Cynthia and Cal approached, and Cal informed me, “The tent pegs are solid in the clay. A guy with surgical gloves almost got a hernia pulling them out. The knots have been classified as granny knots, and you can barely untie them even using a mechanical aid. As for the ligature, the ends do reach her hands, but if you’re asking for my opinion, I don’t think she could have pulled them herself. You looking for an autoerotic accident?”
“Just a thought. Between us.”
“Yeah. But it looks like she had company last night, though we haven’t found any traces of her company yet.”
“Where was the bare footprint?”
“About halfway between the road and the body. About there.” He pointed to where one of his people was taking a casting of a print.
I nodded. “How was the rope cut?”
Cal replied, “Compression cut. Like an ax or cleaver, maybe on a wooden surface. Probably not done here—the tool mark guys checked the bleacher seats for cuts. Most likely, the lengths were precut and brought here.” He added, “Like a rape kit,” but resisted the temptation to say words like “premeditated” or “organized rapist.” I like people who stick to their area of expertise. In fact, what looked like part of a rape kit was more likely bondage paraphernalia from the victim’s own storehouse of equipment. But it was best if everyone kept thinking rape.
Cal said to me, “You wanted to know about the black smudge on her right foot.”
“Yes.”
“Ninety-nine percent sure it’s blacktop. Know for sure in about an hour. I’ll match the smudge to the road here, but it won’t be conclusive.”
“Okay.”
He asked me, “How’d you pull this case?”
“I begged for it.”
He laughed, then said, “I wouldn’t want to be in your boots.”
“Me neither, if you found my bootprints in the humvee.”
He smiled, and it seemed he was enjoying my company, so I reminded him, “If you botch anything, you should think about where you can live on half pay. A lot of guys go to Mexico.”
“Hey, if I botch anything, I can cover my ass. If you botch anything, your ass is grass, and Colonel Hellmann is the lawn mower.”
Which was an unpleasant truth. I informed him, “The victim’s office, household goods, and personal effects are in a hangar at Jordan Field, so when you’re through here, go there.”
“I know. We’ll be done here by dark, then we’ll do an allnighter at the hangar.”
“Was Colonel Kent here?”
“Just for a few minutes.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as you, without the wisecracks.” He added, “Wants you to see the general. Did you get that message?”
“No. All right, Cal, I’m at the provost marshal’s office. All reports and inquiries go to me or Cynthia directly, sealed and marked ‘Confidential.’ Or you can call or drop by. My clerk is Specialist Baker. Don’t discuss this case with anyone, not even the post provost marshal. If he asks you anything, refer him to me or Cynthia. And instruct your people to do the same. Okay?”
Cal nodded, then asked, “Not even Colonel Kent?”
“Not even the general.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Let’s go look at the latrines, then your people can process the premises.”
“Okay.”
As we walked, Cynthia asked Cal, “When can you release the body to the coroner for autopsy?”
Cal scratched his bald head. “Well… I guess in about three hours.”
She said, “Why don’t you call the post hospital and get the coroner out here so he can examine the body in place? Then tell him we would appreciate an autopsy ASAP, even if he has to work late, and we’d like a preliminary coroner’s report sometime tonight. Tell him the general would appreciate it, too, and that the general and Mrs. Campbell would like to get on with the funeral arrangements.”
Cal nodded. “Okay.”
Cynthia seemed to be getting the hang of it. Obviously, I was teaching by example.
The three of us made our way past the bleachers, over an open stretch of thick grass that left no footprints, and into the tree line where two latrine sheds stood. Kent had cordoned off the area, and we stepped over the yellow crime scene tape. The older shed was marked “Male Personnel,” and the newer one “Female Personnel.” The word “personnel” may seem superfluous, but Army regulations prohibit brevity and common sense. We entered the latrine shed for male personnel, and I turned on the lights using my handkerchief.
The floor was concrete, the walls wooden, and there were screens where the wall met the ceiling. There were three sinks, three stalls, and three urinals, all fairly clean. I assumed that if a unit had fired the previous day, they would have finished no later than 1700 hours, and they would have assigned a latrine clean-up detail. In fact, the wastebaskets were empty and there was nothing floating in the commodes, and all the seats were in the upright position.
Cynthia drew my attention to one of the sinks. There were water spots and a small hair in the basin. I said to Cal, “Here’s something.”
He walked over and bent over the bowl. “Human, Caucasian, head.” He looked closer. “Fell out, maybe cut, but not pulled out. No root. Not much of a sample, but I may be able to get you a blood type, maybe the sex, but without the root I can’t get you a genetic marker.”
“How about the owner’s name?”
Cal was not amused. He surveyed the latrine and said, “I’ll give this next priority after we finish out there.”
“Open the sink traps, too.”
“Do I need to be told that?”
“I guess not.”
We went into the female latrine, which was as clean as its male counterpart. There were six stalls, and here, also, the toilet seats were all up, which was an Army regulation, despite the fact that women had to put them down. I said to Cal, “I want you to tell me if Captain Campbell used this latrine.”
