The General's Daughter

by Nelson DeMille

  She replied, “Not that I recall.”

  “Well, some smart cookie in psy-ops had this idea of dropping hard-core porno photos on the Iraqi positions. Most of those poor bastards had not seen a woman in months or years, so this psy-ops sadist wants to bury them in photos of hot, pink flesh, which will drive them bonkers. The idea goes all the way up to the joint command, and it’s a definite winner, a go, until the Saudis hear about it and go ballistic. You know, they’re a little tight and not as enlightened as we are about bare tits and ass. So the thing was squashed, but the word was that the idea was brilliant and could have shortened the ground war from four days to fifteen minutes.” I smiled.

  Cynthia replied frostily, “It’s disgusting.”

  “Actually, I agree in theory. But if it saved one life, it might have been justified.”

  “The means do not justify the ends. What’s the point?”

  “Well, what if the idea of the porno bombardment had come from a woman instead of some male pig?”

  “You mean Captain Campbell?”

  “Certainly that idea came out of the Special Operations School here. Let’s check it out.”

  Cynthia went into one of her contemplative moods, then looked at me. “Did you know her?”

  “I knew of her.”

  “What did you know of her?”

  “What most everyone else knew, Cynthia. She was perfect in every way, made in the USA, pasteurized and homogenized by the Public Information Office, and delivered fresh to your doorstep, creamy white and good for you.”

  “And you don’t believe that?”

  “No, I don’t. But if we discover that I’m wrong, then I’m in the wrong business and I’ll resign.”

  “You may wind up doing that anyway.”

  “Most probably.” I added, “Please consider how she died, how bizarre it was, and how unlikely it would be for a stranger to have gotten the drop on a soldier who was alert, bright, armed, and ready to shoot.”

  She nodded, then said as if to herself, “I have considered what you are suggesting. It’s not uncommon for a female officer to lead two lives—public rectitude and private… whatever. But I’ve also seen women, rape victims, married and single, who led exemplary private lives and who wound up as victims by pure chance. I’ve also seen women who lived on the jagged edge, but whose rape had not a thing to do with their promiscuity or the crazies they hung out with. Again, it was pure chance.”

  “That’s a possibility, and I don’t discount it.”

  “And don’t be judgmental, Paul.”

  “I’m not. I’m no saint. How about you?”

  “You know better than to ask.” She walked over to where I was standing and put her hand on my shoulder, which sort of took me by surprise. She said, “Can we do this? I mean together? Are we going to screw this up?”

  “No. We’re going to solve it.”

  Cynthia poked her finger in my stomach, sort of like I needed a punctuation mark for that sentence. She turned and walked back to Ann Campbell’s desk.

  I turned my attention back to the wall and noticed now a framed commendation from the American Red Cross in appreciation for her work on a blood donor drive, another commendation from a local hospital thanking her for her work with seriously ill children, and a teaching certificate from a literacy volunteer organization. Where did this woman find the time to do all that, plus her regular job, plus volunteering for extra duty, plus the mandatory social side of Army life, plus have a private life? Could it be, I wondered, that this extraordinarily beautiful woman had no private life? Could I be so far off base that I wasn’t even in the ballpark?

  Cynthia announced, “Here’s her address book.”

  “That reminds me. Did you get my Christmas card? Where are you living these days?”

  “Look, Paul, I’m sure your buddies at headquarters have snooped through my file for you and told you everything about me in the past year.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Cynthia. It’s not ethical or professional.”

  She glanced at me. “Sorry.” She put the address book in her handbag, went over to the telephone answering machine, and pushed the play button.

  A voice said, “Ann, this is Colonel Fowler. You were supposed to stop by the general’s house this morning after you got off duty.” The colonel sounded brusque. He continued, “Mrs. Campbell prepared breakfast for you. Well, you’re probably sleeping now. Please call the general when you get up, or call Mrs. Campbell.” He hung up.

