The General's Daughter

by Nelson DeMille

  I observed a young woman who was clearly underweight, obviously distracted, and, in general terms, troubled and depressed. She cried several times during the interviews, but always got her emotions under control and apologized for crying.

  At times, she seemed on the verge of revealing more than common cadet complaints, but always drew back. She did say once, however, “It doesn’t matter if I go to class or not, it doesn’t matter what I do here. They’re going to graduate me anyway.” I asked if she thought that was true because she was General Campbell’s daughter, and she replied, “No, they’re going to graduate me because I did them a favor.”

  When I asked what she meant by that, and who “they” were, she replied, “The old boys.” Subsequent questions elicited no response.

  I believe we were on the threshold of a breakthrough, but her subsequent appointments, originally ordered by her commander, were canceled without explanation by a higher authority whose name I never learned.

  My belief is that Cadet Campbell is in need of further evaluation and therapy, voluntary or involuntary. Lacking that, I recommend a psychiatric board of inquiry to determine if Cadet Campbell should be given a psychiatric separation from the academy. I further recommend a complete medical examination and evaluation.

  I digested this brief report, wondering, of course, how a well-adjusted eighteen-year-old had turned into a depressed twenty-year-old. The rigors of West Point could easily explain that, but obviously Dr. Wells wasn’t buying it, and neither was I.

  I leafed through the file, intending at some early date to read it from cover to cover. As I was about to close the folder, an errant scrap of paper caught my eye and I read the handwritten words: Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.—Nietzsche. What that quote was doing there, I don’t know, but it was appropriate in the file of a psy-ops officer and would have been appropriate in the file of a CID man as well.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  I did not need to be, nor did I want to be, Sergeant Franklin White any longer, especially since Sergeant White had to salute every snot-nosed lieutenant he passed. So I made the half-mile walk to the Infantry Training Brigade and retrieved my pick-up truck, then headed out to Whispering Pines to change into civvies.

  I drove past the post armory, but didn’t see Sergeant Elkin’s POV parked in the lot. I had this unsettling thought that Elkins was going to consummate the deal behind my back and take off for parts unknown, leaving me to explain how I let a few hundred M-16s and grenade launchers get into the hands of Colombian banditos.

  But first things first. I left post and got onto the highway. The drive to Whispering Pines took about twenty minutes, during which time I reconstructed the events of the morning from the time the phone rang in the armory. I do this because my employer, the United States Army, is big on chronology and facts. But in a murder investigation, what you see and when you saw it is not the whole game, because by the nature of the act of murder, the crucial things happened before you got there. There is sort of a spirit world that coexists with the world of empirical observation, and you have to get in touch with that world through the detective’s equivalent of the séance. You don’t use a crystal ball, though I’d like one that worked—but you do clear your mind and listen to what isn’t said and see things that aren’t there.

  That aside, Karl needed a written report, so I drafted one in my mind: Further to our phone conversation, the general’s daughter was a whore, but what a magnificent whore. I can’t get her out of my mind. If I had been obsessively in love with her and found out she was fucking for everyone, I would have killed her myself. Nevertheless, will find son-of-a-bitch who did it and see that he faces a firing squad. Thanks for the case. (Signed) Brenner.

  That might need a little work. But it’s important, I think, to admit to yourself the truth of how you feel about things. Everyone else is going to lie, posture, and dissemble.

  Regarding that, I thought about Cynthia. In truth, I couldn’t get the woman out of my mind. I kept seeing her face and hearing her voice, and I was right then missing her. This is presumptive evidence of a strong emotional attachment, perhaps a sexual obsession, and, God forbid, love. This was worrisome, not only because I wasn’t ready for this but because I wasn’t sure how she felt. Also, there was the murder. When you get handed a murder, you have to give it everything you’ve got, and if you don’t have much left to give, you have to draw on psychic energy that you’ve been saving for other things. Eventually, of course, there’s nothing left to borrow, and people like Cynthia, young and filled with a sense of duty and enthusiasm, call you cold, callous, and cynical. I deny this, of course, knowing I’m capable of emotions and feelings, of love and warmth. I was sort of like that in Brussels last year, and look at what it got me. Anyway, murder deserves one’s undivided attention.

  I looked out the windshield as I approached Whispering Pines Trailer Park. Up ahead, on the left, I saw a county road crew making a blacktop repair, and I recalled two and a half decades ago when I saw my first Georgia chain gang. I don’t think they use chain gangs on the roads anymore, and I hope they don’t. But I recall the sight vividly, the prisoners, filthy and bowed, their ankles connected by chains, and the guards in sweaty tan uniforms, carrying rifles and shotguns. I couldn’t believe at first what I was seeing. Paul Brenner, late of South Boston, simply could not comprehend that men were chained together, working like slaves in the blistering sun, right here in America. I actually felt my stomach tighten as though someone had punched me.

  But that Paul Brenner no longer existed. The world had become softer, and I’d become harder. Somewhere on the time line, the world and I had been harmonious for a year or two, then went our separate ways again. Maybe my problem was that my worlds changed too much: Georgia today, Brussels last year, Pago Pago next week. I needed to stop in one place for a while, I needed to know a woman for more than a night, a week, or a month.

