Karl nodded.
As an afterthought, Cynthia did mention Friedrich Nietzsche, in the context of Ann Campbell’s personal philosophy. Karl seemed interested in that, and I realized that Cynthia was playing to her audience.
Karl sat back and pondered, his fingers pressed together like some great sage about to provide the answer to Life. Cynthia concluded, “Paul has done an outstanding job, and it’s been an education working with him.”
Barf.
Karl sat motionless for a full minute, and it occurred to me that the great sage didn’t have a fucking clue. Cynthia was trying to catch my eye, but I refused to look at her.
Finally, Colonel Hellmann spoke. “Nietzsche. Yes. In revenge and in love, woman is more barbarous than man.”
I asked, “Is that Nietzsche, sir, or your personal opinion?”
He looked at me in a way that suggested the ice under me was getting thinner. He said to Cynthia, “Very good. You’ve exposed motives, massive corruption, and great secrets here.”
“Thank you.”
He looked at me, then at his watch. “Should we be going to the chapel?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood and we stood. We took our hats and headed out.
We all got into my Blazer, with Karl in the honorary position in the rear. As I drove toward the post chapel, Karl finally asked, “Do you know who did it?”
I replied, “I think so.”
“Would you care to share that with me?”
What’s it worth to you? I replied, “We have some circumstantial evidence, some testimony, and some forensic evidence that points to Colonel Kent.” I looked into my rearview mirror and got my first thrill of the day when I saw Karl’s eyes widen. The rock jaw did not drop, however. “The provost marshal,” I prompted.
Karl recovered and asked, “Are you both prepared to make a formal charge?”
Thank you for the ace, Karl. I replied, “No. I’m turning over our evidence to the FBI.”
“Why?”
“It needs some research and development.”
“Tell me what you know.”
I pulled into the parking field of the post chapel, a big Georgian brick structure, suitable for military weddings, funerals, Sunday worship, and solitary prayer before shipping out to a combat zone. We got out of the Blazer and stood in the hot sun. The lot was nearly full, and people were parking on the road and on the grass.
Cynthia took a piece of paper out of her handbag and handed it to Karl. She said, “That was in Ann Campbell’s computer. It’s a letter to Mrs. Kent.”
Karl read the letter, nodded, and handed it back to Cynthia. “Yes, I can understand Colonel Kent’s anger and humiliation at having his wife receive such a letter. But would that make him kill?” Just then, Colonel William Kent himself walked by with a wave of the hand. Cynthia informed Karl, “That is Colonel Kent.”
Karl watched him walk to the chapel. Karl observed, “He doesn’t look haunted.”
“He vacillates,” Cynthia replied. “I think he’s on the verge of convincing himself that what he did was right, then telling us the same thing.”
Karl nodded. “Yes, that’s the great secret of this job—not confronting a criminal with the moral question of right or wrong, but giving him the opportunity to explain his reasons.” He asked Cynthia, “What other evidence do you have?”
Cynthia gave him a quick rundown of the diary entries, the critical bootprint, the Jeep in the pine brush, and our conversations with the suspect. She concluded, “He had motive, opportunity, and probably the will to act, at least at that moment. He’s not a killer, but he’s a cop, and therefore no stranger to homicide. He also had good cover, being on the inside of the investigation, and was able to manipulate it and control the evidence—he let the crime scene become polluted, for instance—but his alibi for the time of the murder is weak or nonexistent, as is often the case with crimes of opportunity.”
Hellmann nodded as Cynthia spoke. Then the great one delivered his opinion. “If you’re right, and you can prove it, then you’ve ended this case before it engulfs everyone. If you’re wrong, this case will eat you both, and destroy many more lives while the investigation continues.”
Cynthia replied, “Yes, sir, that’s why we worked day and night. But it’s really out of our hands now.” She looked at me, then continued, “Paul is correct in that we don’t want to recommend formal charges. There’s nothing in that for us, for you, for the CID, or the Army.”
