People mingled awhile, as people do, speaking to one another, to the chaplain, comforting the Campbells.
I spotted a few of the journalists, who were trying to figure out whom to interview, and I saw the Army PIO photographers discreetly taking pictures from a distance. The news stories to date had been guarded and vague, but hinted at things that I thought were best left alone.
I noticed a young man standing near the Campbells who, as I said, I recognized from the family album as the son, John. But I would have recognized him anyway. He was tall, good-looking, and had the Campbell eyes, hair, and chin.
He looked a bit lost, standing off to the side of the clan, so I went up to him and introduced myself as Warrant Officer Brenner, and said to him, “I’m investigating the circumstances of your sister’s death.”
He nodded.
We spoke a moment, I passed on my condolences, and we chatted about nothing in particular. He seemed a likable guy, well-spoken, clean-cut, and alert. In many ways, he was what we called officer material; but he had not opted for that role, either because he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps or because he felt his free spirit might be a hindrance. He may have been right in both cases, but, like many sons of the high and the mighty, he had not found his place in the world.
John strongly resembled his sister in appearance, and my purpose in speaking to him was not solely to express my sympathy. I said to him, “Do you know Colonel William Kent?”
He thought a moment, then replied, “Name sounds familiar. I think I met him at some parties.”
“He was a great friend of Ann’s, and I’d like you to meet him.”
“Sure.”
I led him to where Kent was standing on the sidewalk, speaking to a few of his officers, including my recent acquaintance, Major Doyle. I interrupted the conversation and said to Kent, “Colonel Kent, may I introduce Ann’s brother, John?”
They shook hands, and John said, “Yes, we did meet a few times. Thank you for coming.”
Kent seemed not able to find the words for a reply, but he glanced at me.
I said to John, “Colonel Kent, aside from being a friend of Ann’s, has been a great help in the investigation.”
John Campbell said to Kent, “Thank you. I know you’re doing all you can.”
Kent nodded.
I excused myself and left them to chat.
One could criticize the appropriateness of introducing the suspected murderer to the brother of the victim at the victim’s funeral. But if all’s fair in love and war, let me tell you, anything goes in a homicide investigation.
I felt, of course, that Bill Kent was on the edge, and anything I could do to nudge him into taking that last step into the great abyss was right and honorable.
The crowd was thinning as people made their way to their vehicles. I noticed the Yardley boys, father and son, with a woman who looked enough like them to be a blood relative of both, but who was probably Burt’s wife—and his not-too-distant relative. I suspected that there weren’t many branches on the Yardley family tree.
There were a number of other civilians present, including the town mayor and his family, but it was mostly male officers and their wives, though I’m sure some wives chose not to attend. There were no enlisted personnel present except the post’s command sergeant major, who, by tradition, represented all the enlisted men and women at certain functions such as these, where privates and sergeants could not be specifically excluded, but where their numbers might present logistical problems. Basically, there is no fraternization between officers and enlisted personnel, in life or in death.
I spotted Karl talking to Major Bowes, the about-to-be-fired CID commander, and Bowes had his heels together, nodding vigorously like a malfunctioning wind-up toy. Karl is not the kind of guy who would fire somebody on Christmas Eve, or at the person’s birthday party, or wedding, or anything like that. But he might consider it at a funeral.
Cynthia was speaking to Colonel and Mrs. Fowler and General and Mrs. Campbell, and I gave her credit for that. I always try to avoid that sort of situation, which I find awkward.
Taking stock of the known lovers, I also spotted Colonel Weems, the staff judge advocate, sans wife, and young Lieutenant Elby, who was clearly out of his depth in this situation, trying to look both sad and brave while keeping an eye on the mass of brass around him.
At the edge of the thinning crowd, I saw Warrant Officer Kiefer, dressed in her officer’s uniform now, which was the ticket of admission to this event. I went over to her, and I filled her in on the Batmobile. Despite the occasion, she seemed perky as usual, and I suspected that she was always perky. Jerk that I am, and needing some ego reinforcement, I shamelessly flirted with her.
She found this amusing and interesting, and we made indefinite plans to have drinks here, or back at Falls Church.
Cynthia tapped me on the shoulder and said, “We should be going.”
“Okay.” I said good-bye to Kiefer and walked toward the parking field.
Colonel Hellmann fell in with us, and we ran into Colonel Moore, who was obviously looking for me, a sheaf of typed papers in his hand. I introduced Moore to Hellmann, who did not acknowledge Moore’s extended hand and regarded him with a look that I never want to see directed at me.
Colonel Moore, however, was too dense to be flustered, and he said to me, “Here is the report you asked for.”
I took it, and following my commanding officer’s lead, I didn’t thank Moore, but said to him, “Please remain available today, do not speak to the FBI, and do not speak to Colonel Kent.”
I got into my Blazer and started it up. Cynthia and Karl got in after the air-conditioning got cranking. We fell in with a long line of vehicles all moving south on Chapel Road, toward Jordan Field. I said to Karl, “I promised Colonel Moore immunity if he cooperated.”
