking the general’s daughter? Hey, I wouldn’t want to have dinner at your house tonight, Burt.”
The chief was still mulling, so I said, “You didn’t find that room by accident, but that’s what you told Wes. Maybe Wes knew that his girlfriend dated on the side now and then, but when he screwed her, he did it in her bedroom, because if he’d seen that room downstairs, he’d have beat the shit out of her and left her like any good gentleman of the South. You, on the other hand, knew all about her but never told your son, because Ann Campbell told you you’d better not. She liked Wes. You were just someone she screwed because you had influence over Wes, and because you could fix things for her in town if she ever needed anything fixed. You were kind of an afterthought, extra insurance, and maybe you came through for her a few times. So, anyway, you and Wes have more in common than blood, and Ann Campbell made your life exciting and damned scary. She told you at some point that if you broke into her place and took that stuff, it didn’t matter, because she had copies of the photos and videotapes someplace else. It wouldn’t be too hard to identify your fat ass in those pictures. So you get to thinking about your wife, your son, your other sons, your standing in the community, your pastor and Sunday church socials, your thirty years on the force to get to the top, and one day, you decide to get rid of this time bomb.” I looked at him and said, “Correct?”
Yardley’s ruddy face had not gone pale, but it had gone redder. Finally, he said, “I wasn’t dumb enough to have my picture taken.”
“Are you sure about that? Are you sure your voice isn’t on an audiotape?”
“That ain’t good enough.”
“It’s good enough to smear your name like shit on the mayor’s new carpet.”
We both sat awhile, like two checker players trying to see three moves down the road. Yardley nodded to himself, then looked me in the eye. “I thought about killing her once or twice.”
“No kidding?”
“But I couldn’t bring myself to kill a woman for somethin’ stupid that I did.”
“Chivalry is not dead.”
“Yeah… anyway, I was in Atlanta overnight on business when it happened. Got lots of witnesses.”
“Good. I’ll talk to them.”
“You go right ahead and make a fool out of yourself.”
“I’m not the one with a motive for murder.” Actually, I didn’t think Burt Yardley was the murderer, but people get nervous when you tell them you have to check out their alibis. It’s embarrassing and causes all sorts of awkwardness. That’s why cops do it to people that are holding back, and who piss them off.
Yardley said, “You can take your motives, put a light coat of oil on them, and shove ’em up your butt. But I might be interested in what you got regardin’ me and the deceased.”
“Might you? Well, I might have a photo of you when you were sleeping in her bed.”
“Then again, you might not.”
“Then again, how did I connect your fat ass to that room?”
“Well, that’s the question, ain’t it, son?” He slid back his chair as though to leave and said, “You’re blowin’ smoke up my ass. I ain’t got no time for this.”
There was a knock on the door and it opened. Specialist Baker handed me a sea
led transmittal envelope and left. I opened the envelope, which contained about a dozen sheets of typed paper. Without a preamble to cushion the blow, I took a page at random and read aloud, “ ‘22 April—Burt Yardley stopped by about 2100 hours. I was busy with reports, but he wanted to go downstairs. Thank God this guy needs it only about once a month. We went down into the basement, and he ordered me to strip for a search. I think he strip-searches every female he has half a reason to. So I stripped in front of him while he stood there with his hands on his hips and watched, then he ordered me to turn around, bend over, and spread my cheeks, which I did. He put his finger in my anus and told me he was looking for drugs or poison or secret messages. Then he made me lie on the gurney for a vaginal search, and—’ ”
“Okay, son.”
I looked up from the page. “Does that ring a bell, Chief?”
“Uh… not right off.” He asked, “Where’d you get that?”
“Her computer.”
“Don’t sound like admissible evidence to me.”
“Well, in test cases, it’s been ruled admissible.”
“Could be all female craziness. You know, like some dumb make-believe.”
“Could be. I’ll turn it over to the JAG and to the Georgia attorney general for evaluation by legal and mental health professionals. Maybe you’ll be cleared.”
“Cleared of what? Even if every goddamn word is true, I didn’t break no laws.”
“I’m not an expert on Georgia sodomy laws. But I think you may have broken your marriage vows.”
“Oh, can that shit, son. You’re a man. Act like a goddamn man. Think like a goddamn man. You some kind of queer or what? You married?”
I ignored him and flipped through the pages. “My goodness, Burt… you used your flashlight to look up her… and here you use your nightstick to… and yourpistol? This is really gross. You’ve got this fetish about long, hard objects, I see. But I don’t seem to see where your own object gets long or hard…”
Burt stood. “You keep a close eye on your ass, boy, because it’s mine if you stick it anyplace off this post.” He went to the door, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, so I paid no attention. He came back to the table, took the chair beside me, and spun it around, then sat on it and leaned toward me. I’m not sure what the reversed chair symbolizes beyond the obvious fact that it’s the opposite of sitting down and relaxing. Maybe it’s protective, maybe aggressive, but whatever it is, it’s annoying. I stood, and sat on the table. “Okay, Burt, what I want from you is every damned piece of evidence you took out of that room.”