  I said, “Maybe she killed herself. I would.”

  Cynthia commented, “It certainly couldn’t be easy being a general’s daughter. Who is Colonel Fowler?”

  “I think he’s the post adjutant.” I asked Cynthia, “How did that message sound to you?”

  “Official. The tone suggested some familiarity, but no particular warmth. As if he was just doing his duty by calling his boss’s forgetful daughter, whom he outranks, but who is nevertheless the boss’s daughter. How did it sound to you?”

  I thought a moment and replied, “It sounded made up.”

  “Oh… like a cover call?”

  I pushed the play button again, and we listened. I said, “Maybe I’m starting to imagine things.”

  “Maybe not.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed the provost marshal’s office. Colonel Kent was in and I got him on the line. “We are still at the deceased’s house,” I informed him. “Have you spoken to the general yet?”

  “No… I haven’t… I’m waiting for the chaplain…”

  “Bill, this thing will be all over post in a matter of hours. Inform the deceased’s family. And no form letters or telegrams.”

  “Look, Paul, I’m up to my ass in alligators with this thing, and I called the post chaplain and he’s on his way here—”

  “Fine. Did you get her office moved?”

  “Yes. I put everything in an unused hangar at Jordan Field.”

  “Good. Now get a bunch of trucks out here with a platoon of MPs who don’t mind hard work and know how to keep their mouths shut, and empty her house. I mean everything, Colonel—furniture, carpeting, right down to the light bulbs, toilet seats, refrigerator, and food. Take photos here, and put everything in that hangar in some semblance of the order that it’s found. Okay?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Absolutely. And be sure the men wear gloves and get forensic to print everything that they’d normally print.”

  “Why do you want to move the whole house?”

  “Bill, we have no jurisdiction here, and I’m not trusting the town police to play fair. So when the Midland police get here, the only thing they can impound is the wallpaper. Trust me on this. The scene of the crime was a U.S. military reservation. So this is all perfectly legal.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “We do this my way, or I’m out of here, Colonel.”

  There was a long pause, followed by a grunt that sounded like “Okay.”

  “And send an officer down to Dixie Bell in town and have Ann Campbell’s number forwarded to a number on post. In fact, get it forwarded to a line in that hangar. Plug her answering machine in and put in a new incoming message tape. Hold on to the old tape. It’s got a message on it. Mark it as evidence.”

  “Who do you think is going to call after the headlines are splashed all over the state?”

  “You never know. Did forensic get there yet?”

  “Yes. They’re at the scene. So is the body.”

  “And Sergeant St. John and PFC Robbins?”

  “They’re still sleeping. I put them in separate cells. Unlocked. Do you want me to read them their rights?”

  “No, they’re not suspects. But you can hold them as material witnesses until I get around to them.”

  “Soldiers have some rights,” Kent informed me. “And St. John has a wife, and Robbins’s CO probably thinks she went AWOL.”

  “Then make some calls on their behalf. Meantime, they’re incommunicado. How about Ca
ptain Campbell’s medical and personnel files?”

  “Got them right here.”

  “What are we forgetting, Bill?”

  “The Constitution.”

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

  “You know, Paul, I have to work with Chief Yardley. You guys are in and out. Yardley and I get along all right, considering the problems—”

  “I said I’ll take the rap.”

  “You’d damn well better.” He asked, “Did you find anything interesting there?”

  “Not yet. Did you?”

  “The grid search hasn’t turned up much beyond a few pieces of litter.”

  “Did the dogs find anything?”

  “No more victims.” He added, “The handlers let them sniff inside the jeep, and the dogs beelined right to the body. Then the dogs went back to the humvee, across the road, past the bleachers, and right out to the latrines in the trees. Then they lost the scent and doubled back to the humvee.” He continued, “We can’t know if the dogs picked up this guy’s scent or just her scent. But somebody, maybe the victim and the perpetrator together, or one or the other, did go out to the latrines.” He hesitated, then said, “I have the feeling that the murderer had his own vehicle, and since we see no tire marks in the soil anywhere, the guy never left the road. So he was parked there on the road before or after she stopped. They both dismount, he gets the drop on her and takes her out to the range and does it. He then goes back to the road…”

  “Carrying her clothes.”