Karl contemplated the chess board in his head, then turned to me. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet.”
“I have nothing to say, Colonel,” I replied, using his rank to remind him that the buck stopped at his silver eagle.
“Are you upset over your prisoner fleeing?”
“He was a witness, and, no, I’m not.”
Cynthia chimed in, “He’s been sulky all morning. Even before you got here.” She smiled at me, but I stone-faced it, and her smile faded. I really wanted to be out of here, out of Hadley, out of the hot sun, out of Georgia, and out of touch. I said, “We won’t get a seat.” I turned toward the chapel and walked.
Karl and Cynthia followed. Karl spoke to Cynthia. “You should give him a last opportunity to confess.”
“You mean Paul?” she said playfully.
“No, Ms. Sunhill. Colonel Kent.”
“Right. We’ve considered that.”
“People confess to the most heinous crimes, you know, if you put them in the right mood. Murderers who have killed a loved one carry an enormous burden, and they want to share the weight with someone. Unlike professional criminals, they have no partners in crime, no confidants, and they are isolated, without a living soul to tell of the greatest secret of their life.”
“Yes, sir,” Cynthia replied.
Karl said, “Do you think it was simple expediency that made Colonel Kent call you and Paul regarding this crime? No. It was an unconscious desire to be found out.”
And on he went, saying things I already knew, and making the pitch for us to confront the suspect, who, though professionally damaged, was a high-ranking and powerful man with a lot of resources left to him. I sort of pictured myself in front of a board of inquiry, trying to make a case for Colonel William Kent as murderer, while seven steely-eyed officers sat there waiting to eat my ass for lunch. But sucker that I was, I was willing to give it a shot. However, I was going to keep Karl hanging until he ordered me to confront Kent.
I looked toward the chapel and noticed that the ceremonies relating to the receiving of the casket were completed; the honorary pallbearers were not on the steps, and, in fact, the old caisson, taken from the museum, did not have the casket on it.
The news media, according to a memo I’d seen on my desk, were limited to a pool of selected print journalists, and the only photographers present were two from the Army Public Information Office. The memo, signed by Colonel Fowler, had suggested not giving direct quotes to the journalists.
We climbed the steps and went into the narthex, where a dozen men and women stood conversing in hushed funereal tones. We all signed the guest book, and I walked into the dark chapel, which was no cooler than outside, and noted that the pews were nearly all full. The funeral of the commanding officer’s daughter was not a command-attendance situation, but only a moron would fail to show up here, or at least at the ceremonies later.
In fact, not all of Fort Hadley’s officers and spouses, or Midland’s civilian dignitaries, could fit into the chapel, which held about five or six hundred people, but I was certain that there were people already assembling at Jordan Field for the final send-off.
The organ was playing softly in the choir loft above us, and we stood in the center aisle a moment, each of us, I think, trying to decide if we should walk to the casket, which sat on a catafalque at the foot of the altar steps. Finally, I began the long walk, and Cynthia and Karl followed.
I approached the flag-draped and half-opened casket on the left, stopped, and
looked down at the deceased.
Ann Campbell looked peaceful, as Kent had indicated, her head resting on a pink satin pillow, and her long hair sort of fanned out around her head and face. I noted that she had more makeup on in death than she’d probably ever worn in life.
They had dressed her in the evening white uniform that a female officer would wear to formal functions, and it was an appropriate choice, I thought, the white waistcoat with gold braid and the white ruffled blouse, making her appear gossamery, if not virginal. She wore her medals on her left breast, and her sheathed West Point saber was laid on her body so that her clasped hands, which might hold a cross or rosary beads depending on one’s religion, held, instead, the hilt of her sword at her midriff. The sheathed blade disappeared beneath the half-lid of the casket.
It was quite a striking sight, to be honest: the beautiful face, the golden hair, the gold braid, the glittering brass and steel of the saber, and the snow-white uniform against the pink satin lining of the casket.