  I passed between two stripped pine trees to which had been nailed a hand-painted sign overhead that once read “Whispering Pines.” I parked the pickup truck near the owner’s mobile home and began the trek to my aluminum abode. I think I liked rural southern poverty better when it was housed in wooden shacks with a rocking chair and a jug of corn squeezings on the front porch.

  I did a walk around the trailer, checking for open windows, footprints, and other signs that someone had been there. I came around to the entrance and inspected the strand of sticky filament I’d placed across the door and the frame. It’s not that I’d seen too many movies where the detective goes into his house and gets clubbed over the head. But I spent five years in the infantry, one of them in ’Nam, and about ten years in Europe and Asia dealing with everyone from drug traffickers, to arms smugglers, to just plain murderers, and I know why I’m alive, and I know how to stay that way. In other words, if you have your head up your ass, four of your five senses aren’t working.

  I entered the mobile home and left the door open as I checked to see that I was the only one there. I seemed to be alone, and the premises seemed to be the way I’d left them.

  I walked to the back bedroom. This was the room I used for my office where my pistols were kept, along with my notes, reports, codebooks, and other tools of the trade. I had put a hasp and padlock on this bedroom door so no one, including the owner of the trailer park, could get into it, and I’d also put epoxy glue in the sliders of the only window. I unlocked the padlock and went inside.

  The bedroom furniture came with the place, but I’d signed out a camp desk and chair from the post quartermaster, and on the desk I saw that the light on the telephone answering machine was blinking. I hit the message button, and a prerecorded male voice with a nasal problem announced, “You have one message.” Then another male voice said, “Mr. Brenner, this is Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant. General Campbell wishes to see you. Report to his home, ASAP. Go
od day.”

  Rather curt. All I could deduce from that was that Colonel Kent had finally got around to informing the deceased’s next of kin and had volunteered the information that this Brenner guy from Falls Church was the investigating officer and had given Colonel Fowler my phone number. Thanks, Kent.

  I had no time for General or Mrs. Campbell at the moment, so I erased the message from the tape and from my mind.

  I went to the dresser and took my 9mm Glock automatic with holster, then exited the spare bedroom, closing the padlock behind me.

  I entered the master bedroom, changed into a blue tropical wool suit, adjusted the holster, went into the kitchen, popped a cold beer, then exited the trailer. I left the pickup truck where it was and got into the Blazer. Thus transformed, I was outwardly prepared to deal with rape and murder, though somewhere along the line I had to log some cot time.

  I took a few pulls on the beer as I drove. This state has a law about open alcoholic beverage containers which the locals say means, if you open it, you have to finish it before you throw it out the window.

  I detoured into a depressing suburb of small ranch houses called Indian Springs. There were no Indians around, but there were plenty of cowboys, judging from the souped-up vehicles in the driveways. I pulled into the driveway of a modest home and hit the horn a few times. This is in lieu of getting out and ringing the bell, and is perfectly acceptable hereabouts. A wide woman came to the door, saw me, and waved, then disappeared. A few minutes later, Sergeant Dalbert Elkins ambled out of the house. One of the good things about pulling night duty is that you get the next day off, and Elkins was obviously enjoying the day, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, a beer in each hand. I said to him, “Get in. We got to see a guy on post.”

  “Aw, sheet.”

  “Come on. I’ll get you back here, ASAP.”

  He yelled back into the house, “Gotta go!” Then he climbed into the passenger seat and handed me one of the beers.

  I took it, backed out of the driveway, and drove off. Sergeant Elkins had four questions for me: Where’d you get this Blazer? Where’d you get that suit? How was the pussy? Who we gotta see?

  I replied that the Blazer was borrowed, the suit came from Hong Kong, the other thing was A-one, and we had to see a guy in jail.

  “In jail?”

  “A good buddy. They got him locked in the provost office. I got to see him before they take him to the stockade.”

  “Why? What for?”

  “They got him for DWI. I got to drive his car out to his place. His old lady’s nine months pregnant and she needs the wheels. They live out by you. You follow me back in the Blazer.”

  Sergeant Elkins nodded as if he’d done this before. He said, “Hey, tell me about the pussy.”

  So, wanting him to be happy, I went into my good ol’ boy rap. “Well, I got me a little slopehead ’bout as tall as a pint of piss, and I just pick her up by the ears and stick her on my dick, then slap her upside the head and spin her ’round my cock like the block on a shithouse door.”

  Elkins roared with laughter. Actually, that wasn’t bad. You’d never know I was from Boston. God, I’m good.

  We made small talk and sipped beer. As we drove onto the post, we lowered the beer cans as we passed the MPs, then tucked them away under the seats. I pulled up to the provost marshal’s office and we got out and went inside.

  The duty sergeant stood and I put my CID badge case up to his face and kept walking. Sergeant Elkins either didn’t notice or it happened too fast for him. We walked down a corridor to the holding cells. I found a nice empty one in the corner with an open door, and I nudged Sergeant Elkins inside. He seemed confused and a little anxious. He asked, “Where’s your buddy…?”