  “Yes. And he puts the clothes in his vehicle, then…”

  “Goes to the latrine, washes up, combs his hair, then goes back to his vehicle and drives away.”

  Kent said, “That’s the way it could have happened. But that’s just a theory.”

  “I have a theory that we’re going to need another hangar to hold the theories. Okay, about six trucks should do it. And send a sensitive female officer to supervise. And send someone from community affairs who can cool out the neighbors while the MPs empty the place. See you later.” I hung up.

  Cynthia said, “You have a quick and analytical mind, Paul.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you had a little compassion and heart, you’d be a better person.”

  “I don’t want to be a better person.” I added, “Hey, wasn’t I a good guy in Brussels? Didn’t I buy you Belgian chocolates?”

  She didn’t reply immediately, then said, “Yes, you did. Well, should we go upstairs before upstairs winds up at Jordan Field?”

  “Good idea.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The master suite, as I indicated, was neat and clean, except for the shattered perfume bottle on the bathroom floor that now stunk up the place. The furniture was functional modern, sort of Scandinavian, I suppose, with no soft touches, nothing to suggest that it was madam’s boudoir. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t want to make love in this room. The carpet, too, was unsuited for a bedroom, being a tight woven Berber that left no footprints. Something, however, did stand out: twenty bottles of perfume, which Cynthia said were very expensive, and the civilian clothes in the closet, which she said were equally overpriced. A second, smaller closet—what would have been “his” closet if she had a husband or live-in—was filled with neat Army uniforms for the summer season, including greens, battle dress, combat boots, and all the necessary accessories. More interesting, in the far corner of the closet was an M-16 rifle with a full magazine and a round in the chamber, locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll. I said, “This is a military issue—fully automatic.”

  “Unauthorized off post,” Cynthia observed.

  “My goodness.” We rummaged around a while longer, and I was going through Ann Campbell’s underwear drawer when Cynthia said, “You already looked in there, Paul. Don’t get strange on me.”

  “I’m looking for her West Point ring,” I replied with annoyance. “It wasn’t on her finger, and it’s not in her jewelry box.”

  “It was taken off her finger. I saw the tan line.”

  I pushed the drawer shut. “Keep me informed,” I said.

  “You too,” she snapped.

  The bathroom was standing tall as they say in the Army: West Point, white-glove immaculate. Even the sink basin had been wiped as per regulations, and there wasn’t a hair on the floor, certainly no pubic hair of a swarthy stranger.

  We opened the medicine cabinet, which held the usual assortment of cosmetics, feminine products, and such. There were no prescription medicines, no men’s shaving stuff, only one toothbrush, and nothing stronger than aspirin. “What,” I asked my female partner, “do you deduce from this?”

  “Well, she wasn’t a hypochondriac, she didn’t have dry or oily skin, she didn’t dye her hair, and she keeps her method of birth control somewhere else.”

  I said, “Maybe she required her men to use a condom.” I added, “You may have heard that condoms are in fashion again because of disease. These days you have to boil people before you sleep with them.”

  Cynthia ignored that and said, “Or she was chaste.”

  “I never thought of that. Is that possible?”

  “You never know, Paul. You just never know.”

  “Or could she have been… how do we say it these days? Gay? A lesbian? What’s the politically correct term?”

  “Do you care?”

  “For my report. I mean, I don’t want to get into trouble with the feminist thought police.”

  “Take a break, Paul.”

  We exited the bathroom and Cynthia said, “Let’s see the other bedroom.”