Karl, in the rear, said, “You’ve given more immunity this week than a doctor.” Fuck you, Karl.
Cynthia said, “That was a beautiful service.”
Karl asked me, “Are you certain about the chaplain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does everyone here know about everyone else?”
I replied, “To some extent. She was not discreet.”
Cynthia commented, “Do we have to talk about that at this time?”
I said to her, “Our commanding officer is entitled to any information he wants or needs at this time, or any other time.”
She looked out the side window and didn’t respond.
I glanced at Karl in the rearview mirror and saw that he was a bit taken aback at my curtness. I said to him, “The deceased’s West Point ring had been missing throughout the investigation, but I noticed it on her finger.”
“Really? Perhaps it’s a substitute.”
“Could be.”
Cynthia glanced at me, but didn’t say anything.
We passed Beaumont House, then, later, the Psy-Ops School, then skirted around Bethany Hill and found ourselves on Rifle Range Road.
It was noon, and the sun was so hot I could see heat ripples rising from the blacktop. I said to Colonel Hellmann, “The CID is officially relieved of this case as of now.”
“I’ve gotten us another hour as a result of my presence here, and I can get us another hour more.”
Lucky us. “That’s good,” I replied with zero enthusiasm.
I followed the long line of vehicles onto Jordan Field Road, and we passed the MP booth, where two unfortunate MP corporals were standing in the sun, saluting every car that went by.
More MPs were directing the vehicles to wide expanses of ample parking on the concrete in front of the hangars. I drove around awhile until I saw Kent’s staff car parked near hangar three. I parked close to it, and we all got out and followed the crowd to a designated assembly area. The body is usually interred at this point, of course, but in this case, the body was to be flown to Michigan for burial, and the Air Force had generously provided air transportation, a big,
olive-drab C-130 that sat on the concrete apron nearby.
As I suspected, people who had not attended the chapel service had come to Jordan Field, including a hundred or so enlisted personnel in uniform, some of the curious from Midland and the surrounding area, plus veterans groups from town, and the remainder of Fort Hadley’s four hundred or so officers and spouses.
Everyone was assembled, including the band, the color guard, the firing party, and the honorary pallbearers. The drummer began beating a slow, muffled march, and the six casket bearers appeared from between two hangars wheeling the caisson to a spot near the open tailgate of the C-130. Those in uniform saluted, and those in civilian attire put their right hands over their hearts. The caisson was positioned in the patch of shade under the tail of the C-130. The drumming ceased, and everyone lowered their arms.
It was not only brutally hot, it was windless, and the flags never stirred unless one of the color guard moved the staff. The short ceremony proceeded.
The honorary pallbearers took the edges of the flag that was draped over the casket and held it waist-high over the casket as Chaplain Eames said, “Let us pray.” At the conclusion of the committal service, the chaplain intoned, “Grant her eternal rest, O Lord, and let Your perpetual light shine upon her. Amen.”
The seven-member firing party raised their rifles and fired three volleys into the air, and as the final volley trailed away, the bugler, stationed near the casket, sounded taps into the quiet air. I like this bugle call, and it is appropriate, I think, that the last call that a soldier hears at night has been chosen to be played over his or her grave to mark the beginning of the last, long sleep, and to remind those assembled that as day follows night, so will the final taps be followed by the great reveille to come.
The pallbearers folded the flag and gave it to Chaplain Eames, who presented it to Mrs. Campbell, who looked very dignified. They spoke a moment as everyone stood motionless.
It must have been the sun, I suppose, as well as the rifle volleys, the bugler, the associations with Fort Hadley and Jordan Field—but whatever it was, my mind went back to the summer of 1971, to the White Camellia Motel, of all places, a swinging spot on the highway outside of Midland, and I recalled a midnight pool party there at which no bathing suits were required. My God, I thought, how young we were, and how we stood that town on its ear—thousands of us full of hormones and alcohol. But we were not your typical carefree, callous youths with no thought of the future. Quite the opposite—the future hung over every thought, every word, every frenzied sexual encounter. Eat, drink, and be merry, we said, because the body bags were piling up at Jordan Field.
I recalled two infantry-school buddies who had been detailed to unload body bags here for a month or so. And one day, they got orders—not to Vietnam, but to Germany—and they kept reading the orders and made everyone else in the barracks read them, as if they had gotten a lawyer’s letter telling them they were heirs or titled nobility.
There appeared to be some cause-and-effect relationship between unloading bodies from Vietnam and not becoming one yourself, so, all of a sudden, hundreds of infantrymen were volunteering for the ghoul detail, hoping to get their tickets punched for Germany or some other good place. And so I unloaded bodies at Jordan Field, too, but the assumption that the Army was sensitive to the feelings of body handlers turned out to be untrue; I got my orders saying, “You are hereby ordered to report to Oakland Army Base for further assignment to Southeast Asia.” Even the Army didn’t use the “V” word.
I came back to the present, which was no less burdensome than the past. I saw the general and Mrs. Campbell speaking to a few people who had come forward, including family, the Fowlers, and the general’s aide, Captain Bollinger. The casket, I noted, was gone, and had been carried up the tailgate of the transport plane during my mental absence.