He replied, “If nothing else, we may be able to find a trace of perspiration or body oil on the toilet seat, or skin cells in the sink trap. I’ll do my best.”
“And don’t forget fingerprints on and around the light switch.”
“Do you forget to breathe?”
“Once in a while.”
“I don’t forget anything.”
“Good.” We looked around, but there was no visible evidence that could be connected to the victim, to the crime scene, or to a perpetrator. But if you believe in the theory of transference and exchange, the place could be crawling with evidence.
We went out into the sunlight and walked back toward the road. I said to Cal, “Don’t get insulted, but I have to remind you to establish a proper chain of custody with the evidence, and label and document everything as if you were going to be cross-examined by a savage defense attorney who was only getting paid for a not-guilty verdict. Okay?”
“Don’t worry about it. Meantime, you get a suspect, and we’ll scrape his skin, and take his blood, and pull his hair, and get him to pop off inside a rubber like Cynthia here did with this guy the other day.”
“I hope there’s something here to compare to a suspect.”
“There’s always something. Where are her clothes, by the way?”
“Gone. She was wearing BDUs.”
“So’s everybody else. If I find BDU fibers, it means nothing.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Forensic’s not easy when everybody’s wearing the same clothes and boots.”
“True enough. Did you get disqualifying footprints from all the MPs on the scene?”
“Yeah.”
“Including Colonel Kent?”
“Yup.”
We got back to the road and stopped. Cynthia said, “Remember, Cal, the only pressure on you is from us. Nobody else counts.”
“I hear you.” He glanced back toward the body and offered, “She was very pretty. We have one of those recruiting posters of her in the lab.” He lo
oked at Cynthia and me, and said, “Hey, good luck.”
Cynthia replied, “You, too.”
Cal Seiver turned and ambled off toward the body.
Cynthia and I got in her car and she asked, “Where to?”
“Jordan Field.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Speed, speed, speed. The older the case,the colder the trail. The colder the trail, theharder the case.
Transference and exchange. Officially, this relates to forensic evidence, bits and pieces of physical matter. But for the homicide investigator, it can relate to something almost metaphysical. By using offender profiles and analyses of violent crimes, you begin to know the murderer without having met him. By using victimology analysis and psychological autopsy, you begin to know more about the victim than what people are telling you. Eventually, you may guess at the relationship between the victim and the murderer and deduce that they knew each other, as is most often the case. Going on the theory that there was an emotional and psychological transfer and exchange between the deceased and the murderer, you can start narrowing the suspect list. On the other hand, I’d welcome a DNA marker and a fingerprint from Cal Seiver.
We headed north in the direction of the main post, but turned left at a sign that said, “Jordan Field.” I informed Cynthia, “Based on Cal’s findings with the tent pegs and rope, I don’t think you have to be staked out.”
She replied, “Karl is the typical armchair detective.”
“True.” Among Karl’s other annoying traits was his bad habit of coming up with bright ideas. He’d sit there in Falls Church and read lab reports, witnesses’ statements, and look at photos, then formulate theories and avenues of investigation. The men and women in the field love this. Karl fancies himself as some sort of European savant, and the fact that he’s batting zero doesn’t seem to bother him.
But Karl is a good commander. He runs a tight operation, kisses no ass, and stands up for his people. In this particular case, Colonel Karl Gustav Hellmann would undoubtedly be called to the Pentagon to report. Standing, perhaps, in the chief of staff’s office before the secretary of the Army, the head of the FBI, the judge advocate general, and other assorted brass and steely-eyed presidential flunkies, he would announce, “My best man, Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner, is on the case, and he tells me he needs no outside assistance, and he assures me he can successfully conclude this case within a matter of days. An arrest is imminent.” Right, Karl. Probably mine.
Cynthia glanced toward me. “You look a little pale.”
“Just tired.”
We approached Jordan Field, an Army installation that is part of Fort Hadley. Most of Hadley is an open post, and people come and go as they please, but Jordan Field is a security area, and we were stopped at the gate by an MP. The MP looked at Cynthia’s ID and asked, “Are you working on the murder case, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she replied. “This is my father.”
The MP smiled. “Hangar three, ma’am.”
Cynthia put the car in gear and we proceeded toward hangar three. Jordan Field was originally built by the now-defunct Army Air Corps in the 1930s and looks like a set for a World War II movie. It was too small to be taken over by the new Air Force after the war, but it is much bigger than the Army needs for its limited air arm, and, as a troop staging area, it is redundant and superfluous. In fact, if this whole military complex, including Hadley and Jordan, belonged to General Motors, half of it would be moved to Mexico and the other half closed. But the Army issues no P&L statements, and the end product, national defense, is somewhat of an abstract, like peace of mind, and therefore priceless. In reality, however, Hadley and Jordan are no more than government work projects for the local economy. What the war booms created, the peace dividend would maintain.
Sitting on the tarmac were two Huey helicopters and three Army artillery spotter planes. We proceeded to hangar three, in front of which was parked Kent’s staff car, and a blue and white Ford with police markings. In fact, a gold shield on the door of the police car was emblazoned with the words “Midland Police Chief.”