  “You’re my buddy.” I closed the cell door and it locked. I spoke to my buddy through the bars. “You are under arrest.” I held up my badge case. “The charge is conspiracy to sell military property of the United States without proper authority, and frauds against the United States.” I added, “Plus, you weren’t wearing your seat belt.”

  “Oh, Jesus… oh, Lord…”

  The expression on a man’s face when you announce that he’s under arrest is very interesting and revealing, and you have to judge your next statement by his reaction. Elkins looked like he’d just seen St. Peter giving him a thumbs-down. I informed him, “I’m going to give you a break, Dalbert. You’re going to handwrite and sign a full confession, then you’re going to cooperate with the government in nailing the guys we’ve been talking to. You do that, and I’ll guarantee you no jail time. You get a dishonorable discharge and forfeiture of all rank, pay, allowances, and retirement benefits. Otherwise, it’s life in Leavenworth, good buddy. Deal?”

  He started to cry. I know I’m getting soft because there was a time I wouldn’t have even offered such a great deal, and if a suspect started to cry, I’d slap him around until he shut up. But I’m trying to become more sensitive to the needs and wants of criminals, and I tried not to think of what those two hundred M-16s and grenade launchers could do to cops and innocent people. Not to mention the fact that Staff Sergeant Elkins had broken a sacred trust. I said to Elkins, “Deal?”

  He nodded.

  “Smart move, Dalbert.” I fished around in my pocket and found the rights card. “Here. Read this and sign it.” I handed him the card and a pen. He wiped his tears as he read his rights as an accused. I said, “Sign the damn thing, Dalbert.”

  He signed and handed me the card and the pen. Karl was going to fly into a monumental fit when I told him I’d turned Elkins into a government witness. Karl’s philosophy is that everyone should go to jail, and no one should be able to cut a deal. Court-martial boards didn’t like to hear about deals. Okay, but I had to shortcut this case to get on to the case that had the potential to harm me. Karl said to finish it. It was finished.

  An MP lieutenant approached and asked me to explain and identify myself. I showed him my CID identification and said to him, “Get this man some paper and pen for a confession, then take him to the post CID and turn him over to them for further interrogation.”

  Staff Sergeant Elkins was sitting on the cot now, looking very forlorn in his shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. I’ve seen too many men like that through steel bars. I wonder how I look to them from the other side of the bars.

  I left the holding cells and found my assigned office. I flipped through Ann Campbell’s address book, which held about a hundred names, mine not included. She used no stars or hearts or anything like that to denote a romantic interest or a rating system, but as I said, there was probably another list of names and phone numbers somewhere, possibly in her basement rec room, or perhaps buried in her personal computer.

  I scribbled out a rather perfunctory and annoyingly terse report for Karl—not the one I’d made up in my mind, but one that neither the judge advocate general nor the attorney for the defense could criticize later. There wasn’t a document in the country that was safe anymore, and the Confidential classification might as well say, “Widest Possible Distribution.”

  The report completed, I hit the intercom button on the telephone and said, “Have a clerk report to me.”

  Army clerks are sort of like civilian secretaries, except that many of them are men, though I’m seeing more female clerks these days. In either case, like their civilian counterparts, they can make or break a boss or an office. The one who reported to me was a female, dressed in the green B uniform, which is basically a green skirt and blouse, suitable for hot offices. She reported well enough, with a crisp salute and a good voice. “Specialist Baker, sir.”

  I stood, though this is not required of me, and extended my hand. “I am Warrant Officer Brenner, CID. I am working on the Campbell case. Do you know all of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I regarded Specialist Baker a moment. She was about twenty-one, looked alert enough, not beautiful, but sort of bright-eyed and perky. Maybe cute. I asked her, “Do you want to be detailed
to this case?”

  “I work for Captain Redding in Traffic Enforcement.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. You will report only to me and to Ms. Sunhill, who is also on this case, and you will speak to no one else. Everything you see and hear is highly confidential.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Type this report, photocopy this address book, send the copies to this fax number in Falls Church, and leave the originals on my desk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put a sign on this door that says, ‘Private, authorized personnel only.’ You, me, and Ms. Sunhill are the only authorized personnel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the military, where honesty, honor, and obedience are still held in high regard, you theoretically don’t need locks on doors, but I’m seeing more locks these days. Nevertheless, being from the old school, I didn’t order one. However, I did tell Specialist Baker, “You will empty the wastebaskets every evening and put the contents through a shredder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “Who will speak to Captain Redding?”

  “I will speak to Colonel Kent about that. Any further questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  She took the address book and my handwritten report, saluted, turned, and left.

  It’s not easy being a traveling pain-in-the-ass. Anyone can be a pain-in-the-ass on the home court, but it takes a unique individual to come into an environment whose pecking order, nuances, and personalities have already been shaped and fit into place. Yet, if you don’t get the upper hand on the first day, you’ll never get it, and they’ll mess you around until you become worse than useless.