I took all this in very quickly, of course, no more than five seconds, then, good Catholic that I am, I made the sign of the cross and moved around the casket and started down the center aisle.
I saw the Campbells in the first two rows on the right: the general, Mrs. Campbell, a young man whom I recognized from the family album in Ann Campbell’s house as their son, and various other family members, old and young, all wearing black outfits and black mourning bands, which are still customary in the military.
I avoided eye contact with any of them and proceeded up the aisle slowly until my coterie caught up with me.
We found three seats together in the same pew that held Major Bowes, whom I knew only from his name tag, and a woman I presumed to be Mrs. Bowes. Bowes nodded to Colonel Hellmann, who failed to acknowledge the presence of an adulterer and jackass. Mrs. Bowes, incidentally, was rather attractive, proving once again that men are basically pigs.
Despite having just viewed the mortal remains of a young woman, I was feeling slightly better, as people do who consider their position relative to less fortunate souls, such as people with big career problems, like Bowes, murder suspects, like Kent, or married people in general, and the sick, dying, and dead.
The chaplain, Major Eames, wearing only the green dress uniform with no ecclesiastic vestments, came to the pulpit, and a hush fell over the crowd. Major Eames began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God to bid farewell to our sister, Ann Campbell.”
A lot of people sobbed.
I whispered to Karl, “The chaplain fucked her, too.”
Karl’s jaw dropped this time. The day still had possibilities.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
The simple service proceeded with prayers, organ music, and a few hymns. Senior military officers are great churchgoers, of course; it comes with the territory of God and Country. But they tend to be nondenominational, which is safe, gray, and nondescript, like most of their careers.
The upside of this at military weddings and funerals is that you get to pick and choose the best aspects of each denomination’s liturgy, hymns, and prayers, and you can make it short. I can tell you from experience that a Catholic funeral mass can be long and arduous enough to kill off a few of the old folks.
Anyway, at the designated time, Colonel Fowler mounted the lectern to deliver the eulogy.
Colonel Fowler acknowledged the presence of family, friends, fellow officers, coworkers, and Midland dignitaries. He said, “In our chosen profession, more than in any other profession, we see and hear of the untimely deaths of young men and women. We do not grow accustomed to death, and we do not become hardened to death, but rather we cherish life more because we know and accept the fact that Army life puts us in harm’s way. When we took the oath, we fully understood that we could be called upon to risk our lives in the defense of our country. Captain Ann Campbell understood that when she accepted her commission from the Military Academy, she understood that when she went to the Gulf, and she understood that when, at an hour when most people are safe in their homes, she volunteered to go out and see that all was secure at Fort Hadley. This was a completely voluntary act, not specifically related to her duties, but the sort of thing that Ann Campbell did without being told.”
I listened, and it occurred to me that, if I didn’t know better, I’d buy it. Here was a gung-ho young female officer volunteering for night duty officer, then taking the initiative to go out to check the guard and being murdered while she was doing a good deed. How sad. That’s not the way it happened, but the truth was even sadder.
Colonel Fowler went on, “I’m reminded of a line from Isaiah 21:11—‘Watchman, what of the night?’ ” He repeated it,“ ‘Watchman, what of the night?’ and the watchman replied, ‘Morning is coming.’ And aren’t we all watchmen? This is our calling in life, as soldiers, to stand the watch, each day, each night, eternally vigilant so that others may sleep peacefully until morning, until the day when it pleases God to call us into His Kingdom, and we need not stand the watch, nor fear the night.”
Fowler had a good, deep speaking-voice, and his delivery was flawless. Clearly, the man could have been a preacher, or a politician, if he weren’t so obsessed with right and wrong.