Cynthia said, “That will be Chief Yardley’s car. I worked with him once. Have you?”
“No, and I don’t intend to start now.”
We walked into the cavernous hangar, where I noticed, first, a white BMW 325 convertible, which I assumed was Ann Campbell’s car. At the far end of the hangar were Ann Campbell’s household effects, arranged, I assumed, in some sort of room-by-room order, with the ripped-up carpeting laid out according to the floor plan of the town house. As I got closer, I noticed her office furniture, as well. As we got even closer, I saw a long table covered with Polaroid photos of her house and office. There were a few MPs on the fringes of the layout, and there was Colonel Kent, and there was a man wearing a cowboy hat who looked like he could have been, and probably was, Police Chief Yardley. The man was big, bursting out of his tan poplin suit, and his face was red, leading me to wonder if he was sunburned, had high blood pressure, or was monumentally pissed-off.
Yardley and Kent were conversing and glancing toward Cynthia and me as we approached. Yardley finally turned and came toward me as I came toward him. He greeted me with these words: “You got a shitload of explaining to do, son.”
I thought not, and informed him, “If you’ve touched anything or come in contact with anything, I will need prints from you, and fibers from your clothing.”
Yardley stopped a foot from me and sort of stared for a long time, then laughed. “You son-of-a-bitch.” He turned to Kent. “You hear that?”
Kent forced a smile, but he was not happy.
I continued, “Please keep in mind that you are on a military reservation and that I have the sole responsibility for this case.”
Kent, a bit belatedly, said, “Chief Yardley, may I introduce Mr. Brenner and Ms. Sunhill.”
“You may,” replied Yardley, “but I’m not real delighted.”
Yardley, you may have guessed, had a rural Georgia accent that grates on my nerves in the best of circumstances. I can only imagine how my South Boston accent sounded to him.
Yardley turned to Cynthia, and, all southern charm now, he touched his cowboy hat. “I believe we’ve met, ma’am.”
I mean, was this guy out of central casting, or what? I asked Yardley, “Can you tell me what your official business is here?”
Again he smiled. I seemed to amuse him. He said, “Well, now, my official business is to ask you how all this stuff got here.”
Remembering Karl’s nearly intelligent advice and wanting this guy gone, I replied, “The deceased’s family asked that I take charge of these items and transport them here.”
He mulled that over a moment, then said, “Good thinkin’, son. You skunked me.”
“Thank you.” Actually, I liked this guy. I’m partial to assholes.
Yardley said, “Tell you what—you give me and the county lab access to this stuff, and we’ll call it even.”
“I’ll consider that after the CID lab is finished with it.”
“Don’t mess with me, son.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Hey, how’s this sound—you let us in on this matter, and I’ll give you access to the deceased’s house, which we got all locked up and guarded now.”
“I don’t care about the house.” Except the basement. The guy had an ace he didn’t know about.
“Okay, I got some official files on the deceased.”
The deal was getting better, but I said, “I’ll subpoena your files if I have to.”
Yardley turned to Kent. “This is a horse trader.” He turned back to me. “I got things up here”—he tapped his head, which sounded hollow—“things that you can’t subpoena.”
“You knew the deceased?”
“Hell, yeah, boy. How ’bout you?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.” Double entendre, perhaps.
“I know the old man, too. Hey, tell you what,” said Chief Y
ardley, using that annoying expression, “you come on down to my office and we’ll jawbone this one.”
Recalling how I had suckered poor Dalbert Elkins inside a cell, I replied, “If we do speak, we’ll do it in the provost marshal’s office.”
The mention of Kent’s title seemed to arouse him and he said, “We will all cooperate in the sharing of files, leads, and forensic reports.”
Cynthia spoke for the first time. “Chief, I understand your feeling that we’ve acted improperly, but don’t take that personally, or view it as a professional insult. If the victim had been almost anyone else, we would have asked you to join us at the house and conferred with you regarding the best way to proceed.”
Yardley was pursing his lips, as though he were contemplating this statement or was forming the word “bullshit.”
Cynthia continued, “We get just as upset when a soldier is arrested in town for some minor infraction that a local boy would get away with.”
Unless the local boy was black, of course. Don’t say it, Brenner.
“So,” Cynthia continued with sweet reason, “we will sit down at a mutually convenient time tomorrow and formulate a good working relationship.” And so on and so forth.
Yardley nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he replied, “Makes sense to me.” He said to Kent, “Thanks, Colonel. Call me at home tonight.” He turned to me and slapped me on the shoulder. “You skunked me, boy. I owe you one.” He strode away, across the long floor of the hangar, looking like a man who would be back.
After he exited the small personnel door, Kent said, “I told you he would be ripped.”
I replied, “Who cares?”
Kent replied, “I don’t want to get into a pissing match with this guy. The fact is, he can be very helpful. Half the military personnel live off post on his turf, and ninety percent of the civilian workers on post live in Midland. When we get a list of suspects, we’ll need Yardley.”
The General's Daughter Page 13