  We passed through the upstairs hallway into the small room. At this point, I didn’t expect to encounter anyone, but Cynthia drew her pistol and covered me while I peeked under the double bed. Aside from the bed, the room held only a dresser and a night table and lamp. An open door led to a small bathroom, which looked as if it were never used. Clearly, the entire room was never used, but Ann Campbell maintained it as a guest room.

  Cynthia pulled back the bedspread, revealing a bare mattress. She said, “No one sleeps here.”

  “Apparently not.” I pulled open the dresser drawers. Empty.

  Cynthia motioned toward a set of large double doors on the far wall. I stood to the side and flung one of them open. A light inside went on automatically, and it sort of startled me, and Cynthia, too, because she crouched and aimed. After a second or two, she stood and approached what turned out to be a large walk-in cedar closet. We both went inside the closet. It smelled good, like a cheap cologne I once had that kept moths and women away. There were two long poles on either side from which hung bagged civilian clothes for every climate on earth, and more Army uniforms, ranging from her old West Point uniforms, to desert battle dress, to arctic wear, to Army whites, blue mess and evening mess uniforms for social functions, and sundry other rarely worn uniforms, plus her West Point saber. The overhead shelf had matching headgear, and on the floor was matching footwear.

  I said, “This was one squared-away soldier. Equally prepared for a military ball or the next war in the jungle.”

  “Doesn’t your uniform closet look like this?”

  “My uniform closet looks like the third day of a close-out sale.” Actually, it looked worse than that. I have a tidy mind, but that’s as far as it goes. Captain Campbell, on the other hand, seemed clean, tidy, and organized in every external way. Perhaps, then, her mind was pure chaos. Perhaps not. This woman was elusive.

  We exited the closet and the guest room.

  On the way down the stairs, I said to Cynthia, “Before I was in the CID, I couldn’t see a clue if it bit me in the ass.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I see everything as a clue. The lack of clues is a clue.”

  “Is that so? I haven’t progressed to that level yet. Sounds Zen.”

  “I think of it as Sherlockian. You know, the dog that did not bark in the night.” We went into the kitchen. “Why did the dog not bark?”r />
  “It was dead.”

  It’s hard adjusting to a new partner. I don’t like the young, sycophantic guys who hang on your every word. But I don’t like smart-asses, either. I’m at that age and rank where I get respect and earn respect, but I’m still open to an occasional piece of reality.

  Cynthia and I contemplated the bolted basement door. I said, not apropos of the door, but of life, “My wife left clues all over the place.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “But I never saw the clues.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “Well… in retrospect I did. But when you’re young, you’re pretty dense. You’re full of yourself, you don’t read other people well, you haven’t been lied to and cheated too much, and you lack the cynicism and suspicion that makes for a good detective.”

  “A good detective, Paul, has to separate his or her professional life from his or her personal life. I wouldn’t want a man who snooped on me.”

  “Obviously not, considering your past.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Score one for Paul. I threw back the bolt on the door. “Your turn.”

  “Okay. I wish you had your pistol.” She handed me her Smith & Wesson and opened the basement door.

  “Maybe I should go and get that M-16 upstairs,” I offered.

  “Never rely on a weapon you just found and never tested. Says so in the manual. Just call out, then cover me.”

  I shouted down the stairs, “Police! Come to the staircase with your hands on your head!” This is the military version of hands-up and makes a little more sense if you think about it. Well, no one came to the base of the stairs, so Cynthia had to go down. She said in a quiet voice, “Leave the lights off. I’ll break to the right. Wait five seconds.”

  “You wait one second.” I looked around for something to throw down the stairs and spotted a toaster oven, but Cynthia was off and running, down the cellar stairs in long leaps, barely hitting the steps on her way down. I saw her shoulderroll to the right and lost sight of her. I followed, breaking to the left, and wound up in a firing crouch, peering into the darkness. We waited in silence for a full ten seconds, then I shouted, “Ed, John, cover us!” I wished there were an Ed and John around, but as Captain Campbell might have said, “Create phantom battalions in the minds of the enemy.”