Suddenly, the four turboprops fired and exploded into action, giving off a deafening roar. Then the general saluted those around him, took Mrs. Campbell by the arm as John Campbell took her other arm, and they walked up the inclined tailgate of the aircraft. For a moment, I thought they were entering the aircraft to say a final good-bye, but then it occurred to me that they had picked this time to leave Fort Hadley for good, and to leave the Army forever. In fact, the tailgate rose up and locked into place. A ground controller signaled the pilots, and the big aircraft moved off the apron onto the taxiway.
Most everyone was surprised, I think, by this sudden departure of the Campbells on the same aircraft that was bearing their daughter’s body to Michigan. But on second thought—and it seemed as if everyone had that second thought simultaneously—it was the best thing for the Campbells, for the fort, and for the Army.
Everyone watched as the C-130 lumbered down the runway, picked up speed, then, about four thousand feet from where everyone stood, it rose off the ground, silhouetted first by the tall line of green pines, then by the blue sky. As if that were the signal everyone needed, the crowd broke up, and the color guard, firing party, band, pallbearers, and others marched in formation to the waiting buses.
Vehicles began starting up behind me, and I turned and walked toward them, Cynthia and Karl on either side of me. Cynthia was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She said to me, “I’m not feeling very well.”
I gave her my car keys. “Sit in the air-conditioning awhile. I’ll meet you in hangar three when you’re up to it.”
“No, I’ll be all right.” She took my arm.
As the three of us walked to the vehicle, Karl said to me, “Paul, I ask that you go in for the kill now. We don’t have any time left, and we have no choice.”
“It’s true that we have no time, but I do have a choice.”
“Do I have to make this a direct order?”
“You can’t order me to do something that I think is tactically incorrect and may jeopardize the case for the FBI.”
“No, I cannot. Do you believe it’s incorrect for you to confront Kent at this time?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Cynthia said to Karl, “I’ll confront him.” She looked at me. “In the hangar, right?”
I didn’t reply.
Karl said to her, “Fine. Mr. Brenner and I will wait in the vehicle for you.”
Having shown enough petulance, I grunted, “All right, I’ll do it. I’m up to my ass in trouble anyway.”
Cynthia motioned up ahead, and I saw Kent, with two junior officers, walking toward his staff car. I said to Cynthia, “Wait ten minutes, then join me.”
I came up behind Kent and tapped him on the shoulder.
Kent turned around, and we stood there a second looking at each other. Finally, I said, “Colonel, may I see you alone?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Sure.” He dismissed his two subordinates, and we stood there on the hot concrete in front of the hangar as cars began pulling out around us.
I said, “It’s hot in the sun. Let’s go into this hangar.”
We walked side by side, as though we were colleagues, cops on the same mission, and I suppose, when all was said and done, that’s what we were.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Hangar three was slightly cooler than outside and much quieter.
Kent and I walked past Ann Campbell’s BMW and continued on toward the area where her home was laid out. I indicated an upholstered chair in her study, and Kent sat.
Cal Seiver, dressed in his class A uniform, had apparently just come from the ceremonies himself. I separated from Kent and took Seiver off to the side, and said to him, “Cal, please clear everyone out of here except Grace. I want her to print out the relevant entries in Captain Campbell’s diary.” I cocked my head toward Kent. “Then she can leave. Have her leave the disk here.”
“Okay.”
“Did you hear from the footprint guy in Oakland?”
“Yes. What it comes down to is that he can’t say for sure now. But if he had to say, he’d say that Colonel Kent’s print
was made before St. John’s print.”
“Okay. And the paint flecks from the damaged tree?”
“I had the tree section helicoptered to Gillem a few hours ago. They tell me the paint is black in color and tentatively matches the type used by Chrysler for the Jeep model. Where’s the Jeep, by the way?”
“It’s probably in Colonel Kent’s garage. He lives on Bethany Hill. So why don’t you send someone there, photograph the scrape on the Jeep, and scrape off some paint for comparison.”
“Can I do that?”
“Why not?”
“I need something in writing from his immediate commander to do that.”
“His immediate commander has resigned and just flew off to Michigan. But he told me it’s okay to do whatever we have to do. Don’t get civilian on me, Cal. This is the Army.”
“Right.”
“Can you demonstrate to Colonel Kent and me your footprint graphics on the monitor screen?”
“Sure can.”
“Good. Kent’s print definitely came first.”
“Understood.” He glanced at Kent sitting in Ann Campbell’s study, then said to me, “Is this it? The bust?”
“Could be.”
“If you think it’s him, go for it.”
“Right. And if he slaps the cuffs on me and takes me to the lockup, will you visit me?”
“No, I’ve got to get back to Gillem. But I’ll write.”
“Thanks. Also, tell the MPs outside to keep the FBI out while I’m in here.”
“Done. Good luck.” He slapped me on the shoulder and walked off.
I rejoined Kent and sat on the couch. I said to Kent, “We’re tying up some loose ends before the FBI gets here.”
He nodded, then commented, “I understand that your witness in the arms sales case beat feet.”