I’m not a good public listener, and I tend to drift. So I drifted to Ann Campbell’s open casket, her face, the sword, and her folded hands around the hilt, and I realized what was wrong with that picture: someone had slipped a West Point ring on her finger. But was it her ring? And if it was, who had put it there? Fowler? General Campbell? Colonel Moore? Colonel Kent? Where did it come from? But did it make any difference at this point?
Colonel Fowler was still speaking, and I tuned back in.
He said, “I knew Ann as a child—a very precocious, high-spirited, and bratty child.” He smiled, and there was subdued laughter. He became serious again and continued, “A beautiful child, not only physically but spiritually beautiful, a special and gifted child of God. And all of us here who knew her and loved her…”
Fowler, smooth as he was, couldn’t slide over that double entendre, but it was only a momentary breath pause, noticed solely by those who had known her intimately and loved her well.
“… all of us will miss her deeply.”
Colonel Fowler had a lot of people sobbing now, and I could see one reason why the Campbells had asked him to deliver the eulogy. The other reason, of course, was that Colonel Fowler had not slept with the deceased, putting him on the short list of potential eulogizers. But I’m being cynical again. Fowler’s eulogy was moving, the deceased had suffered a great wrong, a wrongful and untimely death had occurred, and I was feeling like crap again.
Colonel Fowler did not mention specifically how she died, but did say, “The battlefield, in modern military jargon, is described as a hostile environment, which it most certainly is. And if you expand the meaning of battlefield to include any place where any soldier is standing and serving, then we can truthfully say that Ann died in battle.” He looked out over the crowd and concluded, “And it is only proper and fitting that we remember her not as a victim, but as a good soldier who died doing her duty.” He looked at the casket and said, “Ann, that’s how we’ll remember you.” Colonel Fowler came down from the lectern, stopped at the casket, saluted, then took his seat.
The organ began playing, and the service continued for a few more minutes. Chaplain Eames led the mourners in the Twenty-third Psalm, everyone’s favorite, and concluded with a benediction that ended with “Go in peace.”
The organist played “Rock of Ages,” and everyone stood.
All in all a good service, as funeral services go.
The eight honorary pallbearers stood in the front left pew and filed into the aisle at the foot of the casket, while the six casket bearers took up their positions on either side of the casket. I noted that the six casket bearers were all young male lieutenants, picked, perhaps, for their youth and strength, or perhaps for their lack of inv
olvement with the deceased. Even Lieutenant Elby, I noticed, whose intentions had been honorable, had been barred from carrying the casket.
Likewise, the honorary pallbearers, who would normally be high-ranking associates of the general or close personal friends of the deceased, were obviously chosen for their clean hands; they were, in fact, all female officers, including the general’s other aide, Captain Bollinger. An all-female contingent of honorary pallbearers seemed appropriate on the surface of it, but for those who understood why senior male officers had been excluded, it seemed that the general had finally gotten his way in keeping his daughter’s intimates away from her.
The eight female officers proceeded toward the chapel entrance, and the six casket bearers closed the top half of the lid, covered it with the American flag, grasped the side handles of the casket, and hefted it off the catafalque.
Chaplain Eames walked in front of the casket, and the Campbells in the rear. As is customary when the casket is in motion, everyone in the pews who was in uniform faced the body and saluted.
The chaplain led the procession to the entrance, where the eight honorary pallbearers stood at attention and saluted as the casket passed between them. At this point, the mourners began filing out.
Outside, in the hot sun, I watched as the casket bearers secured the flag-draped casket to the old wooden caisson, which was, in turn, hitched to a humvee.
Assembled on a large stretch of grass across from the chapel were the escort vehicles—staff cars and buses to transport the family, the band, the pallbearers, the firing party, and the color guard. Every veteran has the right to be buried in a national cemetery with full honors, but you only get all this hoopla if you die on active duty. If there’s a war on, however, they may bury the numerous dead overseas, or, as in Vietnam, they send them back by the planeload for reshipment to various hometowns. In any case, whether you’re a general or a private, you get the twenty-one-gun salute.